#who was a servant working at her house but had recently quit

[strawberrykidneystone]

a baroness after my own heart

sevika x female reader

summary: sevika from house silco has officially entered the marriage market after years of putting it off and she falls in love with the first woman she lays her eyes on

a/n: sevika… mr. darcy hand flex….

tags: not historically accurate, love at first sight, dancing, regency era-ish, me being a sap, drama, gossip, romance, not historically accurate

ao3 version

viscount silco’s ward, jinx, has been in the marriage market for merely a year and has seemed to scare off every man and woman with her odd personality. earl vander’s ward, lady violet, had recently married into house kiramman. it was quite the scandal when it was revealed that jinx and violet were estranged sisters living in different houses, but the excitement died down quickly with the new ball season starting. no doubt that silco’s influence had also stopped the gossip papers from writing about his family.

you were not a duchess by any means, but you had quite a steep dowry that had many suitors show an interest in you, but each one had been just as boring as the last. your mother was not pleased with your efforts and made an ultimatum, you had to get married this year or you would be sent off to live with your aunt in the middle of nowhere, so you were eager to see the fresh meat entering the market this year.

lady mel visited your house this afternoon with a paper in her hand. she was currently being courted by sir jayce, a man of lower social standing than herself, but she had been adamant about marrying for love. of course, the courting had somewhat come to a hold with the recent scandal, but it was sure to start up again as balls exposed more of people's relationships to the public. you had heard a few rumors about him and his lab partner viktor, but they were quickly laid to rest by mel's mother, duchess ambessa, and no one questioned her judgment, ever.

the two of you settled in the drawing room with tea and biscuits, your handmaidens making themselves scarce on the other side of the room to allow the two of you to talk semi-privately.

after taking a sip from her tea, mel brought your attention to the small paper in her hands, "my dear friend, i have just received word that sevika is entering the marriage market this year."

you had to hold yourself back from spitting out your tea. no one had seen lady sevika in quite a while, she was at the side of silco most of the time and when she wasn't she was in the bars down in the village that no other members of high society would be caught dead in. she was a baroness in her own right and had her own estate, but she was known to work closely with the viscount in many aspects since her parents had taken up traveling the world. personally, you had never seen her, but you had heard that she is intimidating as she is beautiful. you thickly swallowed your tea and set your cup down on the saucer, "pray tell, is there a reason why? she has had ample time to enter the market whenever she wanted, why now?"

"there was no reason given, a kitchen maid wrote to me in haste as soon as she heard," mel said with a grin, she always liked to have her fingers in all of the pies, paying off servants for small bits of gossip was included into keep tabs on everyone. you shook your head in disbelief, the whole thing seemed fishy.

"perhaps it's to draw away attention from the scandal of the two sisters," you suggested and cocked your head curiously.

mel waved her hand dismissively and shook her head, "most people have already forgotten about that by now. whatever the reason, it's sure to be an interesting season this year."

you nodded in agreement and took a small bite from one of the sweet biscuits, letting your imagination run wild surrounding the house of silco and vander. you and mel continued to talk about everything under the sun, mostly gossip about other houses and who's getting desperate to not be considered a spinster next year. before you knew it, the sun was almost down and you bid her farewell at the door, her carriage taking her back to her mansion in the hills.

the next week was pure chaos.

picking out fabrics for dresses, trying out hairstyles for this season, pairing accessories with each other, and keeping up with the constant rumor mill. as long as you didn't hear anything about yourself, you were fine with a little gossip here and there. there had been a little talk about how you were getting close to being a thornback*, but you simply ignored them. you were determined to get married this season, even if it killed you.

before you knew it, it was time for the first ball of the season. lady mel's family was hosting of course, with no expense spared for decorating the huge mansion. there were gold decorations everywhere decorating the house with fresh-cut roses intertwined in delicate patterns. the rose bushes that lined the front of the house were lit up with protected candles, the whole house glowing like a sun against the night sky.

exiting your carriage in your custom-fit gown with elbow-length gloves, a curly updo with a headband of pearls in your hair, and a pearl choker to match, you confidently walked into the ball with your family.

with your fan hanging on your wrist and your dance card in its proper case, you immediately walked up close to the dance floor, scanning the crowd. it was mostly filled with faces you had seen before with a few you didn't recognize, but you couldn't help but feel nervous. you were thankful for the gloves on your hands absorbing the sweat that would no doubt be building up on your hands, but you were still hopeful for this evening.

suddenly, the whole room fell silent. you turned your head towards the entrance you just walked through and held back a gasp. there was duchess caitlyn and lady violet arm and arm, with the house of silco, vander, and kiramann following up behind them. they posed a united front together and you had to praise them for their bravery showing up at all. their footsteps echoed throughout the room with the occasional ‘thump’ from silco’s cane. the group paused in front of the ballroom, not unlike two armies about to attack each other. mel quickly snapped at the orchestra to ease the tension and they picked up their playing again, people slowly going back to their conversations and dancing. the big group quickly dispersed, acting casual as if nothing over the summer had happened. duchess caitlyn and lady- duchess violet took to the dance floor and waltzed with each other, a genuine aura of love surrounding them as they glided around the circle of people even though people were very obviously keeping their distance.

you walked through the crowd and stayed on the edges, ending up close to the refreshment table. god it was going to be a long evening, but thankfully not an uneventful one.

it’s not that you were uninterested in marriage, you just hadn’t found the right person. you were resolute about marrying for love, which annoyed your family to no end as they had all married for wealth and status. you had hoped to talk to mel for a bit, but she was already busy waltzing around the dance floor with jayce, much to lady ambessa’s dismay. looking over to the side of the room, you saw jinx and sir ekko passionately talking about some sort of trinket in her hands. a fond smile graced your lips, it’s as if the two never grew up, still up to their usual antics.

just as you were about to chalk this night up to simply standing on the outside as just another wallflower and observing other couples, somebody caught your eye.

a tall woman with a short and straight haircut that sharply framed her face, her grey eyes lighting up against her darker features. she had the most endearing wide nose you had ever seen and full lips to match. she wore a beautifully tailored burgundy suit complete with a black vest and a white undershirt, tan pants, and a black cravat adorned around her neck to complete the look. she was simultaneously the most beautiful and handsome woman you had ever laid your eyes on.

and she was staring right back at you.

the rest of the world seemed to blur away and your heartbeat picked up, you had to convince yourself that you weren’t having an aneurism in the middle of the ball or somehow daydreaming of this perfect woman. the room seemed to light up as if the world had been dimmed until this moment, you could see nothing else but her. the two of you wandered intently toward each other as if in a trance, never breaking eye contact as you made your way through the crowd.

before you knew it you were face to face with her, both of you awestruck by the feeling that your hearts had been searching for each other all your lives, two halves that were now whole. sevika cleared her throat and slightly bowed her upper body, keeping her eyes on yours as she held out her left hand with the palm up, “may i have this dance?”

your voice was caught in your throat, all you could do was nod and placed your hand in hers. as soon as you laid your hand in her warm palm, you knew that you never wanted to let go.

she led you to the dance floor and people were already starting to whisper about the two of you as they parted to let the two of you onto the floor, but you couldn't care less in this moment. the two of you smoothly got into a classical waltz position with her leading, her left hand never leaving yours as she held your interconnected hands up and placed her other hand on your waist. you rested your arm on top of hers and followed her lead in the dance, absolutely enthralled with your partner as you twirled around the dance floor. it was like the two of you were floating on air above everything else, dancing in your own little world where it's only you and her.

all too soon, the song ended and suddenly you were back in a crowded ballroom standing in front of the woman you danced with, whose name you didn't even know. the two of you bowed to one another and exited the floor together. reluctantly letting go of her hand, you clasped your hands in front of your dress formally and smiled up at her, "thank you for the dance miss?..."

"sevika, baroness sevika," she said in a smooth deep voice with a bow of her head.

you held back a gasp and quickly introduced yourself, curtseying while holding your skirt.

the two of you quickly got lost in conversation as if you had known her all of your life, having more in common with her than anyone else you had ever met in your life. sadly, the evening was coming to a close and the last dance of the night was announced. sevika gave you a knowing look and you nodded, the two of you joining the other couples for one last dance. she was such an easy dance partner to follow and you couldn't help but feel safe in her arms. losing yourself completely in the dance, the music ended far too soon for your liking. you wished you could've stayed here and danced with sevika all night.

alas, each of your houses were starting to depart and sevika looked down at you with the biggest puppy eyes, holding both of your hands in hers, " would it be too soon if i called upon you tomorrow?"

you giggled and squeezed her hands in yours, "i shall simply die if i do not see you tomorrow."

sevika's face lit up and she brought your hands up to her mouth, kissing your knuckles, "then tomorrow it shall be."

she slowly walked backward, holding your hands as long as she could until she finally had to let go, silco calling to her from their carriages. she stumbled slightly going down the stairs which made you giggle until your mother sharply called your name. you quickly joined your own house once again, giddy in anticipation for the next day.

a/n: i tried to leave reader's outfit as ambiguous as possible so you could imagine your own outfit but FUCK i love pearls <3

part 2 coming soon

*thornback: single woman over the age of 25

taglist: @maneskinwh0re @archangeldyke-all

[yanderes-galore]

Romantic Yandere! Connor/RK800 (Detroit Become Human) with Fem! Darling? He’s smitten by her kind and caring personality, yet she only sees him no more as a good friend. While he’s been taking out “competition”— she had to witness him killing her android crush, a unfortunate PL600. (Not Daniel or Simon, just her household android who’s got a crush on her too— much to Connor’s dismay)

From your prompts!

12.) "You were never meant to see that! Oh, what have I done...."

20.) "I've been waiting too long for this...."

24.) "Don't you believe in fate? Fate wants us to be together...!"

OOOOOO! I'D LOVE TOO :D Nothing quite like writing a yandere caught in the act ;)

This was meant to be finished way earlier today and not at 3 AM but I got distracted when writing the end so... whoops 🤷‍♀️ Not proofread, it's all mostly raw.

Yandere! Connor (RK800) Prompts 12, 20, 24

"You were never meant to see that! Oh, what have I done...."

"I've been waiting too long for this...."

"Don't you believe in fate? Fate wants us to be together...!"

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Female Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Manipulation, Murder/Violence, Blood/Blue blood mention, Jealousy, OOC sadism, Kidnapping implied, Forced relationship.

It wasn't all that hard for Connor to get his hands on a weapon. Working for the police allows him basic access to weaponry such as small handguns. Although androids aren't typically armed, Connor has been smart enough to smuggle one.

Connor never thought of using violence unless it was absolutely necessary. Admittedly his thoughts have been rather selfish lately but that doesn't seem to stop his plans. What he plans to do with this gun is... necessary.

You and Connor have been very close in the recent few months. You're a girl cop who works under Hank. As a result you and Connor have been in contact due to you being a rookie.

Connor has always admired your kind and caring personality. You get coffee for everyone out of kindness and don't take insults from anyone. Connor has admittedly... fallen for you despite the circumstances.

Even though androids have been newly accepted into society, Connor knew not every human would be open to have a relationship with one. Despite this Connor at least tried asking. That is... only to hear rejection as he expected.

"Connor... that's flattering and I'm happy you're learning human emotions but I just don't feel that way."

The entire time you looked at him with a soft gaze, holding his hand momentarily before departing. You say you don't love him but it feels like you do. Despite his rejection... Connor looked more into you.

That's how Connor learned of your PL600 unit.

Connor had done some snooping to learn more about you, even though he shouldn't have. He had looked through records and even remembered where you lived. Under your name and in your house he saw a PL600.

Not just that... but he could tell what this PL600 unit felt towards you. Connor knew it was unprofessional to act on his feelings by watching you... he can't help it. Seeing you with that PL600... broke him.

Connor had seen how careful you were with your PL600. You allowed him to be his own person and often encouraged it. You allowed him to express his feelings and not feel like a servant.

In return Connor saw his attempts at intimacy.

Connor felt himself get worked up when he saw your PL600 hug you when you get home. He hated seeing him cook for you, he hated seeing him so domestic with you. At first it just seems like what he's programmed to do.

Until he tried to kiss you one night.

Connor had enough, now he knew why you turned him down. This was the reason he has the gun he smuggled, just in case his original plan didn't work. While you were away from home, Connor had planned the perfect crime.

Connor had slipped into your home quietly. Your PL600 unit was cleaning and barely even saw Connor coming. Not until it was too late.

Connor didn't mind the mess. The blue blood from your PL600 was quickly spilled and splattered across your home's walls due to his strength. He had damaged the unit's processors with a quick bullet to the head. All just so he could grab a knife from the kitchen to finish things off.

"I've been waiting too long for this...." Connor mutters, digging the blade into the android's chest as he takes his pent up jealousy out on him.

It was meant to be the perfect crime after Connor had his fun. Unfortunately it appears Connor got too caught up in the act. He didn't notice that you'd come home about this time.

It was quite the sight to see for you.

Connor didn't snap out of it until he heard you drop something with a gasp. It was not quite a scream but it was enough to make Connor stop, the blade still lodged in the artifical skin of your PL600. Connor almost didn't realize what he did until he turned to meet your gaze.

"You were never meant to see that! Oh, what have I done...." Connor panics in his voice, eyes wide and processors calculating as he watches you stare at him. Connor can see you look him over in an attempt to rationalize. You're trying to see if he is indeed Connor and not some other rogue RK800. Sadly, you begin to realize it's Connor covered in the blue blood of your PL600.

The dread quickly overcomes you.

You pull out your phone and run out the door. Connor calculates possible ways to cut you off and executes them. As you run and dial for back up, Connor chases you. He tries to corral you into a dark and out of sight corner of the street...

Due to your frantic frenzy he succeeds.

He hates the idea of hurting you but he hits your arm hard, causing your phone to clatter to the ground... completely useless. You groan in pain due to how hard Connor hit you before Connor cages you against a wall. He can read your vitals and he knows you're terrified due to how fast your BPM and breathing rate is.

You struggle against the android, cringing at the amount of blue blood on his clothes. By this rate you're both covered in the stuff, the chemical smell infiltrating your nose and making you ill. Connor hears you begin to plead with him and he tries to mediate it.

"You know I won't hurt you... please don't be scared...." Connor whispers, using a hand to caress your cheek in a soothing manner. You turn away quickly and grit your teeth. He's stronger than you yet you fight for your life....

"Am I supposed to believe that after you killed my PL600?" You spit. Connor gives you an uncomfortable look before his gaze goes darker.

"He was a poor stand in for me." Connor answers bitterly. "I'm supposed to be in that role for you!"

"What's that even supposed to mean!" You yell back, causing Connor to slam his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

"Don't you believe in fate? Fate wants us to be together...!" Connor coos, his tone full of delusions within his code. You struggle against his hold and shake your head. Connor only frowns.

"That PL600 can't do what I can. I can do so much better. If you just accept me... I can show you!" Connor reasons despite your reluctance to listen. You plead for him to stop this madness from behind his hand but he doesn't listen. The android is too focused in the fact he has you trapped as his to care.

Competition has now been dealt with and is out of the way...

Now all Connor has to worry about is stopping your struggling and screaming until he can move you to a more suitable location.

[sapphire-writes]

The Death of Duty ~ Aegon Targaryen

pairing: Aegon x Highborn!Reader summary: You journey to King's Landing after years away, to be presented at court in hopes of finding a husband to save your family from financial ruin. You run into an old friend. warnings: drinking, angst, that's it I think! word count: 3k A/N: This is inspired by Little Women, specifically 3 scenes between Laurie and Amy. I could NOT stop thinking about Aegon as Laurie and simply had to share! Working on several part 2s to my other fics but have a feeling I will write one for this as well. Enjoy my loves! 💚 masterlist

“My darling are you listening?” your grandmother says, stealing your attention from the streets of King’s Landing you peer at through the window of your carriage. The streets are alive, bursting with music, merchants, and people bustling about. You glance at your grandmother who purses her lips at your inattention. 

“I said, the women of court live in such luxury they can barely lift a hairbrush, without a servant rushing to their aid,” she repeated, causing you to chuckle. 

“I suppose that is true,” you answer, before looking back towards the street. 

“Do not humor me, child,” she scolds, watching your transfixed expression. You had not been to the capital since accompanying your late father when you were a young girl as your brother wished to join to kingsguard. It had been several years since then, and with your father’s recent passing your grandmother insisted you need to be presented at court with the hopes of securing a marriage. 

You smile apologetically, knowing you are being rude. 

“What shall your husband say when you ignore him?” your grandmother asks causing you to sigh. 

“I do not have a husband yet, grandmother,” you assure her, causing her to roll her eyes. 

“Your brother is a lost cause,” your grandmother says, referring to his position. As the eldest son of your house, he had been heir to your father’s seat and fortune. He had given that all up with joining the kingsguard, something your grandmother thought was quite foolish. 

“You are your family’s hope now,” she said, and you forced a small smile, stomach souring at the weight of her words. Marriage was always seen as an economic proposition, a way to secure the seat of your house and make sure the rest of your family was able to live out their days in peace.  

You turn from her once more, looking out the window, hoping to hide your sullen expression. You begin to people watch, spying on those wearing different fashions of the Free Cities. Colorful robes and silks fill the streets. You suddenly see the top of a silver head, the hair bluntly stopping at the person’s shoulders. They walk slowly, but with purpose, shoulders slouched. 

Your mouth drops open. 

“Aegon!” you call, unable to stop yourself, “stop the carriage! Aegon!”

Before the carriage can be brought to a halt you open the door, gathering your skirts and breaking free of the small confinements. You hear your grandmother shout your name behind you, her hands attempting to reach you as though she could hold you inside. 

Aegon stops at the sound of his name, on the lips of someone he has not heard from in years. His eyes brighten as he sees you, the grin that stretches across your face.

Though your time in the capital had been brief, you had bonded with the eldest son of King Viserys. You had found Aegon handsome and had an incredible laugh. Though Aegon was more preoccupied with other ladies in the Red Keep, he enjoyed your friendship, not noticing your affection for him. You had always been crushed when you saw him with other ladies, wondering why he would not see you in the same light. But the thoughts of girlhood faded with the distance between you and as you grew into the dutiful woman your family needed you to be. 

Still, you felt your heart race and your cheeks flush as you heard him call your name and wrap his arms around you. Perhaps, some matters of the heart never change. 

“I almost did not recognize you, my lady,” Aegon said, his smile wide, “you are so beautiful!”

“Oh stop it,” you insist, cheeks aflame at his praise, “what are you doing out here?”

“Just an afternoon stroll,” Aegon said, eyes taking in every inch of you. He cannot believe you’re here in front of him. He has felt so alone recently, he longs for a friend. 

“Are you chasing some maiden throughout King’s Landing?” you jest, but watch his smile falter. 

You wet your lips.

“I heard of your wedding to Princess Helaena,” you told him, “Congratulations, my prince.”

“Thank you,” he said, his smile returning though it did not meet his eyes, “you are very kind my lady.” 

You hear the angry voice of your grandmother calling you from the carriage. Several merchants have surrounded the carriage, beckoning your grandmother to purchase some fabrics. She gives you an exasperated look. 

“Come back here this instant!”

Aegon takes your hand, leading you back toward your carriage. You squeeze inside and resume your seated position. Aegon closes the door behind you and you lean out the window at him, clutching his hand in yours. 

“I am to be presented at court, shall I see you at the feast?” you ask, as the carriage begins to move. Aegon walks beside it. 

“What is a feast without the prince?” he answers, placing a kiss on your knuckles. A giggle escapes your lips, as though you are transported in time and are just a blushing little girl again. 

“I shall escort you to the feast,” he promises, finally releasing your hand. 

“I shall see you then!” you call, as the carriage turns a corner, and Aegon is lost from your sight. 

You cannot stop grinning as your grandmother gives you a sideways look, eyes narrowed. 

“What?” you ask, though it comes out a breathless laugh. She purses her lips, humming slightly. 

“It is Aegon,” you insist and she rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon does not come. 

You wait in your chambers until half the candles melt down, the wax dripping like tears. You try not to be hurt, he is a prince after all with other duties to attend to. Aegon is not the purpose of your trip to King’s Landing, his attendance is not necessary. 

Your grandmother escorted you to the feast that night and you had spent the beginning of the evening chatting and dancing with several eligible lords. A lord of Riverrun had peaked your interest. You found his smile kind, and he was able to keep you engaged in polite conversation. You had just finished your second dance with him when Prince Aegon made his entrance. 

He was not alone. In fact, several ladies flocked around him, their giggles reminiscent of the chattering of hens. They were all clearly drunk as they stumbled down the steps into the great hall. You glanced towards the high table watching as Queen Alicent placed her head in her hands. The King barely took notice, his head had begun to droop as though it exhausted him to keep it upright. 

Prince Aemond looked at Helaena, who did not seem perturbed by Aegon’s entrance though there would surely be gossip among the members of court tomorrow. 

Aegon let himself crash onto one of the sofas, one leg hanging towards the floor. A lady draped herself across him, while another grabbed a goblet from a nearby table, holding it to his lips. You watched as his hand reached toward the woman lying atop him. Her dress was Lyseni cut, revealing the smooth skin at the swell of her hips. Aegon's hand traced lazy circles on the flesh. 

Your stomach bottomed out, and your lips downturned. You had to confront him, especially when he humiliated you like this. Not only you but his wife who sat across the room from him, plainly viewing his lewd actions. 

“Aegon,” you said, facing him. He looked up at you, a dazed look on his face, eyes glassy from the wine. The women around him glanced at you briefly, then looked away as if they didn’t care if you disappeared or joined them in their affections towards the prince. Aegon smirked up at you. 

“I waited for you,” you told him, watching his tongue wet his lips. He chuckled.

“I feel as though I have been caught,” he said, more so to the women around him than you. The ladies giggled at his words, and the cup-bearing one held the goblet to his lips once more. Music began to play once more, as the guests began another dance around you. 

Not knowing what else there was to do, you turned to leave him. He was drunk, nothing you say would matter. You scanned the crowd for the lord of Riverrun. 

“Wait,” Aegon’s voice calls behind you, but you keep walking. Aegon lifts himself from under the ladies, taking his goblet with him. He trails after you.

“Do you know what I honestly think of you?” you tell him as you feel his form beside you.

“What do you think of me?”

“I despise you.” 

“Why do you despise me?”

“Because with every chance you are given to be good, happy, or useful, you throw it away and are lazy, lustful, and miserable.”

“That is interesting,” he says, his tone mocking you. He takes a sip from his cup. 

“Yes well, selfish people do like to talk about themselves.”

“Am I selfish?”

“Yes! You have no thought about how your actions affect your father, your mother, or your wife Aegon. They are all to benefit you. You are selfish with your money, your beauty,” you tell him as you stop walking and face him.

“Oh you think I beautiful,” he says, a triumphant grin on his face. You shake your head in frustration. Of course, he only hears your praise. You continue to walk away from him.

“Oh yes, you liked that, didn't you? You are a vain prince. With all these good things you have access to you do nothing but drown yourself in women and drink.”

He grabs your hand from where he stands behind you. You can feel the cool metal of the rings on his fingers but his hand is soft and warm. 

“The Mother! The Maiden! Incarnate in front of me now!” he says dramatically, holding your hand to his chest. He pouts his lips. “I’ll be good for you, I’ll be good for you!” he begs, making a fool of you once more. 

You jerk your hand out of his.

“Are you not ashamed of a hand like that?” you ask, “smooth as though its never held a sword a day in its life.”

“My brother is the knight,” he retorts.

“And those rings are ridiculous.” 

You know you’re being cruel. But you wish to make him hurt. To cut him the way that he does you. Aegon looks at his rings. 

“My father gave this one to me.”

You scrunch up your face at his remark. During your friendship with Aegon, you quickly learned he was desperate for his father’s love. Something he never had and would never get. 

“I feel sorry for you,” you tell him, “I really do. I just wish you would bear it better.”

He holds your gaze then, lilac eyes darkening. 

“You do not need to feel sorry for me, you would do the same if you were me,” he says, chewing the inside of his lip.

“No,” you tell him, “no, I’d be respected if I couldn’t be loved.”

You can see the hurt flash across his face, and you know the blow struck him. 

“And what have you done lately, oh great lady?” he taunts, sneering at you. “Perhaps fantasizing about which lord you can trick into bedding you, so you are free to spend his fortune and bear his children.”

He backs away from you as your eyes widen at his words. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and blood rings in your ears. 

“Lords beware!” he says, throwing his hands in the air, wine splashing out of his goblet drenching some poor guests too close to the prince. The music stops and the crowd parts for the dragon prince. 

Your breathing picks up, your heart racing in your chest as you feel all eyes on you, and hear the whispers that begin as Aegon returns to his ladies. Your eyes meet your grandmother’s. She wears a look of disappointment as a king wears a crown. 

“Grandmother,” you say as you reach her, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush now, child,” she scolds, “let us find the lord you danced with.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next several days you spend letting yourself be courted by the Lord of Riverrun. He escorts you to supper each night and listens to you speak about your family, and your interests. You show him your artwork, simple sketches you keep close to you, and paintings you had begun working on during your stay at the Red Keep. 

You promenade through the gardens together and it feels easy. You laugh when you are supposed to and inquire about his hobbies. You learn he enjoys hawking and is a fast swimmer. You begin to imagine what life in the Riverlands could look like, your children running wild through streams with auburn hair. 

Mid-morning, you sit by yourself in front of Balerion’s skull, sketching a portrait of the once revered dragon. You make sure to correctly shadow where the candles throw light onto the enormous skull. You are thankful for the privacy until Aegon joins you. 

“My prince,” you say, curtly but politely. He struts over to you before taking a seat beside you. Even his walk is full of lazy arrogance. 

“I have been searching for you,” he admits, and you can feel his eyes watching you. You keep your gaze on Balerion, switching between the drawing and the skull. Aegon watches your eyelashes brush your cheeks which are beginning to turn pink. Your lips part as you inhale a sharp breath. 

“Well?”

“I came to apologize for my rakish behavior,” he tells you, and you cannot help your smile. “It was unseemly and undeserved.”

You look at him then, meeting his violet eyes. His brows are raised, waiting for you to speak. Aegon looks so helpless, as though a child who has been scolded. 

“I forgive you, of course,” you tell him, causing him to smile. You feel an ache deep within your heart. You fear you would forgive Aegon for anything if he looked at you like that. With those big, lavender eyes, and soft words that fall from his lips. This frightens you greatly. 

Aegon does not look away from you, nor does the smile leave his lips. 

“What are you doing?” you say, desperate to know what he is thinking. 

“Looking at you,” he murmurs, the light from the candles dancing in his eyes. 

“I mean, what do you intend to do?” you ask, desperate to change the subject, to ease the tension that coils between you like a serpent. 

“In life?”

“Yes.”

“I have been visiting the winemakers, attempting to find the sweetest one,” he jests and you look down at your drawing. 

“That is a waste of time, and hardly a life goal,” you tell him, though the corners of your mouth pull up into a smile. He keeps watching you, admiring how your hands hold the pencil, drawing sharp lines across the page.

“What would you have me do?” he asks, which surprises you. Aegon is rarely a man who asks for advice or receives it well. You smile at him, feeling honored. He mirrors the smile you award him and you sit for a moment in silence. 

“Sit by your father’s council as Aemond does, and learn from your father’s advisors,” you begin but Aegon waves you off, rising from his seat, and shaking his head.

 “You’re not playing fair,” he accuses, walking away from you. You stand as well, holding your finished drawing. 

“Here,” you say, handing it to him. He takes the sketchbook and looks down at it. He smiles.

“It's very good,” he says, before turning the page. Sunfyre is on the next page, a simple sketch as though done in a rush. But Aegon knows it is his dragon, clearly his Sunfyre. He is in flight, wings stretching the entire page, a small version of Aegon perched atop his back.

“When did you do this one?” he asks, showing you. You smile at the memory.

“It was when I first came to King’s Landing as a little girl,” you tell him, “that was the first time I saw you.”

He nods and hands it back to you. As you take the notebook you do not notice as Aegon stares at you, as though truly seeing you for the first time. 

“When do you leave?” he murmurs and you glance at him. 

“A month, perhaps sooner,” you tell him, “once a betrothal is arranged, I suppose.”

He nods and begins to pace the room. You continue your sketching, looking towards Balerion once more.

“Don’t marry,” Aegon says, so softly you’re afraid you misheard him. Your head snaps to look at him. Your hands begin to tingle, as nerves fill your stomach. 

“Why?” you ask, brows creasing together. 

Aegon walks towards you, tilting his head to the side.

“Why?” he asks, coming closer, “you know why.”

You can hear your heart beating, and the short, shallow breaths that leave your parted lips. 

“No,” you murmur, “no.”

“Yes,” he insists, suddenly reaching for you. 

“Aegon, stop it. You’re being mean,” you say, and you can feel the back of your throat tingling with the promise of tears as your voice breaks. “Stop it.”

“What?” he asks, bringing a hand to your face, his eyes confused. He does not know how much his words have hurt you. You push his hand away from your face. 

“I have been preparing to marry my whole life,” you tell him, voice trembling, “And now you want me? You have a wife, Aegon. I will not be your paramour and lose my family’s ancestral seat.”

Aegon’s lips part at your words. 

“I will not be ruined by you,” you say, unable to stop the hot tears that spill down your cheeks, 

“I won’t do it. Not-” you pause, taking a shaky breath- “not when I have spent my whole life loving you.”

You throw your sketches to the ground and leave the dragon prince among the skulls and ghosts of those who came before him. 

[goldenwoods]

I don't want to beat the dead horse of 'Harry Potter's depiction of enslaved house elves is disgusting' but...I simply can't help myself. It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I made this account to rant, after all.

So, I knew that Harry Potter never solved systemic slavery, nor even condemned it as a system. Treating house elves badly was a big no, but enslaving them in general? Debatable to say the least, says the narrative. But a recent conversation with a friend made me remember some details about just how bad it was.

First of all, though the freeing of elves via socks is a repeated element, information regarding how house elves are enslaved (or indeed, how they are born) are never shown. It's some nebulous 'bound by magic' thing and George said they come with old manors (huh?). The narrative deliberately presents all of them in an already enslaved state. Enslavement is, in the Harry Potter universe, the natural state of elves while freedom on the other hand is something that requires an external 'act', something unnatural. Elves are not shown to naturally possess autonomy which is thereafter systematically deprived, rather, they are born as part of a wizard family's property. This is pretty disturbing and sets the foundation for the narrative's whole "slavery is okay because house elves like it!' thing.

The second problem is Harry Potter himself. Harry is infuriatingly passive in front of disgusting acts of slavery. And it's not because he's a shy or apathetic character. Harry will stand up for people, is quite rash about it in fact, and even at his calmest will issue an appropriately scathing remark. But when Winky, someone who's whole kind has been enslaved and abused for who knows how long, sprouts of stuff she's been conditioned to believe like 'we're not paid, and Dobby wanting to be is unbecoming', or 'we're not supposed to have fun' or 'we do what we're told', Harry doesn't tell her 'No? You are entitled to individual autonomy, enslaving you is wrong.' but he's just like 'eh.....Dobby's cool, let him live his life.' and when Hermione complained about their oppression, the book states, literally, "Harry shook his head and applied himself to his scrambled eggs." and "True, both [Harry and Ron] had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but they had only done it to keep her quiet." and regarding a professor using house elves to test for poison, Harry simply thought 'welp, guess Hermione's gonna be pissed about that, better not mention it'. (???) What the hell is going on with the good guys here, Rowling? Is this the approved attitude towards slavery?

Thirdly, of course, is the whole 'house elves love being enslaved' thing. Which...silly me for thinking Rowling was trying to critique systemic oppression...and not trying to shove it under the rug after using one poor oppressed elf to characterise bad guy Lucius. I mean, Hagrid's reasoning as to why we shouldn't free elves is absurd, he explains that it's 'in their nature to look after humans, that's what they like', they'd be unhappy to have their work taken away, and they'd be insulted if they got paid. Which is, first of all, a demonstrably untrue statement, because Dobby loved being paid. ('in their nature' generalisations proven to be inaccurate? What a shock!) But even putting that aside, how does this translate to slavery? You could...I don't know, free them and let them voluntarily be cooks, cleaners, servants, whatever, instead of keeping them under a 'magical bound' that makes coerced self-harm possible. They can...take care of you and be your servants if they really want to without being your property. What the hell.

Last but not least is how the only time the narrative made Ron Weasley ('good guy' who's exasperated by Hermione's house elves movement) openly consider the well-beings of house elves is when they wanted to set up Ron and Hermione's big romantic kiss. There's something so gross about Rowling trying to finalise her haphazardly-written romance with her poorly-written slaves, a group that she had, in the last few books, already mercilessly exploited for "comedy" via Hermione's unsuccessful activism. And it's...not even that significant. Ron: 'Hey, don't you think we shouldn't trap enslaved elves in a sieged castle that's about to become a death pit?' Hermione, and the narrative by extension: 'You're amazing, Ron! For showing them basic decency!' *aggressive kissing ensues*

And then Rowling made a whole crowd of house elves (along with a bunch of other systemically oppressed races that she couldn't bother writing properly) rush into battle on Harry/Hogwarts' behalf because wow, isn't he benevolent towards the enslaved? They love him! Like...no, Rowling, you didn't earn the 'all races unite' moment, rather you screwed it over so badly that your feel-good climax presents a picture of slaves rushing to defend their masters, who, I might add, just kind of forgot about them and decided that establishing nuclear families with a bunch of kids and no evil baddie anymore means 'all is well', systemic issues be damned.

[vampyrial]

A World For Her Alone | you're coming back and it's the end of the world

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

cw (chapter specific): kidnap, slavery, illness, death (duh)

pairing: claude x fem!reader

summary: In which reader tries again.

author's note: Next up, Claude whump arc 😁

The household was stirring from the recent change between its two young ladies.

As you knew from your previous life, Diana was able to get pregnant. Her poor constitution meant she was not eligible to marry any nobleman, a woman of poor health was a liability as a bride. Diana herself probably thought she was unable until…

You imagined that this was your first life, you’re only one. There had never been a version of you with a child, a version who ran away with Felix. No, as you laid your head down and tried to relax, you were in your first life. Nothing has gone wrong yet. Everything was alright. You weren’t sure it was helping your situation any but it was so tempting a thought, it helped you fall asleep. You did not dream of being happy, only of being freed.

With your extensive knowledge of being a marchioness, you decided to tutor Diana. She was going to marry Claude and spare you all of what came next. She was going to fulfill what the universe surely laid out for her and you…you would do what you could. It seemed a herculean task, teaching someone like Diana what you had learned since childhood but really, you couldn’t make yourself do anything else. 

Your little sister was a persistently eager student despite the fact that she tried so hard at everything she did that she’d often give herself a migraine, she always greeted you with a smile. The servants thought perhaps you were bullying her, little did they know that you weren’t the one pushing her, she pushed herself even if you expressed your concern. The two of you were spending a great deal of time at each other’s sides, to the most uncharitable and gossip hungry eyes, that could only be something bad.

But to Claude’s eyes, it was the picture of two sisters getting along and he did not reprimand you. He took one look upon Diana’s bright, smiling expression and decided that all was quite well, as had your parents. Claude no longer made efforts to exclude you, to your knowledge. He came to visit while you and Diana were studying, he hovered over the two of you with his eyes on Diana’s. Flirting with her, reading excerpts from books aloud to her, guiding her hands as she used a pencil compass. It made you sick, the familiarity of it was nauseating. 

The pair before you would have their happy ending. You would make it so.

Claude was more at ease with you now that he thought you adored your sister. Diana, having something to work towards, had her health recover a bit for her joy and motivation. Everything was as it should be and you couldn’t remember the last time there’d been a storm. Everyone was alive, everyone was safe. You intended to keep it so. 

It was three days before your wedding when you abandoned your home for the city. By that time, the wedding had to go forth simply due to the amount of money invested on both your family’s behalf and Claude’s. If you had run away, your family would be obligated to offer up a substitute. A bride in the form of your no doubt, exhilarated sister. She was suited to the task both intellectually and physically, in addition to being beloved by Claude. The circumstances for the couple couldn’t be better.

You slipped out under cover of night, unseen. You had been trying to reach a place in the country you knew of from when you ran away with… A place untouched where you could live in peace. And you were no longer a bride so there was no need to mobilize the knights of the marquisate to look for you. If the knights of your own house were looking for you, there were far fewer of them and given your parents’ feelings toward you, under no great pressure.

You’d read all the books available to you about the areas you were traveling through but reading it wasn’t the same as having actually experienced it. 

Soon, you fell into the hands of slavers. You knew there were such people but you, as a noble lady, had been given the image of them being rare criminals always rooted out. When you looked at the chains around your ankles as the carriage meant for animal transport rattled all of the frightened young captives, you could only sit in the realization that no one would be looking for you and you didn’t know how long it’d be before these people would be dealt with. Assuming that they ever would be. It’d be shocking for anyone to know that a noble lady had been kidnapped and sold into slavery but now, wounded, stripped of any finery and dirty, no one would believe you were noble now.

There was no clock in your room so that you could have the barest privilege of knowing the time. You told time merely by the light coming in through the slender, barred window. And even so, you had grown very frail, weak and disoriented. Your mind was too foggy and with sleep, time passed in brief, dark periods that seemed like they could be as short as the blink of an eye. You hadn’t been able to work even when faced with threats and as your condition didn’t seem to improve, all efforts ceased and you were to be left in your quarters to succumb to either illness or exhaustion. If you’d had your wits about you, you would have presumed it was because medicine was more expensive than you had been worth and you couldn’t even be sold in such a condition. One morning, before you were to be checked on by a maid or another enslaved girl. You saw a light come over you, a burning heat that felt like lightning. You attributed it to having been ill for so long but then you heard murmuring, soothing words you couldn’t make out until you had fallen backward into darkness again.

Later on, perhaps hours later for the light had taken on a blue tone, your door had been busted down. Felix strode in and through the open door, you could witness the chaos of men laying dead on the ground, slain by the knights of your house and servants you recognized being questioned. “My lady! Are you alright?” he assessed your poor condition. “My lady…” His voice quivered as if he might cry. “Have any of you found any medicine out there? Our lady cannot travel like this.” He yelled over his shoulder.

“It’s alright, my lady. I’ll take you home soon. It’s over now.” He even took such liberties as to hold your hand as you drifted backward into black. 

When you opened your eyes, you were being carried gallantly by Felix into your family’s mansion. “Oh my god…is she alright?” Standing near the stairs was Diana who shone brightly even at a time like this, having become a woman of great station and surely being fed with love. Next to her stood her child, hiding behind her skirts. She had Claude’s eyes and you saw shock reflected in them. Of course, in this state, you were a sight. So worn and sickly that you didn’t look like someone who could ever feasibly be called that child’s aunt. You hadn’t wanted to be saved. It would have been alright just to die there, a person of no consequence to them. There wasn’t much to be done, you could feel death looming over you and you didn’t want to spend your final moments seeing on everyone’s faces just how much even the sight of you spoiled the happy scene. 

Felix brought you upstairs to your old bedroom. You spent two days in pitch black before you awakened to take medicine given by your family doctor, you had been lucid enough to feel disappointed that it wasn’t Claude’s kind doctor who had truly cared for you before. 

You felt a cool cloth laid on your forehead and sighed out at the comfort. You were feverish, your body was uncomfortable and inescapable save for long and fitful bouts of unconsciousness. Everywhere ached, everywhere was wounded. The place where someone’s hands had touched, where it felt cool, was the only part of you that felt okay.

You opened your eyes to see that it had been Claude, who pulled his hand away as soon as you fixed your eyes on him. 

“I remember the day they told me you’d run away…all this time, I have thought of that day” He looked tired, his eyes no longer frozen over but hollow.

You couldn’t speak.

“Every moment I had to myself, I asked why you left. Diana told me you probably had somebody. But somehow I didn’t believe that, to my perspective, you really weren’t like that. So why? Why did you leave and why did I look for you even after…” He paused and looked at you, a glimmer of something appeared in his eyes. Your heart beats were slow and heavy, you felt each and every one like the wings of a bird trapped underneath your skin. 

“Even now I am denied the reason why.” He clearly thought that you couldn’t understand him. He was venting his thoughts to a painting, a grave statue. “When I should have rejoiced, when I should have been glad, always, always, it was you, like an ghost in my periphery.”

“Now you’re back and it feels like the end” He was becoming blurry, he sounded far away. 

“This isn’t the way I’m supposed to feel” He sounded almost accusing but his hands were gently tucking the covers underneath your chin. 

You fell back under. His voice sounded like you were hearing him from the bottom of the lake. Every now and again, you floated up to the surface, still hearing him or what you thought might be him. Until you couldn’t come back and you didn’t hear him anymore.

tags:@kage-tobiuo@kreishin @rosephantomhive@yeahdrarry@splaterparty0-0 @dear-dairiesss @qluvrv @hafsuhhh @eissaaaa @ayolk @doan-19 @fourcefulcupid @ariachaos @cerisearan @irisspade @yaesflorist @jcrml @xiaosprettygf @yevenly @amaris08atoshi012022 @obsessed-with-a-fictional-man @softbummiee

additional author's note: With this, we're now out of our masochism era and entering your sadism era.

Next

[sroop]

ineta (ii)

When Duncan does sleep, he dreams of green and something gold looking.

Pairing: Duncan Idaho x OC

Warnings: violence, light blood/gore

Summary: ineta is backed into a corner, and finds that duncan may hold the key to their survival.

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Ineta shrieks and collides against the jagged stone walls of the dungeon.

Why it was necessary to remind all that they were in an Harkonnen dungeon escaped her, as though it were possible to forget. Still, the ram hung over a bloody orange field leered at her. Red eyes and claws. She had thought it a real beast, pouncing on her for its latest victim. She lays a hand over her pounding heart. 

"Miss Ineta?"

Ineta curses her feeble nerves, and draws herself up to a more dignified pose on her own two feet to greet the guard. He's a tall, clean-shaven man only a few years older than her at most. Soft eyes, and a mouth twisted upwards in a curious smile. She eyes the crest on his breastplate warily.

"What are you doing here?" he asks kindly.

Ineta nods towards the cells.

"The Baron orders me to see to the newest prisoner. I am to ensure his survival for questioning," she says levelly. Ineta doesn't wait for him to respond to move past him. There's authority in her words for servants, but soldiers were hard to predict, being more under the command of the Baron and his nephew. It was best to move fast.

"Wait."

Ineta stops and feigns an impatient scowl.

The soldier looks at her with something akin to understanding in his face. She's reminded of the same expression she wears when letting off a slacking maid or clumsy server. "You'd best return quickly then, Miss Ineta. Before the Baron grows impatient." 

He gives a small smile and turns to face the other way. Ineta smiles back.

"Thank you, soldier."

{}{}{}{}

Duncan Idaho is clinging to the precipice of life. At least he still had all his fingers, he thinks. He inhales harshly at a more piercing pain at his cheek, jerking his head away. The pain is soothed by a soft hand. He's been a fighter for long enough to recognize the the pain as a needle and thread, and the soft hand as a nurse.

In the darkness, he can't quite see who's there, though he's uncertain the swelling over his eyes would have allowed him to see at all. He cracks his lips open from the seal of dried blood.

"Thank you."

"You need to save your breath," comes the firm reply. He recognizes the voice immediately as the girl who'd been at his most recent beating. Duncan tries to remember her features, but recalls only the green color of her skirt and something gold looking.

"You saved my life," he says suddenly. It sounds clumsy coming from a spurt of belabored breathing, no doubt tinged with the dank, prison air. But he feels the need to thank her almost oppressively. Briefly, he realizes this is because he is unsure he will ever get the chance to ever again, and stops himself from envisioning a painful death.

No, he must not lose hope. His hands clench in on themselves, only to be unfurled by her.

"Eat it, if you can," she murmurs. Its grainy texture implies bread, but his stomach flips stubbornly. Despite its protests, he brings it to his mouth and gnaws with determination. It hurts to move, to breath, to swallow, but he'd do it if it meant he'd survive to see the red hawk of House Atreides fly again. He just needed a few days. They couldn't be too far off from their next incursion into fortress territory.

He feels her return to work, cleaning and sewing open wounds quietly and quickly, experienced with pain.

"What's your name?" he asks. There's a beat before she answers, like she's considering if he's worth the trouble of replying. Or if he'd survive long enough for it to matter.

"Ineta," she finally says. "Miss Ineta to you."

Duncan chuckles, immediately regretting the burst of pain in his lungs he feels. He clutches his chest and rolls his head over on the stone slab of a cot they'd given him. The cell, from what little he'd seen, was nothing but a simple square, enclosed on all sides save for the barred entrance. What mattered more to him was the corridor leading into it.

One way in, one way out, from what he'd seen. It was nothing but a single, unending row of rotting prisoners.

"I'm glad you can still laugh," she says quietly. Duncan doesn't really hear. He imagines Atreides forces marching through, saving them.

"Duncan?" Ineta calls gently, shaking his shoulder. He must have worried her, going quiet like that. She touches his forehead and sighs at the temperature. "You'll be alright, if you don't get any worse. I'll try to come back whenever I can."

Try. Duncan grasps her wrist. She shouldn't try, not when he wouldn't need it. In fact, she shouldn't be anywhere near him after tonight. He rasps, but the words are sticky with blood and catch in his throat. Instead, he drags her close to him, ignoring the pain of her palm pressed against his chest in resistance.

"Get as far away as possible. You should run," he says. This is foolish, he knows, it is entirely possible that she, the cupbearer for the Harkonnens, would run to warn them. But Duncan has always trusted his heart. He tells her anyway. "Run far, far away. They may not spare you."

He can't see, but he hears her gasp and stumble away. It's comforting to him. At least one person would live either way, the girl who'd shown him mercy in the face of his captors. Captors he knew were cruel masters from his time as a slave here, though he wondered what her true place was with them. Servant? Favorite? Mistress?

Duncan sighs and brings the bread to his lips again.

Moments later, he hears a body crumpling to the floor somewhere. Duncan exhales sharply, filled with cold dread. He felt hot in his head, and cold everywhere else. Useless and weak. He clings to the thought of Ineta and the hope that she will survive, that if she may be brave then he'd do the same.

When Duncan does sleep, he dreams of green and something gold looking.

{}{}{}{}

This time, Ineta manages not to scream. The horror is nowhere less, nor the odor of blood. Distantly, she thinks that it's odd. That that poor, kind soldier, dead on the floor, was not bleeding. And yet, it seemed the world stank of bloodshed.

She cannot tear her eyes from his, even when the Baron chortles.

"Poor boy, that one," he says in a sickly soft tone. "Lied for you, dear Ineta. Died for you, too."

The Baron huffs impatiently. "What is it about you? That my useless son should sire a useless girl, out of some servant on a hellhole of a planet. But that you are the one that they listen to." He looks at her intently, as though to discern meaning from her face. "Why do you inspire devotion?"

Ineta feels that she has nothing in her throat but reeds, snapping in harsh wind and making some eerie screeching of its own volition. She clutches her mouth to try to stop the sounds, but nothing does. She cries and cries, shaking her head.

"I admit, even in myself, I thought you were the best of us however lowly your birth. But this can be forgiven."

"No. No, no, no," she whispers. She could control herself. She really should, but what's the point now? The Baron knows that she was here against implied orders. It was less than what she'd seen him torture and kill for. No doubt, she shared the same, if not a worse, fate as that guard. Maybe the Baron would snap her neck too and be quick with it.

"Look at me," the Baron snaps.

He'd never seemed a more grotesque man than now to Ineta. He towered over her, perhaps triple her mass, with blood on his hands he seemed to relish in. Maybe it was the wine they drank, so dark and pungent it was that it might cause insatiable blood-thirst. It was her fault. She should not have come on some wild dream that she would do good, or that they might be able to escape. Now a man was dead, and she'd follow him.

"This is a predicament. But it seems you've made yourself pleasant to Duncan Idaho, I'd presume? My nephew is... not bright. But perhaps he was right? That Idaho is some lover of yours?" The Baron leaned over Ineta. "I might be motivated to forget this whole ordeal-" he says, gesturing to the body, "-if you were to produce viable information."

Ineta forces her hands from her face.

"Of course, my Lord." The compliance comes easily, after a lifetime of swallowing hard commands. This time though, her voice tremors. Deceit, she thinks, does not suit me.

"Good, it's settled then, dear girl. Leave, and not a word to Rabban or he will kill you both himself."

As Ineta flees, nearly running through the prison corridor where the Baron stood over his victim. She passes the banner of the red-eyed ram over its orange field. It had somehow become flat to her, and she does not pause to glance at it a second time.

Its power is lost. The real beasts, she realizes, are the Harkonnens. It would not matter if she gave in and extracted information, however vital, from Duncan. She was dead anyway, for the simple reason that she betrayed them. There was very little time to act, but she needed to see Duncan again as soon as possible.

Their lives depended on it.

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thanks for reading!

[pub-lius]

Hey, so recently I saw a post about the misogyny of hamilton, so I wanted to ask you if it was true. Not the part of misogyny (because in that time it was normal, I guess), but rather how much was? (does make sense?), did it affect the relationship with eliza or with her daughters?

Thankyu!!! (Muak)

hm okay so im not completely sure what you mean but i am going to do my darndest

So, in the time period which Hamilton was alive, which is the latter half of the 18th century, there definitely was a profound attitude of misogyny, but it was very different from what we know today. Most of our idea of sexism comes from the religious revivals of the 20th century (and people who know me know how i feel about the godforsaken 20th century when it comes to history). This is yk your typical idea of a housewife being at home, taking on the burdens of homemaking and child rearing and basically keeping everything together at home while the husband worked a stressful 9 to 5 and didn't do shit at home and weaponized incompetence and implicit biases and yadayada

This was not the case in the 18th century! 18th century gender roles are very different from what we're used to, and even more different than what the Victorians and Edwardians considered the norm. This is especially visible in Hamilton's relationship with women, so I'm quite excited to talk about this.

Firstly, I want to talk about the joker to my batman: Ron Chernow. A major theory he supports in his biography of Hamilton is the two sided nature of Hamilton's perception of women. He says that there is a clear distinction between two "types" of women in Hamilton's wife-- the good, Christian mistress of the house and the stupid, mentally unstable skank. These are his terms. I want to hit him in the head with a brick.

"Together, the two eldest [Schuyler] sisters formed a composite portrait of Hamilton's ideal woman, each appealing to a different facet of his personality. Eliza reflected Hamilton's earnest sense of purpose, determination, and moral rectitude, while Angelica exhibited his worldly side- the wit, charm, and vivacity that so delighted people in social intercourse." -Ron Chernow, Alexander Hamilton, page 133

Yeah, this is horseshit. It gets worse when he compares Elizabeth Hamilton and Maria Reynolds on page 367, but I'm not going to get started because I won't stop. And this isn't about him anyway.

Instead, I want to talk about WHY this is horseshit. First of all, even Alexander "thinks with the wrong head" Hamilton didn't have this fucked up mindset, because it is heavily based in 20th century evangelicalism that didn't even exist in Hamilton's world.

Yes, obviously there was religious attitudes that condemned certain actions from women, but this was not as intense as in later periods. In the 18th century, an upperclass woman, such as Elizabeth Hamilton, would be responsible for maintaining the household, but this meant being in charge of the servants rather than doing the work herself. The work she did do would be maintaining the finances and the family's reputation.

Reputation was everything in the 18th century, and this especially applied to women. Not only did they have to maintain their own reputations, but they had to raise their children to have the skills necessary to do the same, and often had to fill in for their husbands in this department if they held public office. It's very difficult to maintain your reputation if you're beating people with walking sticks in the Continental Congress.

When it came to lower and middle class women, their jobs weren't different in that they carried an equally important role in the family. They would be doing household chores just as well as their husband, and these weren't easy chores that made women "feeble". They very often took a lot of physical strength and endurance, and it wasn't considered unladylike for women to do "men's" chores while their husbands were away. This isn't to say that women in later eras didn't do the same, but it wasn't as publicly frowned upon.

Hamilton had a very unique perspective as he was witness to both sides of this coin. His mother, a single, working class mother would be juggling both the man and woman's role. I think it was really this background that allowed him to have a much more informed perspective on womanhood. He was one of the few men in this period that I've seen write from the perspective of a woman, specifically a grieving mother.

"For the sweet babe, my doting heart Did all a mother's fondness feel; Careful to act each tender part And guard from every threatening evil. But what alas! availed my care? The unrelenting hand of death, Regardless of a parent's prayer Has stopped my lovely infant's breath-" -Papers of Alexander Hamilton, volume 1, page 43.

Chernow attributes this to Hamilton's deeply empathetic nature, which is fair, however I think it also shows that he was able to understand a woman's experience specifically.

I say this because Hamilton does tell us a little bit about exactly what was expected of women in the time during Elizabeth's first pregnancy in a letter that is usually used to call him a sexist, but I think it's a little more complex than that. Here's the excerpt:

"You shall engage shortly to present me with a boy. You will ask me if a girl will not answer the purpose. By no means. I fear, with all the mothers charms, she may inherit the caprices of her father and then she will enslave, tantalize and plague one half [the] sex, out of pure regard to which I protest against a daughter. So far from extenuating your offence this would be an aggravation of it." -Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, October 12, 1781

In this letter, Hamilton isn't telling Elizabeth that he wants a boy to inherit his fortune, to carry on his name, or the other reasons that were given by his contemporaries for preferring sons over daughters. He specifically states that his reasons are his fear that his traits will be passed onto his children, and that if its a daughter, she will be more discriminated against than his son because of her sex. Essentially, it was easier to be a gay son in the 18th century than a thot daughter. In that question, Hamilton would choose gay son because he knew that men were generally less criticized than women.

So, I'm not saying Hamilton wasn't sexist, because, by definition, he was. He was taught that women were fundamentally different than men, but he didn't look down on women for that, because that simply wasn't normal. You wouldn't be a gentleman if you looked down on a woman for being physically and psychologically different from a man, you'd be an asshole. While their interpretations of these differences don't align with what modern medicine has determined, they weren't the same as in the later eras in American history. Women were, most certainly, oppressed because of these perceived differences, but it was a different system of oppression than what typically defines our idea of sexism.

It's hard to say if it affected Hamilton's relationship with his wife and daughters, as there isn't any real written proof, but I imagine Hamilton's attitude specifically towards women did make their relationship different than other fathers, daughters, husbands, and wives of the time. We do know that Hamilton was a very hands on father who dedicated a lot of time and care towards his children, and he did not treat his daughters any differently than his sons. He put the same amount of energy into their education, though they weren't educated in the same thing, and he seemed to be equally close with all his children.

Hamilton and women is a very interesting topic, and it gets more complicated when it comes to Rachel Faucette and Maria Reynolds and those parallels, but that is a topic for another time. Good thing its women's history month! Hope this helped :)

[pomslices]

kindling (wip)

It was Mr Ishida’s idea to have a governess at the Kurosaki estate, for he could not stand the sight of his two youngest cousins growing into high society without proper guidance.

“And you wouldn’t count on the old crackpot to do it,” Ishida mutters to Orihime, his fair and faithful wife, as they assume their daily eleven o’clock routine—Orihime Ishida ushers their five children away for the maids to put them down for their midday nap, Ishida peers out the curtains of their parsonage home to the neighboring lawn, where Isshin Kurosaki and his two daughters, the aforementioned cousins, spend their days in increasing chaos and mystery.

“Oh, don’t be so heartless,” Orihime chides him. She powders her dewy skin with her tortoiseshell handheld mirror. Summer in the countryside becomes brutal in July. “That poor man has been falling apart since his wife died.”

“And that is exactly why they need help,” Ishida insists. “Not another servant or chambermaid but an educated, proper lady to sort that household out.” Proper was Mr Ishida’s favorite word. “The twins are no longer children.” His nose twitches at the thought of his cousins’ growing limbs and hair. The possibility of Karin and Yuzu entering society without shoes or manners almost makes his heart flutter. “And with that rake out of the house, I do expect Mr Kurosaki to take his daughters’ futures more seriously.” Under his breath, he mutters, “As I do not expect him to pin that success on the eldest.”

“I do wish you had kinder words for your cousin, dearest,” Orihime says. She comes over to lay her cool, soft hands on Ishida’s tense back. He welcomes her into his well-worn spot by the window, and they both stare at the Kurosaki estate’s overgrown lawn. “For all you know, he could come back a changed man.”

To this, Mr Ishida snorts. He can’t help it. “Come back from an all expenses paid grand tour of Europe as a changed man? I would be astonished if that rakish attitude of his doesn’t get worse.”

“Come now,” Orihime soothes. Her husband’s nerves are fragile, and she’s been under recent doctor’s orders to ensure the man doesn’t get too worked up. She fully expects to lie about his progress upon the doctor’s next visit. “Shall we call on Mr Kurosaki then, instead of standing by our windows like two Peeping Toms?”

Ishida sniffs. “What do you mean by that, my dear?” he asks, mildly offended.

“I shall suggest the need for a governess,” Orihime continues, ignoring her husband’s stuttering. “It’ll be good for him to hear it from another lady. God knows he won’t listen to you, my dear.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ishida asks again, thoroughly offended.

“I have heard the late Lady Hisana has a sister who is a governess.” At this point in their marriage—many years and many children later—Orihime has become quite adept at carrying the conversation forward, much to Mr Ishida’s chagrin. “Well connected through the aristocracy—though not a noble herself. I suspect the darlings won’t need more than the basics.” She signals for the servant to fetch her parasol and outdoor shoes. “It will be a miracle if they can play a single instrument and dress themselves for society after this.” Then she signals for her husband to fetch the door. “Mr Ishida, will you keep us waiting all day?”

[spontaniousmusicalnumbers]

Downton Abbey Ficlet

Prompt: Edith is convinced that Mary is exaggerating about her marriage (Season 3 AU)

“It really is the most amusing sight, Mama,” Mary was saying to Cora while sitting in the drawing room one afternoon. Mary and Matthew had been married and living in their “cottage” for several months now. Edith half listened. She hated that Mary always felt the need to gloat about her happy marriage. Mary didn’t seem to care at all that Edith might not want to listen to all her stupid stories while she was still hurting from the humiliation of Sir Anthony jilting her at the altar. How could any of Mary’s stories even be true anyway? Surely no one really acted the way Mary described.

“And then, he knocked over the lamp!” Mary exclaimed as Cora began laughing.

“Really, Mary,” Cora said, “What do you tell the servants?”

“Well, I tell Anna everything anyway, so she didn’t even ask when she saw the lamp.” Mary laughed. “And since Matthew doesn’t use a valet, that’s not much of an issue. And the other staff know to keep their distance if we haven’t rung for them. And of course, they’re usually out of the house most of the day on Mondays since we’ve designated it our private day.”

“Doesn’t Matthew have to go to the office?” Edith injected suddenly.

Mary looked around, “Oh, Edith, I forgot you were here, you were sitting so quietly. No, actually, Matthew brings home files on Friday to read through at home on Mondays and then goes back into the office on Tuesday. It was one of the compromises he made when we got married so that we could have more time together since he spends Saturdays with Papa working on the estate and Sundays are taken with church.”

“Well, isn’t that lovely for you.” Edith huffed and left the room. She just couldn’t sit and listen to Mary any longer. As she stomped off up the stairs, she began to think of a plan to prove to everyone that Mary was completely exaggerating about her marriage, and then Edith would be the one laughing.

* * *

The following Monday Edith decided to put her plan into play. After breakfast, she got ready to go out and pay calls.  As she headed down the drive, she turned off toward the village first. She had planned the whole day. Mama had needed some invitations delivered to Isobel, Granny and Mary so she offered to deliver all of them; a perfect cover for her to stop in at Mary’s. She went to Crawley House first and had a lovely visit, Isobel chattering away happily about her newest charity. Next, she went to the Dower House to see Granny, who also seemed to be in high spirits, though she seemed a little surprised when Edith mentioned going round to Mary’s next. “Does Mary know you’re planning to visit?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“No,” Edith said stubbornly, “I wouldn’t have thought that I need to have an appointment to visit my own sister.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re not received,” Granny said.

Edith picked up her bag and bid her grandmother goodbye, quite confident that even Mary wouldn’t be so rude to refuse her sister entry. She made her way over to Thistledown Cottage, the recently refurbished house on the estate that Matthew and Mary had moved into after their honeymoon.  She had to admit that the house was quite cozy looking, though much smaller than anything she ever would have expected Mary to be comfortable in. Edith had been rather surprised when listening to Mary and Cora’s conversations about Mary’s staffing needs. They had chosen to have a rather small household: Anna as a lady’s maid; Daisy as a cook; a new butler, Molesley having stayed on at Crawley House; and only two maids who lived in the village.

She took a breath as she approached and rang the front doorbell. It was only a moment before Borodin, the butler answered the door.

“I am here to see Lady Mary.” Edith said with a haughty air.

“I am very sorry, milady,” Borodin began, “but Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley are not available at the moment. If you leave your card, I will inform them that you stopped by.”

“I know she’s here,” Edith protested. “She told our mother last night that she would be home all day.”

“Be that as it may, they are indisposed just now and are not receiving visitors.”

“I’ll wait then.” She insisted, raising her chin.

“I cannot permit that milady.” Borodin said. “Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary will not receive any visitors today, but you may visit tomorrow.”  He shut the door without any further fanfare. Edith stood on the doorstep in shock.  She had never been treated this way before. Well, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Afterall, she still needed to deliver the invitation.

She took a minute to regroup and decided to go round to the kitchen. It was undignified of course, but she could always say that she had wanted to give her regards to Anna and Daisy. However, as she approached the kitchen door, she was horrified to hear voices coming out of the open window.

“He shut the door in her face?” Daisy was saying incredulously.

“Yes, that’s what Lizzie was saying,” Anna replied. “She was dusting the hall and heard the whole thing.”

“I thought the whole family knew not to visit on Mondays?” Daisy said.

“Yes, but I don’t think they know the real reason.” Anna answered. “I don’t think Mr. Matthew is out there telling everyone about ‘Naked Mondays.’”

The two women dissolved into laughter as Edith was left to puzzle what “naked Monday” could possibly mean. And how dare they laugh at her. If she had thought she was insulted before, it was nothing to how she felt now. Now she had to find out what Mary was doing.

She left the kitchen yard and looked back at the house. It had quite a pretty garden, and Edith noticed a tree growing close to what she was fairly sure was the drawing room window. It would provide a decent cover if she happened to sneak over and peek into the room. It was getting close to luncheon but knowing Mary she’d probably be sitting in there at this time of day. Edith glanced around and seeing no one else about, decided to take her chance. She crept up close to the tree and leaned around to get a good view into the room. She could see the back of Mary’s head over the back of a sofa with her back to the window. She seemed to be lounging in a rather relaxed position and, if Edith was not mistaken, it looked as if her hair was down. How odd.

Suddenly, she heard a noise and pulled her head back behind the tree. She listened intently as the drawing room door opened and closed. “My darling,” she heard Matthew say. “Have I ever told you how absolutely breath taking you are?”

“Every day,” Mary replied happily. “And I never tire of hearing it. You’re quite breathtaking yourself. But you know how I feel about that dressing gown. I suggest you get rid of it before I get cross.”

Dressing gown? Why would Matthew have a dressing gown in the drawing room? Edith ventured a quick peek around the tree and to her horror saw Matthew stripping off his dressing gown in the middle of the room in broad daylight. If Edith had thought it couldn’t get any worse, she was mistaken as she saw Mary rising, also completely naked and going to meet Matthew. She clapped her hand to her mouth and fled, Matthew and Mary thankfully too distracted by each other to notice her.

* * *

At tea the following afternoon, Edith stared intently into her teacup while the conversation went on around her. Both Matthew and Mary were there and talking with other members of the family. Violet was sitting next to her on the sofa and noticed her strange behavior. “So, how was your visit yesterday? Was it productive?” She asked.

Edith startled. “What? Oh, yes it was fine.” She said blushing.

“Was it?” Violet pushed. “You seem so jumpy. What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” She glared in Mary’s direction.

“Edith, what’s new with you?” Edith jumped as Matthew sat down across from her.

“Nothing,” she replied too brightly, blushing again and struggling to find a place to look. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Matthew, not after what she had witnessed the previous day, and she could feel her grandmother’s sharp eyes watching her. “You know, I think I might be getting a cold. I have an awful headache. Maybe I’ll go lay down until dinner.” She got up and rushed from the library.

“Whatever is the matter with Edith?” Matthew asked Violet.

“She probably tired herself out yesterday, running errands for Cora. When she left me, she said she was on her way to Thistledown to see Mary. Did you not see her?”

“No,” Matthew replied, thinking. “I do think Borodin said she stopped by, though.”

* * *

Edith remained jumpy and uncomfortable around Matthew and Mary for the next few weeks. Mary joked that it was an improvement to her normal behavior, but the sudden change bothered Matthew, though he couldn’t quite figure out why. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and resolved to find out what was going on. He cornered her after dinner and asked her point blank.

“Edith, I must know, have I done something to offend you? Why won’t you talk to me anymore?” He began without preamble.

Edith jumped. “Oh, no, you haven’t done anything to me…. No, I can’t talk to you about it, it’s too embarrassing.” She covered her face in her hands and moved off to another part of the room.

“What was all that about?” Mary said, appearing at Matthew’s shoulder.

“I have no idea.” Matthew shrugged. “She says it’s too embarrassing to talk to me about. I have no clue what I could have done to make her so jumpy around me.”

“Hmm,” Mary thought for a moment. “I have an idea. I’ll talk to her.”  She walked over to Edith. “You know, Matthew is very concerned about you.”

“Why would he be?” Edith asked defensively.

“Because you have barely spoken to him in weeks?” Mary shrugged. “I don’t understand why, but he likes you and doesn’t like the thought that he’s offended you somehow.”

“He hasn’t done anything to offend me.” She paused. “I just, I saw a different side of him recently and it was rather shocking, is all.”

“A different side?” Mary asked, then suddenly she understood. “Have you been spying on me again? Haven’t you learned by now that nothing good comes from that?”

“Of course I haven’t!” Edith protested.

“Then what ‘different side’ could you have possibly seen that makes you so uncomfortable?” Mary pressed. “You do know that Borodin told us that you called on us and were very upset that you weren’t admitted. I think you were spied on us and saw more than you wanted to.”

“Well, what were you two thinking being in your drawing room like…like that?” Edith hissed.

“You mean in our own house?” Mary asked. “We can do whatever we want there. It’s one of the main reasons we moved to our own house: so we can do whatever we want without you or anyone else being underfoot.”

“It’s indecent!”

“So what if it is? We’re married and can enjoy each other’s company however we choose.” Mary paused, “perhaps one day you’ll be lucky enough to understand, I hope so anyway. It’s much more fun than being so prudish. If you don’t want to know what we do behind closed doors, don’t peek behind them. Live by the sword and die by the sword, or didn’t you learn that lesson?”

“I…” Edith tried to interject but Mary ignored her and continued.

“Now, please do whatever you have to do to be able to move on. I don’t know what you thought you’d achieve but it has clearly backfired. Now, I don’t care if you’re too embarrassed by your own idiotic fancies to talk to me, but Matthew clearly does. I don’t like him to be unhappy, so figure it out, or perhaps we’ll have to have more private days that I suggest you respect in the future.” With that, she left Edith and went to rejoin the others.

[holybatgirlz]

Portrait Gallery Visits

read on Ao3

Summary: 

Sophie and Benedict take a little trip together to the Royal Academy. 

Word Count: 10k+

Notes: a little first date Benophie fic.

---

"I have the day off?"

Mrs. Wilson nodded. "Lady Violet gives all the staff a day off each month, and with all the hard work you've been doing recently, I thought it best to make sure you used your day."

Sophie frowned. Staring at the older woman in confusion, she tried to think of an occasion, any occasion, where she recalled another staff member she worked with saying they'd been given individual days off. She had never had one since becoming a maid, certainly not with Araminta, and minus her periods of unemployment since leaving Penwood House, time off was unheard of in her life. 

She studied the older housekeeper skeptically. Was Mrs. Wilson lying to her?

"I really do not need it," Sophie told her. "I already promised Miss Hyacinth I'd help her with her French work. And I'm helping Miss Francesca with preparing for tonight's ball. Not to mention all the work needed for Lady Bridgerton's ball later this week. I'm far too busy to be taking the day off work." 

Somehow, Mrs. Wilson was able to force the kind smile on her face to stay and not let it turn into one of alarm and surprise as she watched the young woman continue to ramble on about all the tasks she had to attend to, what it was she had already done and what currently needed to be completed. She listed the different chores that she’d planned to complete that day, ones Mrs. Wilson had not realized were lacking and had been overlooked. And it was her job to manage Number 5. 

Getting the young Miss Sophie out of the house would be more challenging than she thought. 

"I've already promised Lady Bridgerton you'd be notified, and with only a few days left in the month, it's best you use it now or lose it," she told her, shooing the girl towards the servant's door. She'd at least already been able to get a cloak around Sophie's far too-thin shoulders and a basket of food in her arms, so she had something to eat later.

Sophie's little confused frown deepened. "But…what do I even do?"

Oh, this sweet summer child was going to need more help than Mrs. Wilson realized.

"Well, you can go for a walk. Get some air. It will be good for you. And I made sure you have some of your pay with you," she motioned towards the basket, held in the crook of Sophie's arm. "I put it in the basket. Consider it a little gift. The markets should also be open if you want to get something small. There is a chocolatier near Piccadilly who sells quite wonderful treats for a good price. Maybe you could go there?" 

"Um…alright, then," Sophie told her, still looking completely lost at the concept of not working for the day. Making it all the more apparent to the old housekeeper that something was truly off with her. 

It wasn't normal for a girl of her age to be so adamant about working. Not that Mrs. Wilson wasn't grateful for her; Sophie was good at what she did. And she did it quickly, too, without question. Everything was done perfectly, but Mrs. Wilson noticed how Sophie tended to overstep, taking on tasks she should not have been doing as a maid. While some of the older staff had been happy about having less work to do when they woke up and found Sophie had already done it, the younger staff were the opposite. 

Some of the younger, more gossip-minded maids weren't entirely happy about how close Sophie was getting with the three Bridgerton sisters. Their employers. It couldn't be ignored how Sophie was one of the only servants to repeatedly sit for tea with the three sisters and their mother, not that it was by her own choice, and Mrs. Wilson couldn't ignore how Benedict had suddenly begun showing up more. The same Bridgerton son who got her the job.

And the poor girl was going to work herself to death if she didn't slow down. She needed at least a day to breathe and relax. 

"I'll see you this afternoon," Mrs. Wilson remarked, gently pushing Sophie closer to the door and outside. "See you later, Sophie. Have fun."

She then promptly shut the door in Sophie's face before she even had the chance to change her mind and return inside. Waving her off from the window, Mrs. Wilson waited until Sophie made it most of the way down the servant's alley, rather slowly as she kept looking back at the kitchen door, wondering if she should really leave and looking terribly lost in her thoughts, before finally disappearing around the corner, to which Mrs. let out the breath she'd been holding, her body sagging with relief.

"Is Lady Bridgerton planning to implement this day off for all staff? Or just the new little maids with blonde curls and big green eyes?" Bessie, the cook who'd worked for the Bridgertons for years, inquired knowingly as she continued stirring the morning porridge. 

Bessie knew well enough what it was her old colleague was doing, seeing as Mrs. Wilson had waited till all the other staff members had gone off to attend to their duties before she caught Sophie for a private little chat. 

"Oh, hush you," Mrs. Wilson shushed. "That girl's been working herself to the bone. You saw her this morning. She looked about to collapse from exhaustion."

"And what do you plan to tell her ladyship or the young ladies when they come looking for her?" Bessie asked. 

Mrs. Wilson shrugged. "I'll just tell her she went to run some errands for me. I think we can manage one day without her." 

—

Sophie was completely lost.

Not really. She knew where she was: Regent Street, the hustle of early morning business happening around her as she wandered down the road and through the city. Horse-drawn carriages passed her on the street while Londoners of all classes did their business around her. Her worry of Araminta being in town meant she’d stuck to the back roads, the quieter streets of London.

But she barely heard any noises around her as she continued down the road, lost in thought. 

She was at a loss about what to do with herself for the day. 

She'd never had a day off before, not since Araminta had forced her into a life of servitude. Not even with the Cavanders or the brief jobs she held between leaving London and arriving in Wiltshire. She'd worked every day from sunrise to sunset, sometimes even into the evenings since her father’s death. 

Yes, she'd been a guest while staying with Benedict in the country, but she'd also done work around the home, helping the Crabtrees manage the manor and helping Benedict recover from his fever. She'd not been as busy as she'd usually been as a maid, not even now with the Bridgertons at Number 5, but she hadn't taken an entire day of just doing nothing. No matter how much Mrs. Crabtree demanded her to. 

But the thought of Wiltshire, of her time at My Cottage, brought up a bigger problem in her life. 

Benedict.

It was probably why she’d been keeping herself so busy. Without anything to do to keep her mind elsewhere, she was stuck thinking about him. His charming looks, his crooked smile, how passionate he spoke about his artworks with her, how sweet he looked whenever he attended to his nieces and nephews when they were visiting. The days she'd spent getting to know him better had shaped the fantasize she still had over him. For better or worse.

Not to mention, thinking about him always led to her thinking about the pond incident. The image of him coming out of the water all those weeks ago, completely nude, after she'd stumbled upon him during his morning swim. Her cheeks burned as she remembered that, making her shake her head as if she could rattle the thoughts out of her mind. 

She had to stop thinking about him. It was embarrassing and childish. Not to mention improper. He was nothing more than a distraction, a gnat that constantly flew around her head, annoying her. And she knew her feelings for him would only lead to further pain and heartbreak. 

"Well, isn't this a surprise? Off to do some morning shopping, are we?" the sweet sounds of Benedict's voice floated around in her skull as if he was sitting on her shoulder, guiding her through her day. 

Sophie sighed. "And now I'm hearing him," she muttered to herself sarcastically. "Wonderful."

"Sophie, I'm standing right behind you," Benedict's voice said with an amused chuckle, and this time, Sophie realized it wasn't in her head. 

She spun around quickly, shocked to find that Benedict was, in fact, standing right behind her. Where the hell had he come from? Glancing around the streets, she tried to figure out where it was he'd appeared from or if he'd been following her this entire time. Not realizing she'd walked right past him as he exited White's a few doors behind them, her head so far up in the clouds that she hadn't seen him wave her down or hear him call out after her. She certainly hadn't heard his footsteps as he moved to catch up with her as she walked on. 

Oh, she was never taking another day off again. Ever again.

"How do you do that?" she asked him, stunned.

A dark brow quirked up. "Do what?" he asked back.

"Find me," she clarified an annoyed edge in her tone this time.

But Benedict only smiled. Slowly his sly, lopsided smirk, dragged the corner of his lips upwards as he stepped towards her, towering over her. Looming over her. She mentally cursed him for being as tall as he was. Making Sophie have to tilt her head back just to look up at him. Just so she could see the mischievous glint in his pale, morning-blue eyes as he looked down at her. Tried to ignore the building desire within her that made her want to climb him.

"Like I could ever lose you. Only a fool would let you go," he told her, voice soft.

She stared at him, lips parting, hating how her heart began to start beating erratically in her chest. His voice sounded soft and loving, giving her goosebumps despite the sun shining brightly on them, keeping them warm. All she wanted to do was listen to his voice. 

"Besides, you are far too irresistible to ignore. All the more reason to keep you all to myself. I wouldn't have to worry about you disappearing," he said, more flirtatiously this time. His eyes roamed over her gown of pale green.

Or maybe not.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. 

"Good day, Mr. Bridgerton," she told him curtly as she opened her eyes and stepped around him, making her way back down the street in the direction she'd come from

He seemed surprised by her dismissing him as if that wasn't a common occurrence for them as of late. She heard him call out behind her. "Sophie, wait!" 

"I'm not in the mood," she told him loudly as he followed her, catching up with her in only a few quick strides. Barely breaking a sweat as she huffed and puffed next to him as she tried increasing her pace. Damn those long legs of him. It was entirely unfair for him to use her short height against her. 

"What exactly are you doing?" he asked, easily keeping up with her. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I have the day off," she told him bluntly.

He frowned. "The day off?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson says your mother gives all the staff a day off each month. She made me use mine today since the month is almost over," Sophie continued without even looking at him.

Benedict gave her a confused look, opening his mouth to tell her that was most certainly not true before quickly stopping himself. He slowly realized what Mrs. Wilson had done was a gift. If Sophie had the day off, then she finally had free time. No longer running after his sisters or attending to household chores at Number 5. She was free. 

Free to spend time with him. 

"And what do you plan to do? With your day off?" he inquired curiously. 

"I am not spending it with you. That's for certain," she replied back swiftly as if knowing what he would say next. "I think I'll go to the park. Or maybe just walk around the area. Or buy some chocolates."

He smiled. "You have no idea what to do, do you?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, making Benedict stop too. Her head whipping in his direction to look at him. He watched her dark emerald eyes narrowed into slits as she glared, but she'd proved him right. And even Sophie knew that as she took another deep breath.

"I do not need to explain myself to you," she told him with a huff.

"Have you never had a day off?" he asked.

"Coming from someone who has never worked a day in his life, I'm surprised you would even know what a day off is," she snapped before continuing on in her hasty walk down the street. Her cheeks turning pink.

All Benedict could do was laugh, a loud one bursting from his lips, almost sounding like a snort, as he watched her try to escape him. 

He truly adored annoying her. It always brought out that stubborn personality she kept hidden behind polite submissiveness. It had slipped out here and there while she was working for his family. He'd noticed her snarky little remarks were more likely to come out if she was chatting with Francesca about her suitors. He was pretty sure it was why Eloise had come to like Sophie; her biting remarks tended to go unnoticed by his mother, much to his and his sisters' amusement. 

He loved knowing that he was probably the only one in all of London she'd shown her true self to, her wit and intellect, her fiery passion and kind compassion.

And there was no one else whose company he'd rather keep right now than hers. She filled a hole in his heart, left there by his silver-dressed companion after she disappeared on him two years ago. 

"Come with me," he told her.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Did you not hear me? When I said I had no interest in spending my day with you?"

"I know something you can do."

"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Bridgerton, but I'm not interested."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely," she replied defiantly. 

"What a shame," he remarked with a mock pout. "I was so excited to show you my paintings."

She stopped in the tracks, again, slowly turning to look at him once more. "What paintings?"

"The ones the Royal Academy is exhibiting this weekend," he told her.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You went through with it?" 

She'd been the only one to know about it, about him contemplating returning to the Royal Academy. He wasn't confident he would at this point. The knowledge his original acceptance had been tainted, paid for by his brother, had continued to cloud his confidence in reapplying, but the Royal Academy had a yearly summer exhibition, an event where any artist, known or unknown, could submit their works in the hopes they'd be chosen. Only three pieces were allowed to be submitted to the committee, and Benedict had to pay a fee for each one, but the stress had come from picking which works he would submit. It was why he'd been in Wiltshire to begin with, to focus on his selections. The committee could not guarantee any would be selected, but after finally impulsively entering his choices, he'd heard word the day prior that all three of his paintings had been accepted.

And Sophie had been the cause of it all. He'd told her about it in Wiltshire. About his hopes and dreams of being a famous artist. About how he'd stopped painting after discovering Anthony's role in helping him get that dream. The only reason he'd reopened his box of paints that he'd tucked away after leaving the Royal Academy had been because of the Lady of Silver, the only way he could get her out of his head was by drawing her. Painting that night over and over again. And other pieces because of it. She'd become his muse, reigniting his skills, but Sophie had become his champion, batting away his anxieties with her own confidence and support. Pushing him to submit the paintings, telling him it was better to live with a rejection than never knowing what would have happened if he hadn’t gone through with it. 

When he'd mentioned the exhibition, Sophie had immediately told him to do it, having seen his old and new works hidden around My Cottage. Peeking at his drawings and sketches while he'd slept off a fever. Her encouragement had been the final push he needed to get over himself.

He hadn't even told his family yet. He couldn't. Only after he told her first would he be able to. 

"You got in?" Sophie seemed surprised, stunned by the news. 

"All three of the works I submitted were accepted," he told her, chest puffing up with pride. 

Her stunned shock shifted to delight as she smiled at him, excitement buzzing through her. Excitement she felt on his behalf because of him. 

"Oh, Benedict, that's wonderful!" she remarked, and Benedict felt his heart swell as she used his first name instead of the formal 'Mr. Bridgerton'. 

In her giddy excitement, she threw her arms around him to hug him, and Benedict was all too willing to accept, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her body against his, lifting her off the ground, breathing in the smell of vanilla and nutmeg as he held her. For a moment, the whole world around them disappeared, and Benedict only felt utter content by having her against him. 

Then, Sophie snapped away from him, as if she'd been burned, making him quickly put her back down. As if she'd just remembered that only moments ago, she'd been annoyed with him. And that touching him was certainly not something she'd been allowing between them since they both arrived in London. 

But instead of getting angry again, she just grew embarrassed.

"Um…congratulations," she told him nervously, her cheeks turning pink. 

"Would you like to see them?" he asked, trying, and failing to ignore the emptiness that had returned within him the moment she pulled away. The moment her touch left him.

"Oh, I do not believe I will have the time to attend–" she started.

"I mean right now," he clarified quickly. 

She frowned. "How would we do that?" 

Benedict only shrugged. "Let's call it an artist's privilege. I'm allowed to check on my works before the exhibit."

"Um…I don't know…" she trailed off hesitantly, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she thought it over. 

"The Academy is just down the road," he told her, motioning towards the street ahead of them that would lead them both to it. "I'll have you in and out before you know it. It shouldn't take less than an hour. Promise."

She studied him. "You promise?"

"Absolutely," he told her, even though he planned to keep her there as long as possible.

After a moment, she nodded. "Alright. Lead the way." 

Benedict smiled, excitement flaring within him. He held out his arm for her to take, but Sophie merely shook her head and began walking, making him let out a small chuckle as he followed, directing her towards the grand gray and white stone building used by the Academy for its classes and exhibits. He still knew the back entrance Tessa had once shown him, leading Sophie towards it so no one would see them sneak in.

Technically, he hadn't lied to Sophie when he said he could see his works before the exhibit. That was true. He could come and go as needed, but waltzing through the front door with a woman who was not his wife nor known to the Academy, he was bound to get looks and questions from the others. 

But Sophie made no remark as they entered through the back, quietly following him as he brought her towards the exhibition rooms, which, mercifully, were empty. It was still early enough in the morning that the majority of students and teachers weren't roaming the halls yet. And Benedict had it on good authority that the curator would be sleeping off a rather horrid hangover this morning, given his piss poor performance at cards the night before. They had the place all to themselves for now. 

Shutting the door quietly behind him, he watched as Sophie glanced around the room, taking in the many paintings of varying sizes that decorated the walls as she walked around the statues of marble and bronze placed throughout the rooms. 

"Are these all submissions too?" she asked him. 

"Some are," he answered. "Others are donations or works that have been loaned out temporarily from private collections."

"They're quite good," she told him, studying a painting of Cupid and Psyche lounging on a chaise together, one Benedict had been told was on loan from Brussels, made by a French painter while in exile. 

"Really?" he asked her, coming up to stand next to her. 

"You don't like it?" she asked back. 

"It's not that I don't like it, it's…" Benedict paused, trying to figure out what to say next. It wasn't bad, the painting of Cupid and Psyche, it was rather well done, if not more hyper-realistic then the other paintings hanging around them. 

It was just better than his. All the paintings around them were. The one in front of them was from an already established painter, as were the other donated and loaned ones hanging around the room.

At least his works were in the next one. Not put hanging next to established and known painters. 

Maybe he should have them taken out and pull them from the exhibition. It was too good to be true for all three of his works to get picked on his first submission to the contest, but he hadn't spoken to anyone except Sophie about it. There was no way Anthony could have learned about this and involved himself in this without Benedict noticing.

This was a mistake. His heart began to hammer away in his chest. He shouldn't have taken Sophie here. His paintings shouldn't be hanging on these walls. This was wrong. The exhibition wasn't opening till next week; he could get Sophie out of there and wait till the curator arrived, make up some excuse, and get the paintings removed before–

"I doubt it's any better than yours," Sophie commented, her calm voice slicing through his thoughts, stopping his heart momentarily and dragging his attention back towards her, away from his anxious thoughts. 

"I wouldn't go that far," Benedict said sheepishly, motioning towards the painting. "This one is from a far more established painter than me." 

"I've seen your works, Benedict," Sophie told him, giving him a small smile. Nothing but genuine kindness in her eyes. "I liked them much more than this one. Then the works of other more established painters I've seen." 

"Really?" he asked, hopeful. 

She nodded. "And well, you have far more talent than that one," she pointed quickly towards the muddled painting of some kind of animal hanging nearby. "I can't tell if it's supposed to be a terrier or a chicken." 

Benedict laughed. "I think it's supposed to be a horse." 

"Oh, that just makes it worse," she replied, looking horrified, and Benedict could only laugh harder. Her smile returned as she saw him laughing, saw the tension easing away from his shoulders as he relaxed.

"The one next to it would have probably been saved if it had been skied," he told her, playing along, pointing to the portrait of an older, gruff, and angry-looking gentleman with a cane hanging next to the supposed horse painting. The background needed to be lighter and looked unfinished as a result. A window in the background or a few trees would have helped. 

Sophie cringed as she saw it. "Forgive me for not noticing, but I was rather distracted by the model's severe expression." 

An expression that made the man look rather…constipated.

He was unable to prevent the smile on his face from dropping, pointing towards another painting nearby. Seeking her opinion still.

"What about that one?"

Sophie leaned closer toward the wall, studying the painting for a moment. 

"The hound deserves better," she told him as she leaned back, making him chuckle.

He hummed. "And the one next to it?"

"I can tell you with complete confidence that a woman's chest is not supposed to look like that," Sophie replied, looking rather insulted by the female model's appearance. 

He couldn't stop smiling at this point. And when Sophie saw his, she only returned it with one of her own. 

 "You are quite the critic. You're certain you aren't an artist?" he said to her.  

"I can barely draw a flower," Sophie remarked back, giving him a look.

"How do you know so much about it then?" he asked, and Sophie frowned, looking away from him. 

"My father," she answered softly, the smile on her face dropping and Benedict stiffened. "He had quite the collection of works in his home. From different painters. Practically decorated every inch of his home. He liked art. It was the only thing we ever talked about. When he talked to me, that was."

"I didn't mean to bring him up," Benedict told her apologetically. 

She shook her head. "It's fine. I used to study the paintings growing up. Tried to imagine what the words within them were like. Got pretty good at noticing all the little details and how they differed from one another, but I never had the talent for it, though, I'm afraid. But my father would tell me more about them if I asked. He was quite good at noting the flaws and errors. Could even tell two of them had been painted over by the original artist and that one his grandfather had purchased was a fake. He was a very…critical man." 

Critical. Critical could mean cruel. 

"He never said anything to you about–?" Benedict gently started, and Sophie shook her head again, knowing where he was going with this.

"He never spoke up about it to begin with. I could never tell if he just didn't want to talk about it or didn't know how to. It was just one big elephant sitting in the room whenever we were together," Sophie told him. "And he rarely ever told me off. He left that to the servants. The housekeeper and my governess specifically. He'd left them to raise me anyway; might as well let them handle the tougher conversations or discipline."

An uncomfortable pit began forming in his stomach. It was hard to imagine what it was like for Sophie growing up. Besides the matter of her being an illegitimate child, Benedict couldn't begin to imagine not being close with his father, who had been nothing but loving and supportive. A man who had been the complete opposite of Sophies, who supported his artistic interests. Charcoal and some paper were an easy way for his father to keep him distracted when he was little. He'd do it whenever he was watching him and Anthony while working in his office. Benedict had always been the calmer one of the two, Anthony had been more excitable and rowdier when they were little, so his father would keep Benedict quietly drawing so he could keep a closer eye on Anthony.

Even though it annoyed Benedict's mother to no end when she would come to check on them and find Benedict covered in black smears of coal.

" He's got talent , Violet ," his father would tell her with a chuckle as she huffed, wiping at Benedict's cheeks in an effort to clean him up. " I'm only trying to nurture it ." 

And his father would keep his little doodles. Little inside jokes Benedict would draw and leave on his desk for his father to find, to give the old man a good laugh. Weeks after his death, Benedict found some hidden away in his desk drawer after he'd been helping an overwhelmed Anthony locate documents. He was so surprised to see it, having never thought his father had actually kept them, that the grief he'd been struggling to control had clawed its way back up his throat, and he'd had to excuse himself so he could try (and fail) to get a hold of his emotions. 

His parents had both supported him in any endeavor he took, not just his father. His mother had wanted him to further his skills after he finished at Cambridge, offered to help send him to Paris or Florence so he could study, but he declined, not wanting to leave his family behind. His brother was now the viscount and Colin was starting at University himself, but there were still five other young Bridgertons their mother was left raising on her own, two of whom were only toddlers. Benedict couldn’t leave them behind like that. 

But he had support. He had love. 

Sophie never had any of that. 

And he hated it.

"But he's gone now, not much that can be done about it. No point lingering in the past," she added stiffly, as if trying to convince herself of that. 

There was an anger in her tone whenever Sophie spoke about her father, but now it sounded less like anger and more like disappointment. She didn't seem to hate him, though, which Benedict couldn't believe; however, he didn't think Sophie hated anyone. 

Well, maybe him. Sometimes.

She then straightened out her back, holding her head high as she glanced over at him and forced a bright smile. "But enough about me, you said you were going to show me your works." 

"There in the other rooms," he told her, still feeling guilty about inadvertently bringing up her dead father.

She nodded, making her way towards the opening leading into the next room. A room just as extensively decorated as the one they'd just been in. Benedict slowly followed her in, lingering a little ways behind and watching as she did the same as she had when they arrived. Carefully making her way around the room and looking at the works hanging around her. 

"Which ones are yours?" she asked.

"You don't know?" 

"Well, you didn't tell me which ones you submitted." 

Benedict felt a slight tug at his lips. "And here I thought you liked my works."

She stuck her tongue out at him for that.

"Guess," he told her, chuckling.

"Benedict," she whined softly, head tilting to the side . 

"I'm not telling you. You have to guess," he informed her. 

She let out an over dramatic sigh. "Fine," she told him, turning back away from him and scanning the walls. 

He watched her slowly waltz around the room, studying each and every painting. He watched how her curls swayed with every moment of her head. Her day off meant she hadn't pinned any of them up. Her ringlet curls hung loosely around her face, the tips brushing against her shoulders. Soft, perfect circular curls that looked like they were made from gold, shining whenever the sun caught them, and Benedict wanted nothing more than to run his hands through them.

She gave each portrait a moment of her time, and for a second, Benedict thought she'd walk right past them. She looked just about to, and then she stopped. 

"This one," she told him, pointing to it.

A smile tugged at his lips. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You're absolutely certain it's mine?"

She nodded. "I know that pond anywhere."

He came to stand next to her, glancing at the landscape painting he'd submitted. The one of the small pond behind My Cottage, with the little hill leading to it, the two large willow trees rooted by its banks, and the expansive field behind it that led towards a forest far off in the distance. 

The very pond he'd had the most awkward encounters of his life with Sophie at.

But that hadn't stopped him from painting it. He'd gone out one early morning to get it right as the sun was coming up. The sky of the landscape was a soft, dewy pink, and gentle orange, with just a few dabs and swipes of white to be clouds. He'd even added a tiny little detail. 

In the distance of the painting, right under one of the willow trees and sitting on a blanket, was a small figure resting against the trunk. Dressed in white. 

Sophie had come outside while he was painting that day. He'd already gotten most of the painting done and was focusing more on the leaves of the trees and bunches of daisies that were growing around the pond, but he couldn't help himself when he saw her relaxing under the tree, reading one of his books as she munched on an apple. His hands had moved without his brain telling them to, adding her to the painting. The angle he'd gotten her at meant most wouldn't notice her at first. One would have to look closer to find her hidden behind the tree, golden curls blowing in the breeze. 

"Is that supposed to be me?" Sophie asked, pointing to her mini-painted form. 

"Hmm, I suppose it is. How did that get there?" Benedict hummed playfully, getting a gentle tap to the arm from Sophie. 

"You didn't need to include me in it," she told him. "I would have moved if you had asked."

"And disturb the quiet respite you were enjoying at the time?" Benedict shook his head. "I'm a gentleman, Sophie."

A dark blond brow rose on her smooth face, telling Benedict she was having a hard time believing that, but she didn't push it.

"That's one," she nodded towards the painting in front of them. "You said three works were accepted, so where are the other two?"

"That's number two," Benedict told her, pointing towards the still life hanging next to the landscape. 

He'd gone with one of each; landscape, a portrait, and a still life. Frankly, Benedict was surprised his still life painting was accepted. It wasn't anything new or interesting. Some fruits on a plate with a goblet. Nothing extraordinary by any means. It was even smaller than the other two. Simple.

"I like it," Sophie remarked, once again cutting apart the anxious thoughts before they had a chance to sink their claws into him. "It shows off your skills. How good you are with light and detail. And the silver looks almost real. The blues and oranges you have from the fruit and plates makes it more eye-catching, too." 

Maybe she was right. Maybe the addition of his mother's blue china to hold the citrus fruits he'd used and the lighting work he'd done on the silver goblet to give it its metallic shine had been intriguing enough to have it hanging amongst the rest. 

"You need to stop second-guessing yourself," Sophie told him, and he looked to see she was watching him. "You are a talented artist, Benedict. People will see that when they see your work. And I'm certain your family will also be proud of you when they see them." 

He didn't doubt her. He couldn't. The certainty in her voice, the sincerity shining in her eyes was all he needed to know for a fact she meant what she said.

"You are far too kind," he told her. "Kinder than I deserve." 

She shrugged. "I meant what I said. You are a talented artist." 

He blushed and Benedict Bridgerton was not the kind of man who blushed. But he actually blushed at her words, like he was some young schoolboy seeing a pretty woman for the first time. He just couldn't help how Sophie set something off within him. Made him feel pride and confidence with a few little sentences and a soft smile. How he felt more than just happy when he was around her. He felt content, as if all the missing pieces in his life had just slid back into place. 

"Now, the third one," she glanced around. "That one in here too?"

"In the next room. They thought it went better with the paintings hanging in there," he told her. 

"Alright, then," Sophie said, heading off. 

Benedict waited before following. Needing a few moments to let his heart relax and for his cheeks to stop burning, regaining his composure and confidence before he headed in after her.

He found her already standing before his last piece, staring up at it. Frozen in place. He smiled. She found it already. 

"It's not my best portrait," he told her as he approached. "I had difficulty getting the face right. Unfortunately, the model could not sit for it, so I had to go off my memory alone."

The Lady in Silver. His muse. He thought it only fitting to have her amongst his submissions. Of the three, she was the one he hoped would be accepted if the others weren't.

He’d made it so she was standing by a stone railing, leaning against it as she looked away from the viewer. It was the only way Benedict could conceal the fact that he couldn't paint her full face without using a mask, having to do a side profile instead. He'd painted the scene like it had been that night, with the moon shining down on her. It was the only one hanging on the wall that had set at night. And that was how it should hang, contrasting sharply against its neighbors and drawing in the eye of anyone who passed it. 

It was, in all frankness, his best work. 

Hair pinned up with pearls, dressed in silver satin, Benedict had spent hours getting each pinned curl perfect, each strand of hair just right, and making the dress look like liquid silver in the moonlight. The lace detail he'd done on the sleeves and bodice had almost killed him. He'd been forced to take multiple breaks due to his hand cramping under pressure.

Sophie was silent as she stood beside him, staring at the painting with wide, surprised eyes. 

"I wanted to have her facing the viewer, but…well, it didn't look right," he explained, feeling nervous now as Sophie continued to say nothing. 

"It's good, Benedict," she told him suddenly, sounding breathless. "It's really, really good."

"You think so?" he asked, giving the portrait another look. 

Sophie's wide eyes darted towards him, a fearful glint settled in them as she watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to realize how suspiciously similar she looked to the woman in the portrait before him. But the recognition never appeared on Benedict's face as he stared at his masterpiece, glancing over towards her to flash a proud smile.

"When did you–?" she started, her eyes snapping back towards the painting. 

"I've been working on this one for almost two years," he told her as he chuckled. "I didn't think I would finish, let alone in time to submit it here. It was killing me not getting her face right, but I finally did. I finally finished it." 

He still hadn't realized. She couldn't believe it. The evidence was standing right in front of him. She was standing right before a portrait of herself, and he still hadn't realized. 

That stupid, gorgeous, idiotic, wonderful fool. She wanted to scream at him.

But she couldn't. It was better he didn't realize, she reminded herself. He couldn't know who she really was. It would just make all of this worse.

"You know what I just realized?" Benedict asked.

If she hadn't already been rooted in place, frozen stiff to the point she looked like the marble statues around them, Sophie might have run. Instead, she slowly looked back towards him, waiting to hear what he had to say, praying he hadn't figured it out.

"One of my classmates. Wilkes. He submitted a piece I was told was accepted. He's a god-awful portrait painter, and if that's what he submitted, I'm sure you'll get a good laugh," he chuckled. "Come on."

Relief and disappointment filled her. It was better he didn't realize, she reminded herself again.

He reached out and grabbed her hand. The moment his fingers touched hers, she felt a shock go through her, making her snatch her hand back quickly as Benedict seemed to feel it, too.

"Sorry," he told her. 

She shook her head. "It's fine."

"Are you alright?" he asked, finally noticing her worried expression.

She nodded. "Of course." 

"Sophie, what's wrong?" he asked earnestly, his hand coming to rest on her arm. 

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine. Really," she said, forcing a smile. 

"You're still enjoying this, right?" he asked carefully.

"Of course. I was just…I was just a little surprised by the last one."

"In a bad way or…" Benedict gave her a concerned look.

"A good way," she clarified, chuckling. "I mean it, Benedict. I don't know why you keep making me say it, but you're good. Really good. Far better than the rest of them."

Benedict beamed. His expression was soft as he looked at her, a crinkle around his glittering eyes as he smiled. "You are a phenomenal woman, you know that?" he told her gently, and Sophie felt her cheeks begin to warm.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied, shaking her head as she let out a nervous laugh.

"I'm serious. I wouldn't have done any of this if it wasn't for you," he said. "I only submitted them because you pushed me to. If you hadn't strong-armed me into doing this, I would still be caught up in my own insecurities."

"I don't think I needed to strong-armed you into doing anything," Sophie said back, a little defensive. 

"Still, I owe you. A lot. For all of this," Benedict continued. He shook his head. "I haven't even told my family."

Sophie blinked at his admission, surprised, but he only continued. 

"I wanted you to know first. Need you to know before I tell the rest of them," he admitted. "I love my family, but they're not why these paintings are hanging here. You are." 

Her warm cheeks only got hotter, burning hotly now. Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewing nervously on it. There was warmth pooling below her navel, a tightness building. 

"You know," he smirked. "Nobody's around. We can do whatever we want."

Sophie closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as Benedict only chuckled softly. 

Of all the moments for him to ruin. 

She sighed, shaking her head. No matter how much she was enjoying herself right now, there was no chance in hell that she would lose herself in the desire she felt for him.

Then a hand came to rest on her hip, a gentle tug, and her feet moved without her telling them to, stepping closer to him. 

"Benedict," she warned softly, placing her hand over his. She wrapped her fingers around it, ready to pull it off–

"We're alone," he whispered, leaning in closer. 

"Benedict…" she repeated again, swallowing as his face came closer to hers. Her heart was drumming against her sternum now.

"No one will know," he assured her quietly, rotating his hand to catch hers now. 

"This can never work. You know that right?" she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "So stop it. Please."

Benedict stared at her. A small arrow appeared between his brows as he watched her, trying to understand why she kept refusing him when they both knew the desire was there. But he didn’t say anything. 

Then he sighed, leaning forward, and rested his forehead on hers. Well, more like the top of her head, with her height, his nose pressed into her curls, his lips hovering over her forehead. 

"Must you remind me?" he asked with a sad little laugh. He was joking, but his voice was still laced with disappointment. 

She only huffed a sigh, training her eyes toward his chest. "I'm trying to make this as painless as possible. For both of us." 

His hand was clutching hers tightly but not painfully. It was more desperate like he didn't want to let go of her. Sophie waited quietly, not moving. She trusted him; no matter how often he tried to push her boundaries, he always stopped when she asked, and she didn't want him to let go of her. Instead, she focused on one of the buttons on his scarlet red vest, waiting for him to pull away. 

Finally, he did. Benedict sighed, his lips gently brushed over her forehead as he gave her a soft kiss before pulling away, releasing her hand as he moved back.

"You'll be the death of me," he joked lightly, to her or himself she wasn't sure. He was smiling again, but it was a forced one this time. 

"I should go," she told him softly. The warmth had evaporated, leaving only an uncomfortable feeling of sadness behind. Disappointment of her own. 

"Sophie–" Benedict started.

She shook her head. "No, it's for the best. I should–"

"Oh!" another voice interrupted her. "I didn't realize anyone was here." 

Turning around to where the voice had come from, Sophie saw a tall, pretty brunette standing in the doorway. A woman she didn’t recognize. 

But Benedict did. 

"Tessa?" Benedict asked behind her.

The tall brunette glanced away from Sophie and towards Benedict. A smile lit up her face as she saw him.

"Benedict? Is that you?" she asked, stepping towards them–towards Benedict. "God, how long has it been?"

Benedict let out a small chuckle as he moved past Sophie and towards her, giving her a quick hug to greet her, leaving Sophie standing awkwardly behind him. 

So, they were friends. That was…okay. 

"How are you?" he asked as he pulled back.

"Well, well," Tessa replied. "Bored, though. Everything got so dreadfully boring around here after you left. No one throws a party like you did.”

Benedict chuckled.

“Not to mention, I was rather insulted that you didn't tell me you were leaving,” Tessa added. 

"Well, I um…I didn't want to be a bother," Benedict awkwardly replied. 

"You shouldn't have taken your brother's actions to heart," Tessa told him. "You had talent, Benedict. It wasn’t something to waste. But I heard you'll be in the summer showcase?"

He nodded. "Yeah. A few of my pieces were accepted." 

"I'm glad to hear," Tessa said, still smiling. 

"Enough about me. What about you? What are you doing here? Have this lot finally recognized your talents and given you a spot?" Benedict questioned.

Tessa chuckled. "I'm afraid I'm still modeling. The Academy refuses to consider women capable of using a paintbrush or a chisel, but I got one of my pieces selected for the exhibit. And something far better than the Royal Academy." 

"And what's that?" 

"A position studying in Florence. Apparently, they are a bit more accepting of women learning the arts in Italy," Tessa replied happily. 

"That's wonderful, Tessa," Benedict remarked. 

"I'll still have to work for it, but I certainly have you to thank for my male figures being more accurate. It certainly was what got me accepted in the first place," she explained.

Benedict chuckled. "You deserve it, Tessa," he told her.

Tessa's dark eyes glanced over towards Sophie, who was lingering in the shadows behind them, trying to stay out of sight. The brunette cocked her head to the side, studying her. A sly smile still ghosted over her lips.  

"Who's your friend?" she asked. 

"Oh, Tessa, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Tessa, an old friend from when I was studying here," Benedict introduced them quickly.

Sophie nodded politely. "Nice to meet you." 

"Is she your latest? She's a pretty little thing. Wherever did you find her?" Tessa whispered loudly as she leaned towards Benedict, teasing him. 

"Tessa," Benedict warned. 

"You should get her to model here? She'd be well received," Tessa commented to Benedict. "Those looks are divine, and those curls. You must tell me how you get them like that, Sophie. Mine refuse to listen to me. Maybe you could come over to my place before I leave. I'm certain we could exchange tips and–" 

"Tessa," Benedict almost snapped, making the young woman perk up a brow at him in intrigue. 

"Ah, not the sharing sort, are you?" she said knowingly before turning back towards Sophie. "Apologies, I didn't mean any offense." 

Sophie only nodded her understanding, still unsure of what to say or do. She couldn't see any maliciousness in Tessa. The tone of her voice was playful yet kind, flirty even.

Flirty. She was flirting, Sophie realized. And that was when Sophie finally understood Tessa's remark about her male figures and Benedict. The way Tessa brushed a hand over his arm when they had greeted one another, trailing it slowly down. 

They weren't friends. They were former lovers. 

She should have realized there had been others. The charming, gorgeous Benedict Bridgerton wouldn't have much difficulty getting any woman he wanted into his bed. 

No wonder he had no issue asking her to be his mistress. He'd probably already done the same with others. Maybe even with Tessa. Sophie was just another name on a list of women he'd been with and cast aside. Another conquest for him. 

And Tessa had already assumed she was.

God, she was so stupid. Was this just an attempt at forcing her hand? She should never have agreed to come here with him. 

"I-I think it's best I go," she told them.

"Sophie, are you alright?" Benedict frowned, sensing her discomfort. 

"You're welcome to stay. The more the merrier, I always say," Tessa smiled sweetly, oblivious to the chaos occurring. "You can tell me what this one has been up to since I last saw him. I'm certain it was nothing good."

"Oh no, no. I think it's best I let him tell you," Sophie said quickly, shaking her head as she stepped away from them. "I should get going anyway. It's been a long day. Excuse me." 

"Sophie! Sophie, wait!" Benedict called out after her.

But she'd already disappeared into the next room, fleeing towards the exit, forcing Benedict to chase after her. He left a surprised Tessa behind, not even turning back to explain or say goodbye as he ran after her. He didn’t even think, he just made a split second decision when he saw her flee to follow her. And that's what he did.

And he caught up with her quickly enough. Those damn legs once again. Sophie grabbed the basket she'd left by the door, and had already slipped into the hallway and then out the side entrance when Benedict caught her in the alleyway. His hand snatched her wrist to stop her, pulling her back.

"Let me go," she ordered, shrugging him off her. 

"Let me explain," he shot back, grabbing her arm.

"Get off me!" she shouted, ripping herself away from him. "I do not wish to speak to you."

"Sophie, please–" he started to plead. 

"What?!" she snapped. "What could you possibly have to say to explain this?" 

"She didn't mean any harm. Tessa was just being herself," Benedict told her. "If she offended you, I know she didn't mean to."

Sophie scoffed. "You mean when she assumed I was your mistress, and you didn't correct her?"

Benedict frowned. "When–she didn't say anything–?"

He stopped. She had. He hadn't even noticed. Just happy to see a familiar face, he didn't notice she'd implied he and Sophie were together. And when he stopped her from propositioning Sophie, he'd only confirmed his interests.

He sighed. "Sophie–"

"I have no need to involve myself with whores," she snapped at him. 

"That's out of line, Sophie," he told her sternly as if admonishing one of his sisters for a cruel remark. "Just because you're upset with me doesn't mean you need to refer to Tessa as a whore."

Sophie stopped, blinking at him, her mouth open in stunned surprise. Staring at him as if he'd just grown another head. As if she couldn't believe what he had just said to her. 

Then, the shock changed to something else. Amusement. With a look of disbelief still on her face, she started laughing at him. Hysterically. Enough that she was left clutching her side as her chuckles descended into a fit, and Benedict found himself uncomfortable with her reaction, unsure what he'd done to cause it. 

"She was not the one I was referring to as a whore," she finally told him as the chuckles subsided, looking at him like he was a fool.

Benedict frowned at her, confused, as he slowly processed the words she'd just said. Then, like hers had, his pale eyes widened in stunned surprise. She'd been speaking of him. And the glower she now had told him it was most certainly him she'd been referring to. Sophie was focusing on keeping her breathing steady to prevent herself from yelling at him.

His frown deepened. Appalled, he asked. Just to make sure. 

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" she shot at him, louder this time. The anger began burning brightly again in her mossy eyes. 

As if struck by a bullet, Benedict stumbled back from her as the insult hit his ego. He won't deny that he'd slept around, finding himself in the company of a new woman each season these past few seasons, but that had been before Sophie. That had all stopped after he met the Lady in Silver, probably even before that, too, if he thought about it. Watching his siblings fall in love and marry, seeing them start their own families, had stirred something deep within him. He realized he was pretty lonely and wished for more than a fleeting fling.

Sophie had probably been the first woman he'd found himself falling for in two years, unable to tear his eyes from her petite form, blonde curls, and bright jeweled eyes. Every time she stepped into the room, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was the first woman in years he'd desired, even when his mind still harassed him about his silver-dressed companion. The one he had yet to find. 

Not to mention, he was a gentleman. His mother had raised him better. He'd been nothing but respectable to all his previous partners and to any lady of the ton he met. 

And being a gentleman meant he knew marriage was not an option when it came to Sophie, no matter how much his heart screamed at him to ignore society. To just flee to Scotland with her. 

Maybe he should. It would make everything easier. 

But, somehow, even though he knew he was not some cad, that his gender granted him only respect from his peers when they learned of his sexual exploits, being compared to that of a high-class cyprian or some light-skirted doxy was a comparison he found himself not entirely comfortable with. 

Especially when it was coming from Sophie. 

She was still glaring at him, her small chest expanding and contracting with each hasty breath she took. Her nostrils flaring. She was furious; her round cheeks had gone pink from rage, her eyes rimmed red, and why wouldn't she be upset. Intentional or not, he'd embarrassed her. 

He knew Tessa's remarks were not said in judgment but in a friendly jest, mocking him more than Sophie if he was honest, but Sophie, a young woman whose own birth had been the result of premarital affairs and who he knew, from his own teasings, was not comfortable with conversations of sex, had seen it as degrading. An insult. 

He'd stood there like an idiot while Tessa implied Sophie was his latest lover.

He sighed. He was a fool. A giant damn fool. "Sophie, I'm sorry–"

"I don't want to hear your apologies," she snapped. "I've heard enough." 

"Sophie, I don't think of you like that," Benedict told her. "You're far more important to me than some little fling. That’s all it was for Tessa too." 

“You asked me to be your mistress?” she retorted, furiously.

“You said it yourself, we cannot be together,” he shot at her, repeating her earlier statement back.

“And yet you continue to try. To try and ruin me just so you can have me all to yourself,” she angrily remarked.

“Sophie, I love you,” he replied quickly.

He’d said before, but even then Sophie hadn’t believed him. Even though he knew she felt the same towards him, she wouldn’t say it back and she wouldn’t believe him when he said it to her. 

And she didn’t this time either. Sophie only scoffed at him as she shook her head. She turned to leave, moving away from him, but Benedict wouldn't let her get away. Reaching out and grabbing her again, he pulled her back. 

"I said let go of me–" Sophie started, fighting against him as he pushed to turn around. 

And then his lips were on hers. 

She should have pushed him away, told him no, and been done with it. He would have let her leave.

But the moment his lips were touching hers, any capability she had at being rational evaporated. 

Because she did love him, she did, and kissing Benedict was like being set alight. Not in the painful, burning way, but the exhilarating, being sent over the edge and back that felt like every one of Sophie's nerves had just ignited, all buzzing with desire and excitement. Even furious with him, her anger only shifted to passion. The tightness below her belly returned as she felt herself get warm. 

Benedict let go of her shoulders to catch her waist again, snaking around her to come and rest on her back. A spin of the feet and Sophie was against the brick wall. His grip on her waist pulled her hips closer to him, his fingers digging into muscle. She tilted her head back, letting him kiss her harder, her hands clutching at his shirt, then his neck, nails scratching lightly over skin before pushing up into his hair, making him groan against her. The smell of citrus and sandalwood filling her nose. 

His hands were pulling at the fabric of her dress, dragging the skirts up her legs until it was brushing at the back of her calves, then going higher, but Sophie was too caught up in the desperate passion she was more focused on pulling him closer to realize what he was getting close to. 

And she couldn't help it. A small moan left her lips when his fingers lightly skimmed over the skin of her thigh, almost tickling. Slipping from her lips like a desperate gasp as she got a moment to breathe. To pull air back into her lungs.

Reality followed close behind.

Her reaction was instant. Like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on her, dosing the fire racing through her veins, Sophie jumped away from Benedict, pushing him back.

"Stop it," she ordered.

"Sophie–" he stepped towards her.

"No, just stop!" she almost screamed at him.

He stopped, hands up in surrender. He looked guilt-ridden. Unsure what to say. A desperate, lonely look in his eyes. 

Good, she thought, he should be. 

"I'm… I'm sorry, Sophie. Just let me at least walk you back to Number 5," he offered sincerely. "Please, Sophie." 

She shook her head, jaw clenched, as she turned away from him.

"I think it's best if I return alone . Good day, Mr. Bridgerton." 

Then she slipped away from him without another word, not bothering to glance back as she left him standing there in the thin alleyway. Alone. Despair and regret lingered in the air.

But the feeling of his lips on hers, the ghost of their kiss, burned the entire walk back.

[ficbrish]

Chapter 5 - Orange & Rose

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[Ao3 link] | [Previous chapter] | [From the beginning]

[[TW/CW: Drugs/opiates, internalized homophobia, gender envy, gambling/debt, masturbation, captivity/Cazador mentions]]

Summary: Mr. Ancunín calls on the baroness to check on her.

[Slightly NSFW directly below the "read more" line.]

Mr. Ancunín was not a cheap man, but he frowned, having spent himself over the baroness for the umpteenth time that week. He stared at the mess sticking between his fingers, then wiped himself clean with an already encrusted silk cloth.

Groaning disdainfully, he threw it into the fire—He just could not get her out of his head!

That sigh of hers from when he’d pulled down her drawers and the night air hit her skin, rang in his ears like a tune he couldn’t be rid of. It gently raised the gooseflesh across his arms, and not so gently raised other parts of him.

No other lover… He could actually feel her on his skin with every creeping memory. It was maddening!

And it was exquisite.

He shook his head to clear it. Damnable thoughts…

The fire in the hearth was the room’s only sound. A threatening letter sat on the arm of the chair beside it, glowing with the blush of the hells. Which one would he belong to after his death? he wondered.

Like most men of good breeding, Mr. Ancunín was a gambler. And not a very good one at that, as evidenced by the letter looming over in the corner of his gaze. It mocked him; mocked the fact that he still couldn’t bring himself to burn it.

Sighing, he dragged his mind onto other thoughts and wondered if the baroness was all right. She was out cold when he and Jenevelle left Harper House that late evening. That bloody housekeeper of hers shrieked like a dying goose all during their arrival, and still, Lady Harper didn’t stir from her slumber.

If he hadn’t watched her eyes flicker under their lids in the carriage, Astarion would’ve been more concerned. He even snuck a few glances at her pulse, slipping a finger under her glove to press on the crest of her palm. It beat steadily throughout their journey—Besides, there’s no way his cousin would purposefully poison her dear friend! It was just a bit of medicine that worked too well.

While his acquaintance with Lady Harper was quite recent, he figured three separate encounters were enough for him to gather whether she looked peaceful or not. He found himself rather taken by the expression on her face as she slept across his lap in the gently rolling carriage. Astarion hadn’t meant for her to fall that way, but he’d carried her in and stumbled as he tried to position her, leaving him trapped under her dead weight. It was too much of a bother to move, and the slumbering Lady Harper wouldn’t let go.

Her face was so different than he was used to seeing it. The muscles in her cheeks were usually held together like rope, pulled so taut, it trembled. Jenny’s medicine seemed to have melted them. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the dabbled sunlight that landed on her profile from the windows. It made her skin glisten like some precious jewel.

Little conversation passed between him and Lady Hallowleaf. All it took was one, “What is with you?” on their way to Harper House to essentially silence Astarion for the rest of their journey.

He shouldn’t have noticed the lack of Lady Harper’s warmth across his lap on their way back so acutely.

What was with him?

The horrible letter had arrived while they were out, and was presented to Mr. Ancunín upon their return.

“Who gave you this?!” he’d suddenly unleashed upon the footman, causing Lady Hallowleaf and her father to startle a bit.

“…the post,” the footman warily sputtered in his best effort to respond, “’Twas with the rest of the post, ‘cept it had your name on it.”

He stood there glaring at the servant until he noticed the unease gracing the faces of his relations. Then, to play off the moment as a joke, Mr. Ancunín gave a hearty cackle.

“I jest, my good fellow!” he laughed hollowly, slapping the bewildered footman on the shoulders as heartily as if he were congratulating him on an engagement.

Jenevelle, bless her, either picked up on a hint, or found the whole ordeal rather amusing, for she joined in on his pathetic display.

“You insufferable!—Do not prank us so!” she chided, chuckling sheepishly.

Lord Shadowheart, inspired by the somewhat jovial tone this odd moment had taken, refused to let either of them out of his sight until they were subjected to one of his infamous jokes.

He commanded them to stay, and asked, “How does a dragon plan their day?”

They looked at each other and sighed, “How?”

To which the viscount answered, grinning widely, “They don’t! They just wing it!”

Once Mr. Ancunín was finally alone in his chambers, he pulled the burning letter out from his jacket pocket. Its seal was of a thick, red wax imprinted with the stamp of the Szarr house.

It took a while for him to open it. He just stared out of a window into the dark. Time passed.

When he eventually gathered the courage, Mr. Ancunín found just one line inside:

Do not forget what is owed to me, boy.

He had to laugh; it was too much to bear otherwise.

Initially, Astarion intended to burn it. What started as a casual impulse, grew heavy in his wrist when he went to flick the parchment into the fire. His hand froze mid-gesture. He then stared at that one line for a long while. Long enough for the elaborate, looping cursive to burn an image behind his eyelids.

The deeper the threat became.

The clearer the insult.

How could he possibly forget what was owed?!—What he’d gambled away over a particularly nasty table of cards?!

Shaken with indignant rage, Astarion tossed the parchment aside, where it landed precariously close to the fireplace. Not wanting to burn the manor down, he was forced to pick it up. Thinking bitterly that even Cazador’s parchment was master of him, he sat it face down on the chair before hopping onto his bed in defeat.

Eager to be rid of the burning in his chest, Astarion tried to force his mind onto other fires.

He found the violet eyes of the baroness glaring at him from across the drawing room. In the shadowed wood, he thought they were brown. At the ball, he’d been too startled to take in any details. It was in the very room directly underneath his quarters, that he first saw her eyes for real, and thought the rich purple in them suited the cool blue of her skin rather well.

The rouge kissing her lips was a blushing shade of her eyes. He couldn’t help but stare and remember how they tasted.

It had been so many years; he’d forgotten what it was like to feel free.

Having found the perfect distraction, Astarion worked at his trouser buttons, and remembered the baroness.

“I’m going out,” she said the next afternoon.

This time her housekeeper gave no objection. After the previous night, she figured Vistri deserved a bit of air.

This time it was someone else who kept her from leaving the estate. In one moment Jaheira was exiting the room, and in the next she was returning, reluctantly announcing, “Ma’am, you have a visitor.”

Mr. Ancunín stepped in after her with such an irritating grin plastered on his face.

“Hello!” he smiled with musical charm, “Just thought I’d step in and check on you—You know, after your little… incident yesterday.”

He couldn’t have put it more repellently. “How thoughtful,” she said dryly.

The housekeeper, standing behind their guest, shot her mistress a warning look over his shoulder, cautioning, Be nice.

Something about seeing Jaheira and Mr. Ancunín stand side by side made a bit of panic start to tingle in her toes. Surely, it would be wise to separate them. Jaheira had an uncanny knack for secrets, like a truffle pig, but instead of truffles, she could root out one’s dark, buried secrets. Why else would her mother have kept the old woman in her service for so long?

Ugh! Mother! She’d almost forgotten that old bitch still existed…

“Are you still unwell?”

Mr. Ancunín’s query snapped her mind back to attention. Jaheira was raising her brow in a rather concerning way. Nothing good ever came from such a wicked arch!

“No, No! I’m quite fine. In fact, I was just about to go out myself.”

“Oh, pray tell, where to?”

To see you.

The harder she searched for a suitable answer, the more apparent was his gloating sense of confidence. Vistri could tell that her expression had been read to absolute filth, and his own said he was loving what he saw. His obvious enjoyment made her face grow terribly hot.

“Take a wild guess,” she answered flatly, “I have but one connection in this whole dreadful pocket of country worth visiting. Besides, I must absolutely give Lady Hallowleaf my apologies for giving such a dreadful performance at tea yesterday.”

He raised his brow, “Did you perform?”

“Good gods, sir! It is a euphemism for my feeling unwell,” she scoffed, “Keep up!”

The housekeeper cleared her throat.

“Well, now,” Vistri said with a completely changed tune, “I am being rather rude, and you are my guest. As I was on my way out, I have no tea nor occupation to invite you to.”

Mr. Ancunín could take the hint. She was clearly hoping he’d swiftly excuse himself, but he had an important matter to discuss, and no time left to put it off. So, instead of politely relieving Vistri of the duties of hostess, he acted as though he didn’t catch the meaning underneath her predicament.

“Oh dear,” he teased, “Whatever shall we do?”

Did the gods forget to add anything between your ears when they made you? she wanted to reply. Instead, she responded with an invitation, “Would you like to come sit with me, Mr. Ancunín?”

He bowed his head, “As I walked here, that would be heavenly.”

“You walked here?”

“Is that such a surprise?” he asked, taking a seat, “Do I not have two legs?”

Vistri sat across from him.

At the opposite end.

She glanced nervously over at Jaheira. Vistri was convinced that the longer she observed her with Mr. Ancunín, the more possible it was she’d recognize something untoward had occurred between them. Even if she managed to keep her face straight and her tone unsuspicious, that blasted woman always seemed to know what was in Vistri’s heart before she could speak it.

As if she’d lost all her senses, Vistri was suddenly overcome by an urge, not just to tempt fate, but to recklessly meet it.

She gave a clever reply to his rhetorical question, “I can count two. Unless there are others you are hiding from sight.”

Over from the corner came the sound of Jaheira clearing her throat. Mr. Ancunín’s back was to her, so she didn’t catch the heated, knowing gaze he affixed on her mistress.

“My, my, love,” Vistri called over to her in a shallow show of concern, “Don’t you need to go fetch yourself some water for that gnarly throat of yours?”

Without hesitation, like a dutiful soldier, Jaheira answered, “As you have no lady’s maid, I will be your chaperone.”

Mr. Ancunín snickered.

“My chaperone?!” Vistri scoffed disbelievingly, “Good gods woman! It has been years since I was in need of a chaperone!”

“And now you are in need of one again,” she warned her mistress, “And if I recall, I have served well in the past.”

Vistri stifled her sigh. Such were the consequences of even a little rebellion. No doubt her risqué observation had inspired Jaheira's insistence.

Back when she actually needed a chaperone, Jaheira had served had faithfully in the role. At the time it was appropriate, having been her lady’s maid, but one simply did not employ their housekeeper as chaperone—And widows were certainly under no obligation to be chaperoned! It was almost ridiculous considering that Vistri was on the stale side of youth.

“If I recall, that turned out rather well,” she said obstinately, immediately regretting her bitter words.

What ended up coming about wasn’t the result of any defect in her chaperone.

…That was Mother’s dirty work.

The housekeeper’s blush of shame was as clear to Vistri as a bright sky, even obscured as it was by shadows in the far corner. Vistri wanted to apologize, but the barbs wrapped up in her comment were too intimate to untwist in front of company. Especially Mr. Ancunín’s!

A simple, I’m sorry, would even be too much. So, Vistri just cleared her throat in embarrassment.

Neither knew what to say, but Mr. Ancunín wasn’t trying to rescue them when he asked, “Actually, if I may, I was hoping to speak to the baroness privately. It would only be for a moment.”

The panic in Vistri’s toes now seized up her stomach.

Abandoning her corner, and discarding all etiquette along with it, Jaheira came up to where they were seated and gave them both a good, hard stare.

“Excuse me?” gasped an exasperated Mr. Ancunín.

For some reason, his reaction filled Vistri with rage. Yes, Jaheira was nosy and often forgot her station, but only she was allowed to be so vexed by it!

Jaheira, however, was unphased. Hands on her hips, she looked the man up and down. When his expression of indignation shriveled into something more anxious, she cocked her head and asked, “Do you play, sir?”

Frowning, Mr. Ancunín turned in the direction of her gesture to find a piano.

Vistri was horrified, for the piano was a lady’s instrument. Sure, Mr. Ancunín was a little… flamboyant, but that was no reason to suddenly go around making allusions that might as well be slurs!

“Do I play?!” he answered a little too vehemently, then paused before admitting, “Well I… Actually, I do play.”

Then, the same person who’d just asked him if he played, expressed doubt at his affirmative answer, as if the very idea were ridiculous, “But you are a gentleman?”

Rolling his eyes, he admitted, “I have sisters. They showed me how, and I happened to form a habit. Now I am in possession of an entertaining talent that I cannot show off at most parties. Isn’t that rather tragic?”

His words struck some sort of chord within Vistri; something she couldn’t quite place. Then she grew rather curious as to what those other parties were like, the ones that weren’t most. Just how were they different?

A lump started to take up space in her throat, and she made an innuendo to clear it, “Not quite so tragic, as I am sure, sir, that you have other means of entertaining.”

Before he had the chance to even face Vistri, Jaheira chimed in with, “And do you play well?”

“Well… I guess that all depends on one’s definition of well.”

“Do you often make mistakes?”

“In life, or on the piano?” he asked amusingly.

Jaheira pressed on, “Occasionally? A few times a song? Never at all?”

“…Occasionally,” he sheepishly admitted, “Perhaps even a few times a song.”

“How many times? Two or three? Or would you say around five to eight?”

Even Vistri was beginning to get fed up.

“Jaheira!” she scolded, “Enough! Would you please leave the poor man alone? Why are you so suddenly concerned with Mr. Ancunín’s musical expertise?”

She huffed, “I am just trying to ascertain at which point a fumbled note could indicate something more than a lack of practice.”

“Jaheira!” Vistri blushed.

“I will agree to leave you alone if, and only if, I can hear the piano playing the whole time.”

“Are we but fifteen years old?” Vistri whined uselessly. While Mr. Ancunín scoffed, “And who is to be playing?”

“You, sir. You will play,” she said, “It is your hands I am most worried about.”

Vistri was frozen in place by a silent scream.

The housekeeper refocused her glare onto Mr. Ancunín, and warned, “Rule of three’s, then. You get three mistakes. On the fourth, I come check.”

“Thank you, darling!” Vistri interrupted, able to move again, “That will be all.”

Even though she gave her best, you’re dismissed-eyes, Vistri still had to practically drag her out of the room.

Turning back to Mr. Ancunín to issue one more command, Jaheira called out, “And it cannot be a song that she knows! I’ve heard every practi—”

Slam!

“Hells…” Vistri muttered, leaning against the shut door.

And then they were alone.

The last time they were alone—A clenching sensation in Vistri’s middle split her into two parts. She was finding it quite difficult to still her shallow breathing.

Unable to look in Mr. Ancunín’s direction, she gestured vaguely at the piano across the room and warned him, “If you don’t mind, sir. You have about a minute to start playing until I never hear the end of it later.”

Smirking, he bowed his head, “Fear not, I shall oblige.”

She watched him saunter over with gentlemanly grace, lazy and proud. Then take his place upon the bench in the same way that Vistri was taught how to be a lady. There was something hypnotizing about Mr. Ancunín, with how he could so easily embody both the masculine and feminine, and effortlessly switch between them.

He started to play, and the room filled with a familiar melody.

“No, not that one,” Vistri sighed, “I know how to play that one.”

Never had Mr. Ancunín met a person so overrun by their own staff, “You cannot be serious?”

She nodded, and he continued with another melody. This song was familiar too, but not one she knew how to play. The first was a well-known jig; something airy, cheery, and loud. It must have been a joking echo of his frustration then, that the song he played now was from a popular aria; something lamenting, rather melancholic, and still loud.

“You know, I think you really ought to fire her.”

The aforementioned housekeeper must not have anticipated the way song would swallow words, because Vistri had to get closer for them to speak.

“Beg pardon?”

“I was saying that your housekeeper is rather impertinent,” he repeated.

“A lifetime of companionship has a way of muddling rank.”

“Apparently!”

She couldn’t help her smile, “What was it that you wanted to speak with me about?”

“I can’t exactly shout it,” he scoffed, “Can I?”

Vistri could not have accepted Mr. Ancunín’s invitation to sit beside him if it had come more politely. His presence was overwhelming enough; any kindness or consideration on his part would have been unbearable.

By his side seemed like a very dangerous place to be.

Which made it the perfect place for her to be.

He made room for her, scooting a bit to the side. Vistri swallowed her skipping heart and took her seat. It was then that Mr. Ancunín first fumbled his notes.

Just like at the ball, when he’d made the mistake of dancing, she was too near. Her scent was maddening, like a midsummer night’s garden. More than her scent, it was her proximity that made it hard for him to think. This close, her spirit seemed to seep through her pores and into his. It brought rushes of memory that danced over his skin.

“I thought you said you played rather well,” she teased.

Mr. Ancunín was grateful for it, “I also insisted that all depends on one’s standards.”

Vistri snickered, “You’re mad! So, then by your own accounts, that means… That means you’re held high at low standards, and low at high ones?”

He nodded, “Something like that.”

She chuckled. It was the first time he ever saw her really laugh. Not a practiced gesture or a grimace, or a howl at his expense, but a true laugh. He knew the way it sang from their time in the woods, but bent over, her back was to him. He’d only ever heard it, never seen it.

Oranges! That’s what it was! Oranges and honeysuckle that made up a sweetness so vibrant that being near her was like eating cake. It’d been driving him crazy, the way he couldn’t quite identify her scent. Now he knew; oranges and honeysuckle.

But it was softened by something else…

Rose. Probably rosewater.

His current note tripped awkwardly over the next ones.

“Oh, dear,” Vistri teased, “Two already. And you haven’t even yet reached your point. So far, all you’ve managed to reveal in private is your low opinion of yourself.”

“That’s interesting,” he smirked.

“What’s interesting?” she tried to keep her tone casual, despite dying a little at the implication he might apply the same terms to her.

But his mind was headed in a much more dreadful direction.

Mischievously, he stated, “Just that if you think I have a low opinion of myself, you must disagree with my assessment. If you had either low standards, and thought of me highly, or high ones, and harbored a low opinion, then you would have seen my statement as rather sensible.”

She had to stop him there, “But disagreeing doesn’t necessarily mean something complimentary! In fact, it could be quite the opposite! Sure, if I was someone with high standards and a high opinion, then that would make you quite exceptional. However, were I a person with low standards who thought lowly of you…”

“Yes, but you admitted it earlier. From your perspective, I have a low opinion of myself, and if you think that, then—”

Vistri slammed her palm into the keys, mashing the melody together.

“What in the devil?”

“Aw, poor dear. Looks like you’ve only got one more,” she pouted, “Might as well get on with what you have to say.”

The nerve of her! He’d been so hoping to find a kind soul, but hers was apparently just as black with rot as his. If anything, that would explain their meeting in the trees…

A grin appeared on his face. He should really thank the baroness for making what he had to do next a lot easier.

It’s not as if Mr. Ancunín enjoyed the prospect of essentially blackmailing such a fine, and obviously fucked up, specimen! He was in a bind, and he had to do it.

Those looping ink marks still burned behind his eyelids. He could not forget what he owed.

[next chapter]

[forgottenroisin]

“Tell me a secret.” (Cassandra x Rose)

The day was sunny and warm in the meadow, surrounded by a broad field of tall billowing grasses and wild poppies that waved merrily in the breeze.

The sound of Cassandra's question was not particularly astonishing to Rose -- such things were said between them often enough, and in that moment they'd made a game of it, taking turns with little harmless demands for truth and tales -- but stretching out her legs on the quilt upon which they'd sat (bedecked with a generous tea service -- that Rose with Eithne's help had lugged out here before the princess's arrival -- and a mountain of scones and tea sandwiches and other such delights for the girls to enjoy), Rose closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. Nothing in particular came to mind. "What would you like to hear?" she asked, at last, opening one eye and glancing towards her friend who was lounged beside her, lying flat on her back to gaze up at the wide blue sky.

"Something...exciting. Shocking."

"Lord Ormond is a servant," blurted Rose.

"What?!"

Giggling, then, Rose lay back as well and turned her gaze towards her friend who was now looking directly at her. She wiggled her brows and then, shook her head. "What I mean is...and its not precisely a secret, but it is little known. About," she shrugged, waved a hand. "Eight hundred years ago--"

"So recent history," teased Cassandra, propping herself up on one elbrow to look at Rose.

"--Lord Ormond's ancestor was ennobled. The legend goes that the first Lord Ormond had been nothing but a servant, you know, with hardly a penny to his name. One morning, the King of Astaira, unbeknownst to the poor servant, had gone on a hunt and become separated from his group and grievously wounded while pursuing a boar. The unwitting servant stumbled upon a man in the middle of the forest, bleeding profusely and, though he had precious little to spare, the servant took the king back to his humble hut and he nursed him back to health."

"This sounds like a fairy tale."

"It might be. Now shhh, do you want to hear the story or not?"

"I think I know where its going. But go on."

"Now the king was a very young man, inexperienced with the world. He was clever and capable, but he was arrogant and conceited, as well, and he gave scarcely a thought to the condition of his people save those he saw on a daily basis who were all, of course, nobles and quite wealthy.

"At first, the king was in no condition to tell the servant who he was but, as he saw where the servant lived and how, the king became too ashamed to tell him once he was able, knowing that the servant was sacrificing so much to help him, where the king had never done the same for the servant and those like him, though it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to do.

"While the servant tended to the king, the two became close and the king, as he improved, began to try to take on some of the servant's labors to help his friend. The king began to realize that he might prefer this life: he had never wished to be king and it was a sweet reprieve, and he began to contemplate never telling anyone at all. Soon, however, he was recognized by the people the servant worked for, and the crown having been held so long by his wicked uncle unbeknownst to the king, there was much upcry in the house. The nobles for whom the servant worked realized that they'd been presented with quite an opportunity. Particularly because they knew something else that the king did not know: his accident had been, indeed, no accident at all. His wicked uncle had attempted to arrange his death."

"How horrible!"

Rose nodded. "Despite having become dear friends, when the nobles revealed the king's identity in front of the servant, the king and servant had a vicious falling out given the king's lie.

"After the servant had retired to the kitchens and the king had stormed out into the night for a long walk to clear his head, the noble family gathered around the fire, debating what to do in light of what they knew. It seemed the king had little wish to return to his throne and was, therefore, unlikely to look kindly upon their recognition of him, and certainly would not look favorably upon his brother's actions in his absence -- actions which had directly benefitted the wealthy while further persecuting those less well off. While they were discussing this, the servant quietly came up from the kitchens to continue his work and overheard their deicion: they would secretly turn in the king to his uncle who would quietly have him killed off.

"Rushing out into the woods to warn the king, the servant told him what he had heard but the king would not believe him, given the argument they'd just had, and his own belief that his people were good at their core they ad simply -- like him -- been blinded by their own lifestyles. His uncle could never do such a thing! 'Your Majesty,' said the servant at last. 'It is not I who have deceived you. I have never lied to you, and I don't mean to start doing it now, even if it does mean you will speak civilly to me again.' But, still, the king would not listen.

"That morning, the son of the noble family rode out to court and, in the afternoon, came a black-hooded assassin whom the king only avoided due to the servan'ts quick thinking. Lost in the woods together, and evading the blackguard who looked to take the king's life life, the king and the servant reconciled and realized it was up to the two of them to save the country, so they devised a ruse.

"In the end, they switched places. The servant drew the assassin away, and the king -- who now knew something of the life and ways of servants -- slipped into the castle undetected in the guise of the servant, so that he could sneak in and reveal his return before the entire court, knowing that many truly were still loyal to him and, once the truth was known to all, the uncle would be forced to relinquish his stolen crown. And so it was."

"But what happened to the servant?"

"Well," began Rose, rolling onto her side to face the princess, and propping her head on one hand. "They had planned for him to come to the palace after the king was safely reinstated, but a night and a day passed and he did not come, so the king organized a search and, in the end, the king found his friend bleeding in the woods, just as he himself had been found. With all honors, the king had him escorted in comfort to the palace where the king, himself, tended his wounds with the aid of his best physicians.

"In the end, the king punished the wicked uncle and nobles, and he turned all the goods and possessions and titles of the family for whom the servant had once worked to the faithful servant, and overturned the wicked laws his uncle had passed, while also making improvements on his own shortsighted ones for the good of all. He did, however, make a request of his old friend, the former servant, now Lord Ormond."

"What was that?"

"That he stay on and advise him, and that while he did it, he always, always speak the absolute truth to the king, no matter how little the king wished to hear it. Its the reason for the Ormond's family motto: 'Truth Prevails.'"

Cassandra lay back once again, blue eyes turning towards heaven as, for a moment, the girls fell silent. "That wasn't a secret."

Rose giggled. "No, it wasn't, but I don't have any secrets," she lied to the sky. "And it's your turn, anyway. Tell me a secret. Or a fairy tale. You choose."

[blue-sophia]

Winx Club: Season 1 Rewrite (Snippet)

So as I've said before, I'm working on a rewrite of the Winx Club series and as I'm writing, I thought it'd be fun to share an extract of chapter 1:

“I can’t believe we’re letting him go back to that school.”

Standing beside her, on the threshold of Eraklyon’s royal palace, King Erendor sighed as his wife repeated the same accusation she had been firing at him for weeks. “He has many enemies, Samara, and will grow up to have even more. Sending him to Red Fountain is the best thing we can do to prepare him.”

Samara didn’t bother addressing her husband, her eyes fixed on the ship that was currently being prepared for takeoff in the direction of Magix’s capital city. Palace servants were loading suitcases and bags into the cargo compartment of the ship, while the pilot and guards were discussing the route most likely to let them go undetected. “His enemies are exactly the reason we should keep him here,” She said. “Sky is the future King of Eraklyon, he should be learning how to rule a kingdom, not how to swing a sword or shoot an arrow.” 

“You think our army will take commands from a king who hasn’t known a day of battle?” As the Magic Dimension’s Realm of the Warrior, Eraklyon was well known for its strong military force. Other planets and kingdoms would trade their own products and services for Eraklyan knights to fight their battles. So for Sky to command such a strong and proud army and its generals, it was vital he earned their respect as a swordsman first. “Those men aren’t the type to listen to spoiled brats.” 

“Then have master Lowine teach him.” 

“He has been,” Erendor said. “But having one swordmaster train you is not nearly the same as getting Red Fountain’s level of military education. Besides, royals and lords all over the magic dimension are sending their sons to Red Fountain, not to mention the high-born girls at Alfea. Sky should get to know them; form alliances and gather information for when he needs it.”

“And just how is he supposed to do that when everybody takes him for that Allard boy?” Samara rebutted, her attention now having shifted to the brunette standing beside her son. “Those other kids don’t even know who ‘Sky’ really is.”

“That’s a temporary safety measurement. Once Yoshinoiya’s threats settle down we will rectify that situation.” Erenor said, his eyes too having been redirected to the young squire. “Besides, it’s not a bad thing for Sky to be friends with someone from the Southern Isles.”

“I don’t trust that boy. He’s corrupting Sky’s brain with that southern liberalism. You know his father, he’s-”

“The south’s strongest military leader, one we should keep on our side.” Erendor interjected. “And if we do that by sending Brandon to Red Fountain with Sky, then he is letting us off easy,” he said. “Christian is many things, but he’s not a traitor.”

“Well let’s hope the same thing can be said about his children then. His oldest just recently got betrothed to Lord Khai’s daughter. Quite the match I’ve heard.” Samara said, clearly unimpressed by the marriage between the two southern families. “Speaking of engagements, I was just informed that Lady Disapro will be joining us for dinner tonight?” 

Erendor wasn’t unaware of the sneer laced with the queen’s polished vocabulary. “Sky is leaving a day sooner than planned, but that doesn’t mean we should deny Diaspro a meal with her future in-laws.” He said. “Her parents will not be joining us, however, but the girl is very well informed of House Grandare’s politics.” 

“Oh I have no doubts about the girl’s devotion to her father’s lordship. I simply wonder whether we have found the best suitor Sky could be taking to marriage.” Samara said, revisiting the topic of her son’s potential fiancée once more. “Doesn’t Princess Stella of Solaria go to Alfea? I thought Sky was quite fond of her?” 

“He is, but she’s Solaria’s crowned princess, their only one at that, she’d never leave Solaria for another kingdom.” Erendor shook his head. “Besides, Radius denies anybody’s request for his daughter's hand. His pending divorce from Luna has him all sentimental about the princess’s future marriage, which he will not be arranging under any circumstances.”

Samara scoffed. “I’ve always told him that he’s way too lenient with that girl.” she said, making a mental note to have her staff reach out to the King of Solaria. “I will be attending dinner tonight, but not before reevaluating our options. I do think that an international coupling is within our best interest.” 

“Whatever you wish, darling.” The sarcasm was nearly dripping off his words. “But we will want to think about the consequences of cutting off this agreement at this stage, Lord Grandare won’t take kindly to a disruption of his plans to get his daughter married to Sky.”

“His plans to get his daughter on the throne, you mean.” Samara rolled her eyes. Lord Grandare was a good ally of the royal family, but the queen wasn’t unaware of his motives to get his daughter married off to the prince as soon as possible. Diaspro was a nice girl, pretty too, so Sky shouldn’t have too much to complain about, but Samara wasn’t too keen on the idea of the Grandares taking over the palace at her expense. “I will see what we can do about him, should this marriage be the best option available.” 

Erendor stayed silent for a moment, watching his son get ready to board and giving him a silent nod when the prince looked up at him expectantly. In the corner of his eye, he could see his wife offering her son a static wave. “Seems like they’ll be taking off soon.” He said, readjusting his cape and making his way down the steps of the palace. 

“I’ll arrange travel plans to Solaria and Lynphea for the next week. I don’t think a suitor for princess Krystal has been named yet.” Turning on one heel, Samara signalled for her handmaiden to fetch her phone. “I will have Gaston prepare duck for tonight’s dinner, don’t you think? Diaspro’s from the North, so I think she could appreciate-” 

“Samara.” 

Inhaling sharply at the interruption, Samara slowly turned her head to look at her husband. “Yes?” 

Erendor sighed as he let his eyes slide back and forth between his wife and his son. “They’re about to leave for an entire school year.” He tried to hint. However, Samara merely raised an eyebrow at him, silently asking him for further elaboration. “Don’t you think we should say goodbye?

A moment of silence fell between the two of them as Samara followed his gaze. “I have more pressing matters to attend to than sentiment,” She then stated, her eyes momentarily locking with those of her son, before stoically averting them. “Like preparing to tell Diaspro she won’t be seeing her fiancé for a year.”

That's it! Please let me know what you think!

[sunfyresrider]

Romeo & Juliet AU

Part 1

Synopsis: Two households, Targaryen and Velaryon, both alike in dignity in Westeros, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes. A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life; Whose piteous misadventures buries their parents' strife. 

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader warnings: kissingg and mutual simping word count: 6k + note: I used a mix of Westeroi, modern English, and Shakespearean language so I hope it's still an ok read. I never realized how fast paced it was until I read the screenplay and scripts, so this is a shorter series than others.

ACT I

It was excruciatingly hot, even at eight o’clock. King’s Landing was coming to life: people poured out of the houses and filled the streets while market traders set up their stalls in the grand piazza. It was an excellent place for business of those who lived and worked in the rich houses that lined King’s Landing’s main square. The Targaryen mansion was by far the largest – filled with servants and king’s guard, always buzzing with activity. 

Lately, Jacaerys had been faithfully ignoring his dear brother due to a recent heartache. Lucerys had carefully planned out today how he was going to catch him off guard and bless him with good tidings. Lucerys strolled slowly behind his brother and down the street. “Hi.” he spoke as he got near to Jacaerys, his tiding was ignored. 

Lucerys ran in front of Jace and bent his head to catch his brother’s eye. “Good morrow.” Jacaerys pretended not to see him. Lucerys wrapped an arm around his elder brother so he could ignore him no longer. “Good morrow,” Lucerys sang. 

Jacaerys sighed a long, mournful sigh. “Is the day so young?” Lucerys walked in unison with him carefully studying his face. “Only just past eight.” He sighed again, “how slow time goes when you’re depressed.” Luke raised a brow, “What sadness plagues you that makes time drag so?” Jace rolled his eyes, “not having what I need to make it go fast.” Luke gasped, “not in love…!” His brother stopped walking, “no, out… Out of the favor of the girl I love.”

“Oh my,” Lucerys whispered, attempting not to giggle. “It’s a hard life. Love, tis’ such a gentle thing, yet so rough when it comes down to it.” Luke did not know much of love, but he knew this was just another crush that failed to come to fruition. His elder brother was quite talented at being overly dramatic. “Tis’ true,” muttered Jacaerys. 

The youngest brother was struggling to hold his composure as he listened to his brother's woes. Jacaerys shook his head sadly. “The world is filled with hate… I’m thinking only about love. Oh, everything feels upside down.” Jacaerys ears perked up when he heard a hushed giggle behind him. He whipped his head around and looked sharply at Lucerys. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Would I do that, dear brother o’ mine,” jested Lucerys. “You make me want to cry.” The elder brother grew tense, “Why?” Luke patted his back, “because you’re so pathetic it’s saddening.” Jace scoffed, “It’s love that makes me pathetic, but don’t give it another thought.” His eyelids slowly began to brim with tears. “If you start feeling sorry for me it’ll only make things worse… So go home.”

“Be serious right now. Tell me who has caused such despair.” Jacaerys pouted like a child, “I won’t dare speak her name… but she is a girl.” Lucerys made his best attempt to not tease “Oh. well done,” remarked Lucerys. “I assumed that when you said you were in love.” His elder brother smiled to himself reminiscing on his memory of her, “Her name is Baela and she’s beautiful.” That she was her skin glistened with the oil she used to soften it. Her dark eyes glistened brighter than any star and her lips were plush and red like the most beautiful rose. Luke was growing bored and mildly annoyed. “Good for you.”

Jacaerys plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “She’s not interested in boys says she never will be. When our eyes meet, she looks the other way…. I’ve even offered her coin, Lucerys, coins!” The younger brother sighed, “Well. She’s determined not to have a man.”

“Oh Gods,” Jacaerys groaned. “She’s so beautiful, Lucerys. And she’ll go through life alone and when she dies all beauty will die with her. She says she’ll never love anyone, so I’m destined for a living death.” Luke could bear no more of the self-pity, he grasped Jacaerys’s wrist. “If you trust me, I can tell you how to forget her.”

“Impossible… Tell me how.’ Jacaerys stopped crying and lifted his eyebrows. His eyes were as bright as the sun gleaming above them.  “Easy task,” exclaimed Lucerys. “Get out and about. Look at other girls.” Jace’s joy melted away and he nearly let out a sob, “It’s no use… Whenever I see a girl from now on, I’ll only think of one who is even more beautiful.” Luke chuckled to himself, “I’m taking that as a challenge, I’ll sort it out, don’t you worry big boy.”

-

It was high past noon when little Luke returned with a grand plan to free his brother from wallowing in sorrow. After a deal was made with their less than adequate cousin a plan had been hatched. He rushed through the humming streets and slammed the door open to their lush apartments. “Aha!’ shouted Lucerys announcing his arrival. “We have just gotten invited to the most lavish party, dear brother. We have finally made our way into a Targaryen affair!” 

Jacaerys leapt from his seat and rushed over to where his young brother stood. “Who shall be in attendance?” Luke waved his ticket proudly, “Your dear Baela, among some of the finest girls in King’s Landing. Let us go to Targaryen’s party, Jacaerys.” He shoved the ticket into his brother's hand. “I’ll show you that the girl you think is a swan is nothing more than a crow.”

“A girl more beautiful than Baela?” His eyes widened before they dulled once more, “never. The sun’s never seen a more beautiful woman since the world began.” Luke wanted to vomit, he had heard enough of this, “Rubbish! Every time you’ve seen her she’s been on her own. You need to make comparisons and I bet there’ll be hundreds of girls who’ll put Baela in the shade.” Jacaerys thought to himself for a long while, clearly he believed his brother but refused to admit it. “Alright, I’ll go,” spoke Jacaerys. “But not because I think you can show me anyone better. I’m going only so that I can see her.”

-

Lady Targaryen came into the sitting room where her daughter’s nurse was sewing a pattern onto a handkerchief. She gazed around the room before speaking. “Where’s that child o’ mine? I wish to speak to her.” The nurse stood from her place on the settee, “Ladybird!” she called. “My little lamb! Where are you child? Y/N!”

“Coming,” a soft voice called, and you came running in from the adjoining room. The surprise on her face was evident when she saw her mother. Lady Targaryen was so busy as of late she rarely had time to visit you. “Mother! What do you want?”

“We need to discuss a private matter,’ spoke Lady Targaryen. It was a private demand for the nurse to leave. Thus, the nurse got up reluctantly, but before she reached the door, Lady Targaryen called her back. “You might as well stay,” she sighed. “Your advice would be helpful.” Lady Targaryen cleared her throat. “Y/N’s getting to the age when…” She frowned, searching for the right word. “Let’s just say she’s at a pretty age. She’s going to be fourteen in two weeks.”

“Oh yes,” exclaimed your Nurse. “On Maiden’s Day she’ll be fourteen. She was the same age as my Susan when she died, God rest her soul. Anyway, on Maiden’s Day she’ll be fourteen. I remember it so well: it’s eleven years since the earthquake…” She took no notice of the impatient tapping of Lady Targaryen’s fingers on the table, nor the glances you were giving her to cease her gabbering. “And you stop dead now too, please, Nurse,” you pleaded.

“I swear I have finished.” The Nurse bowed her head. She tenderly gazed upon your face before opening her trap once more. “But I must say it. You were the most beautiful baby I ever nursed. If I could live to see you married, I’d die peacefully.” Your mother, Lady Rhaenyra Targaryen grinned, “Married… That’s just what I’ve come to talk about!” She clapped her hands together and motioned for you to sit on her lap and so you did. Though she now shifted under your weight unlike when you were young. “Little lamb, what do you think about getting married?’

“I’ve never even thought about it,’ you sighed. You knew where this conversation was headed. “Well give it a thought now, girls younger than you are already mothers. As a matter of fact, I was your mother when I was much the age you are now… The Count of Casterly Rock wishes to marry you.”

The Nurse clapped her hands together. “Now there’s a man, the perfect man.” Rhaenyra smiled, “The best in King’s Landing.” Your nurse’s voice reeked of excitement, “without doubt.” Your mother ran a finger through your hair.  “Well? Do you think you could love him?’ You had no clue to say. It was too unexpected and far too soon. The idea of marriage, especially to an older man did not suit your fancy. You had heard nothing but bad things about the Lannisters. They were greedy and too ambitious to trust. “You’ll see him at the party, take a good look at him. He has sound prospects and many riches.” 

You felt all the joy you once had for this evening being slowly drained away with every word she spoke. Riches and prospects… you did not care much for those either. “Come on, what do you think? Do you like the idea?” You knew a simple no would not suffice. You spoke carefully, “I shall look at him but I’m not going to rush or do anything that I haven’t thought about.”

A knock at the door caught both of your attention. One of your father’s servants came in, “Madam, the guests are starting to arrive. My master wants you.” Lady Targaryen stood up and brushed off her skirts. “I have to go, come on Y/N, the Count’s waiting.” You glanced back at your nurse praying for aid, “Go and meet your love.” The nurse was no help after all, traitor. 

-

Jacaerys was impatiently tapping his foot. “Are we going to make some excuse for coming? Or shall we just go in and see what happens?” The three boys stood in the piazza, watching the huge front door of Targaryen’s mansion open. Aegon, the one with the invitation, and Jacaerys’s best friend, sat on the ground. He was making it clear that he was the only one to have been invited and the other two were stowaways. The reason for his invitation was that he was a Targaryen too.

Lucerys was the first to stand up and speak. “Speeches are out. No-one makes speeches when they arrive anymore. We’ll just go in and pretend we belong. Tough luck if they don’t like us.” Jace nodded, there was no need to draw attention to themselves. He sighed, “Give me the torch, Aegon. I’ll carry it: I’m not going to dance.” Aegon rolled his eyes, “seven hells… No, you're dancing. That’s the entire point.”

Jacaerys sat down beside his friend and relinquished his hold of the torch. “Come on kid, lovers are always in the mood for dancing.” He wrapped his arm around Jace’s shoulder. “Not me. It’s because of love that I’m not in the mood.” Aegon laughed, he did not have the same restraint as Luke. “What a fuss about nothing.”  Lucerys hid his face as he chuckled. “So now you laugh at me?” He was offended to say the least. Of course, a scoundrel like Aegon could never understand love. He was too in love with himself to feel the agony Jace did. “You don’t know what it’s like until you’ve felt it. It hurts like hell.”

Aegon groaned, “It'll stop hurting once you’re inside. Hand me a mask, Aemond.” The other three boys gathered around him. “Now as soon as we’re in let’s all get down to some serious business.” Lucerys declared in the most serious voice he could manage. Jacaerys was reluctant, “I know we mean no harm and all, but I don’t think it’s very bright to go to this party.”

Aegon furrowed his brows in confusion. “Why?” The eldest boy sighed once again, “I had a dream last night.” His ears were filled with a symphony of groans from his friends. 

“If we don’t get a move on, all the food will be gone by the time we get there.” Aemond spoke quickly as he bounced on his feet. Jacaerys glanced at the door and realized there was a hoard of people going through the doors. “I have a strong premonition that something’s going to happen tonight. I feel it’s going to end in my having to repay a debt with my life.”

“Pray tell, when did you become a dragon dreamer?” Aemond raised his brows at him. The boys glanced at each other once last time and threw their heads up in laughter. Fools, Jacaerys realized he was surrounded by jesters. He shrugged, “Alright then, off we go.”

-

The servants were running rampant trying to clean up after the dinner and prepare for the dancing. A few bumped in Jacaerys’s shoulder causing him to become more annoyed at being here. There was no joy to be found here unless it was with Baela. 

They stood off to the side as Lord Targaryen walked upon a raised floor and waved to the crowd.  “Welcome, gentlemen. Once there was a time when I could wear a mask and charm a girl by whispering a story in her ear. No more, no more, no more. If you aren’t old like me, all the ladies who aren’t suffering from corns on their feet will dance with you. Ha ha! My ladies, now which of you will refuse to dance now? If any of you acts shyly, I’ll swear she has corns. Come, musicians, play. Make room in the hall! Make room! Dance, girls.” Jacaerys realized again at that moment his family’s greatest foe was a fool. 

You didn’t arrive early, nor did you arrive right on time. Lady Targaryen decided to arrive late to make an entrance and that you did. For a second all eyes were on you and the more than revealing evening gown you were forced to wear, twas not to your liking. Your father, Lord Daemon Targaryen had already begun making a spectacle of himself atop the hall.

Your nerves ached as you stared at the crowd in front of you. Instead of listening to your mother speak about how you need to charm your way into the Lannister’s heart you slipped away into the crowd. The guests took kindly to you and gladly swung you around as they danced. If you ever were filled with sorrow, dancing was sure to ease that pain. 

Jacaerys noticed you too late, you were already dancing with other people. He had never laid eyes upon such a beautiful maiden in his entire life. Thus, his agony from earlier melted away and soon became long forgotten. He leaned over to Aegon, “Who is that girl on the arm of that man over there?” 

“I do not know. Perhaps a cousin o’ mine by the hue of her hair.” Jace’s heart raced as you glanced over to him before quickly being spun the other way. “She teaches the torches to burn bright! Her beauty is too precious for this world like a white dove in a flock of crows, she surpasses all the other women. When this dance ends, I’ll note where she stands, and then I’ll touch her hand and bless my ugly one. Did I ever love anyone before this moment? Renounce that love, my eyes! I never saw true beauty until this night.” Aegon looked at his friend and began laughing to himself. “By the Gods, you are pathetic.” 

You finished your dance quickly and bid the lord good night. The room was quickly becoming suffocatingly cramped so you moved to a pillar by the back wall. You watched the crowd sway in a trance-like state until you heard a voice from behind. The masked boy gently took your hand in his, “If I offend you by touching your holy hand with my own unworthy one, like two blushing smallfolk, then my lips stand ready to smooth my rough touch with a gentle kiss.” 

Even though he wore a mask you could see his handsome features underneath. You couldn’t help but blush, “you are unfair to your hand. Your hand shows proper devotion by touching mine, just as smallfolks reach out to touch the hands of septas. Holding palm to palm is like a smallfolk’s kiss.” Jacaerys squeezed your hand, “Don’t septas have lips? And smallfolk, too?” 

Quickly your cheeks became heated... was he flirting with you? Your face blessed his eyes with a smile, “Yes, smallfolk lips they’re supposed to use to pray.” His eyes were soft, and his smile warms your heart. “Oh septa, let lips do what hands do: pray. Grant my prayer or my faith will turn to despair.” Your heart beats with excitement, “Septas don’t move, though they do grant prayers.” He leaned in slowly and his voice turned into a hushed whisper, “then remain still while I pray.” 

Your lips touched in the gentlest embrace. You weren’t sure what had driven you to behave like this, but something drove you to him. Mayhaps it was the poetry he used to lure you in that drove you to madness. “Thus, your lips have cleaned the sin from mine.” 

You gazed at his charming smile, “Tis’ my lips that have the sin they took from yours.” He pulled your hand to his chest and studied your features, “Sin from my lips? How you goad me on to another crime. Give me back my sin.” It was impossible to resist the taste of affection he granted you. You leaned into his lips, “You kiss as if you’ve studied how.” 

Your lips touched once more, this time you basked in their subtle warmth and tender flesh. You tasted sweet, like strawberries freshly picked from the garden. There was never a more perfect being than you, Jacaerys thought. 

“Y/N, your mother needs to speak with you.” Your nurse’s voice immediately caused you to pull away. Jacaerys watched you walk away, and curiosity took over his newly healed heart, “What is that girl’s name, nurse?” 

“Y/N Targaryen, daughter of the good lady Rhaenyra Targaryen.” Jacaerys stood frozen at her words. What a price I’ve paid, I’ve fallen for the enemy, he thought. Love must be a monster to make him love his worst enemy. 

-

Jacaerys couldn’t stand to leave the Targaryen property until he laid eyes upon you one last time. His heart had been trapped here — nowhere else. Besides, he knew what would happen on the way home. His friends would jest at his expense, and he could frankly live without that. They would go on about Baela. Baela? Who was Baela again?

“Jacaerys! Hey Jacaerys!” The boys walked faster than he thought. He hopped behind a stone wall as they quickly approached where he was hiding. “Brother! Where art thou hiding?” Aegon began drunkenly shouting, “Ja-cae-rys! Ja-Ja-Ja-cae-rys!”

In a quick attempt to escape he climbed atop the wall and laid flat as they walked below him. Aemond, the tall lad, nearly saw him. “He’s run off home to avoid us,” Jace listened intently to Luke’s voice. “He’ll be in bed by now.” Aemond turned in in a circle and stood on his toes trying to peer over the wall. “No, I swear I just saw him a moment ago. I’ll bet he climbed over this orchard wall.”

“He’s vanished like a ghost… Let’s see if I can conjure him up.” Jacaerys lay, trying not to make a peep, listening to their drunken giggling. They huddled in a circle until Aegon emerged and began proudly shouting. “I conjure thee, Jacaerys Velaryon, in the name of Baela’s bright eyes!” Aegon spoke in the formal tone of a priest. “By her plush lips. And her round bum.”

Lucerys and Aemond burst out into a fit of giggles. “And quivering thighs! And everything else in that region!” Aegon held a hand in the air, “appear to us! Appear to us in the likeness of… of… yourself!” Lucerys slapped a hand over his mouth, “If he hears you, he’ll be furious.”

“Raising him in the name of his beloved would make him furious? That sounds fair to me,” Aegon placed his hands on his hips. “Let us waste no more time,” spoke Aemond when he had stopped laughing. “Since love is blind, leave him in the dark.” Aegon sighed, “oh well. Goodnight to Jacaerys” Lucerys raised his hands in defeat. “I’m going to bed. You’ll never find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

-

He was stuck atop the wall he climbed onto. The moon illuminated the dark part of the world he was trapped in. On one side was the orchard and the overwhelmingly large Targaryen mansion. On the other was the alley his friends escaped through. He stared at the mansion and began wondering to himself. You were in there. What were you doing? Were you thinking about him? Have your thoughts been consumed by him as his thoughts had been consumed by you. 

A single window lit up and it reminded him so much of the sun. You were his sun and so much more beautiful than the moon. A goddess of the morning, you were. The gods granted his prayers as you opened the doors to your balcony and walked out. It’s my love, he whispered to himself. 

Jacaerys wished you could see him sitting there, mayhaps it would be less creepy. You were talking but he couldn’t hear it. Surely, it wasn’t about him. As he stared at you his head was whirling with thoughts. How could someone be so beautiful, like two of the most radiant stars left the sky and told you to take their place. Your eyes shined so brightly in the heavens that you would believe it was daytime. 

He watched you place your hand on your cheek and nearly fainted. Oh, how he wished to be a glove on your hand so he could touch that cheek. Jacaerys decided he had to get closer, he jumped off the wall and landed on his feet. He crept through the orchard until he was below your window barely hidden by a tree. 

You sighed as you watched the stars paint the night sky. Your mind had been overcome with thoughts of the boy from before. You spoke out loud to yourself to ease your heart. “Jacaerys, Jacaerys, why must you be a Velaryon.” He wanted to reveal himself but chose to stay still and listen. 

“It’s only your name that’s my enemy… If you loved me, I could take yours.” You paused and wondered about the strife between your families.  “What is a “Velaryon”? Tis’ not a hand nor foot, nor arm or face. What’s in a name anyway? The dragon we call Balerion would still breathe fire no matter its name. Whatever name Jacaerys had would make no difference: he would still be perfect.” 

Jace couldn’t handle it anymore. He leapt from behind the bush and lifted his arms. “I’ll take you at your word, just call me ‘love’ and that will be my new name,” he proclaimed. 

You stumbled back, it was shocking to hear someone out there. You couldn’t recognize the voice at all. “Who’s out there? Coming here, watching me and eavesdropping like this?” He sighed, “I can’t tell you my name since you hate it so.” The voice was familiar, you leaned over the balcony, excitement lacing your voice. “Is it Jacaerys? Jacaerys Velaryon?” 

“Neither” he said, “Since you dislike both names.” You glanced at him, “How and why did you come here? This place is dangerous, considering who you are. If any of my family finds you here your life may be forfeit.” He smiled back at you, “I climbed over the wall with the strength your love bestowed upon me. Do not fret for my safety, your eyes are more powerful than twenty of their swords. Just give me one look and I’ll be invincible.” 

“Who told you where to find me?” Jacaerys found it impossible to be serious. “Love told me. I’m no navigator, but even if you were living in Asshai I would find my way to you.”

Your cheeks flushed slightly, “It’s a good thing it’s dark or you would see me blushing… Do you love me?” Jacaerys opened his mouth to respond but you kept rambling on. “Oh Jacaerys, if you do love me, please tell me honestly… Or if you think I’m too fast tell me, and I’ll put on an act and be coy and play hard to get. I’m so in love with you: that’s why I’m being so forward. I should have been all shy, I know, and would have if you hadn’t overheard my real feelings. So, forgive me.”

He rushed to speak, “I swear by the moon…” You leaned over the balcony, “don’t swear by the moon! The moon’s too changeable.” Jacaerys’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What shall I swear by?”

“Swear by yourself and I’ll believe you. No, don’t swear. Although I love you, I don’t like this – making commitments like this. It’s too sudden, too fast. It’s not a good idea.” Jacaerys couldn’t understand what you were doing at all. You said you loved him and now you’re saying it’s not a good idea? He couldn’t let this be. “Are you just going to leave it like that?” 

You sighed, “What more could we do tonight?” He paused to think. “Make faithful vows of love.” It was high past your bedtime, and you could hear your nurse calling from the other room. You couldn’t just leave him so quickly after you said all of that. “Just a few more words and I must leave, dear Jacaerys. If you really mean it, and you want to marry me, send me a message tomorrow. I’ll send someone to you, and you’ll tell them where and what time you’ve arranged a wedding.”

You leant over the balcony and reached out towards Jacaerys. “If you’re trifling with me, please leave me alone to wallow in my sorrow.” You turned and ran towards the sound of your nurse calling. He was left dumbfounded, you left without a goodbye and claimed he did not mean it! It felt as if the sun itself had been burned out. Jacaerys turned to leave but your voice carried him back. 

“Psst! Jacaerys! Pssst!” He walked over and gazed up at you. “Jacaerys. What time shall I send someone?” He chuckled to himself, “at nine.” You laughed, “It’ll feel like twenty years till then… Oh! I’ve forgotten why I called you back.” He smiled up at you, “I’ll stay here until you remember it.” 

“Then I’ll never remember it, so that you’ll stand there forever.” He blushed, “I’ll keep standing here, hoping you’ll keep forgetting. And I’ll forget that I’ve got any other home but this.” You bit your lip and thought about speaking more but the sun peaking over the horizon caught your eye. “It’s almost morning, you must leave now.” You spoke in a hushed whisper. After you gave him one last lingering gaze you took off towards your room.  

Jacaerys had healed his heart and found a wife in the same night. He took off out of the orchard and towards the chapel to tell Septon Daeron what had happened. 

-

Septon Daeron was up early. The clouds in the southern sky were streaked with light as the night scurried out of the way of the advancing day. He wanted to fill his basket with a mixture of poisonous and healing herbs before the sun came up to dry the dew.

“Morning, Septon,” he shouted from across the field. Jacaerys ran up to him heavily panting. He looked over the boy's features, “Who’s this then, visiting me so early in the morning? Is there something wrong, being up so early?” Jace smiled, “You’re wrong, I had a better rest.”

“Gods pardon you, have you been with Baela?” Jacaerys’s brow furrowed. “Baela? No. I’ve forgotten that name and everything about her.” Septon Daeron smiled, “that’s my boy! But where have you been then?” Jacaerys spoke quickly, “I was dining with my enemies when suddenly one of them wounded me and you’re the one who can heal me.” Daeron looked at him confusingly, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” 

“To put it plainly, I fell in love with a Targaryen’s daughter, and she with me. You must marry us, and you must do so today.” The Septon stopped dead in his tracks. “By the seven! What a turnabout. Have you forgotten Baela? Am I to understand that young men love with their eyes and not their hearts? You cried buckets for Baela, the sound of your groans is still ringing in my ears.” 

“You told me off all the time for loving Baela.” Septon Daeron debated, “For being infatuated, not loving, my boy.” Jace sighed, “And told me to bury my love.” Daeron scoffed, “Not to dig another one up.” Jacaerys grabbed his hands. “Please, don’t reprimand me. The one I love now loves me in return. The other didn’t.”

‘Because she could see you didn’t mean it.’ Friar Lawrence was thinking. Marrying the two young people from the feuding families would be a disaster and he couldn’t possibly agree to it. Or could he? It may be the best way of bringing the families together. It could just be the salvation of Verona. It took him a second to decide. ‘Come on then, you young rascal,’ he said. ‘Come with me. This is one thing I can help you with. This could be the answer: the thing to turn your households’ hatred into love.’

-

“Where in the seven hells could Jacaerys be?” Aegon and Lucerys sat in the shade of the fountain’s wall. It was another dull day in King’s Landing. “Didn’t he come home last night?” Lucerys continued playing in the dust, “Not to fathers house.” Aegon huffed out a laugh, “Who would have thought it? The cold Baela should have the power to drive him crazy.”

“Hey!” Shouted Lucerys as Jacaerys ran towards them. “Here he is, the man himself.” Aegon stood up, “look at him. What a lad.” He bowed, “ Rytsas Jacaerys, sesīr kipi! How’s that for a nice Valyrian greeting? You cheated us well last night.” He stopped in his tracks, “Excuse me?” Aegon wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t you remember kid? You gave us the slip.”

“I’m sorry Aegon. I had important business.” Aegon didn’t accept that as a proper excuse. They began making fun of each other, exchanging insults. Jacaerys’s friends were pleased to see that he was back to his normal. At least they thought he was normal again. “Isn’t this better than groaning for love? Now you’re sociable – you’re Jacaerys again, the Jacaerys we all know.”

Jacaerys was unable to take the big grin off his face. He kept looking around the square: whenever he saw any movement he looked up. And alas your nurse all dressed up in full skirts and a billowing train appeared in front of him. So, this was the messenger you had sent for him.  Jacaerys, and his friends joined him as he ran to greet the Nurse.

Aegon grabbed the train and flapped it up and down for a jest. The Nurse turned and gave him a backhand which sent him flying into the dust. “Good morning, gentlemen,” said the Nurse. “Good afternoon, fair gentlewoman,” mocked Aegon, rubbing his jaw. “Is it afternoon already?” she asked sincerely. “Oh yes, the rude hand of the dial is now right on the cock of noon.”

“Disgusting! You disgusting man.” Aegon and Lucerys burst into giggles. “Can any of you wastrels tell me where I can find young Jacaerys?” Everyone peered over at Jace.  “I can tell you, it’s me. I’m the youngest of that name. For better or worse.” 

“Well said.” The Nurse grinned. “That was well said? You’re not hard to please, are you?” Aegon grinned wider. The Nurse waved him away and he threw himself on to the ground dramatically, lifted her skirt an inch and peeked under it and received another well aimed slap for that. “If you are he, I’d like a word with you… without the scoundrels you surround yourself with.” She winced and blew on her stinging hand.

“I think she’s going to proposition him,” Lucerys leaned over and whispered to Aegon. “A whore, a whore!” cried Aegon, “Tally ho” The young men came closer and began walking around her. “Leave us alone, children.” She swatted them away like flies. Aegon finally ceased his teasing after she spouted a fair share of insults. “Farewell, old girl,” sang Aegon, walking backwards, bowing. “Lady, lady, lady.”

“Who’s the cheeky one? All those tricks!” She watched as they walked away with a face laced with clear disgust. “Just a fellow who loves the sound of his own voice.” She looked at Jacaerys. “As I was trying to say, I want a word with you. My young lady told me to find you.”

“Tell her to find some way of going to confession this afternoon and there at Septon Daeron’s chapel she’ll be given absolution and married, all at the same time.” He pulled a little bag out of his pocket. “No,” she said as she took the money and hid it in her clothing. “Not a penny. This afternoon, you say? Well, she’ll be there.”

“If you’re loyal to us I’ll pay you well. Goodbye, give your mistress my love.” She grinned, “bless you, bless you, Sir.” Jacaerys shouted as she walked away, “give her my love, Nurse!” The nurse was all smiles twirling the coins in her pocket. “Of course! With pleasure.”

-

You could see by the way the sun hung over the distant hill that it was twelve o’clock. Your Nurse had been gone three hours! She had promised to return in half an hour. Mayhaps she hadn’t found him! No, that couldn’t be. The messengers of love should be as light as thoughts, traveling ten times faster than sunbeams, pushing all doubts and fears away, as light does to threatening shadows.

If your Nurse had any feelings – any passion whatsoever – your message would travel as fast as a tennis ball. The Nurse would be the ball. You would serve and Jacaerys would return it just as fast. But like all old people, the Nurse might as well be dead. You stuck your head out of the window every few seconds, searching the alleyway along which the Nurse would come.

And alas, there she was!

You rushed downstairs and into the garden, meeting the Nurse as a servant was opening the gate for her. You flung yourself at your old friend. “What did he say? Did you find him? Send your servant away.” The nurse didn’t expect to be bombarded with questions as soon as she returned. She turned to her servant and forced him to leave. 

“Whew, I‘m exhausted, leave me alone for a while.” She sank down onto a bench and started to fan herself. You wanted to scream with impatience. “Would you just give me your news! Please, Nurse, I beg of you, tell me. Please, dear, dear Nurse, tell me!”

‘Gods, what a hurry you’re in! Can’t you wait a minute. Can’t you see I’m out of breath?’ You rolled your eyes, “How can you be out of breath when you’ve got enough breath to tell me you’re out of breath?” The Nurse shook her head sadly. “Well, all I can say is that you’ve made a bad choice. You’ve no idea how to choose a man. Jacaerys! No, not him, he’s not the one.”

She got up suddenly and yawned. “Off with you now, girl. Get on with it. Have you had your dinner?” You huffed out a breath filled with growing annoyance. “What did he say about us getting married? What about that?”

The Nurse slid back on to the bench and lay, reclining. “Lord, what a headache I’ve got. It’s pounding so hard that it feels as though it’s going to break into twenty pieces.” She tried to stand up. “Oh, my back. Shame on you, sending me all over the place like that. It’ll be the death of me.” 

You scoffed, ‘Honestly, I’m very sorry you’re not well. Sweet, sweet, sweet Nurse. What did my love say?” The Nurse heaved a huge sigh. ‘Your love says, like an honest man, and a courteous, and a kind and a handsome, and, I have no doubt, a good-” She stopped and looked towards the house. You pondered if she was doing this to drive you mad! “Where’s your mother?”

You through your hands in the air, “in there, where do you think she is? What a strange answer. Your love says, like an honest man, where is your mother?” The nurse groaned in pain… though it seemed like false pain to you. “Good Gods, my dear young woman, bad tempered with me? Is this the thanks I get for my aching bones? Do your own dirty work from now on.”

“This is impossible, come on, what did Jacaerys say?” The Nurse stopped rubbing her back and took your hands. “Have you got permission to go to confession today?” You nodded excitedly as a smile blessed your face once more. 

“Then get yourself to Septon Daeron’s as quickly as you can. There’s a husband waiting there to make you a wife.” She smiled at you genuinely before turning you and patting your bum. “Off with you. I’m going to have my dinner. Go on Hurry.”

-

The chapel was chilled today even though the sun was boiling the ground outside. Jacaerys watched heat waves rising above the wildflowers which grew unhindered across the hillside. Septon Daeron was going on a small tangent about how feelings can lead to disaster and to be careful.  But Jacaerys wasn’t listening. He had been watching the brow of the hill and when your head appeared he sprang up and rushed to the door while the Septon was still talking.

You came, running so softly that it was as if you weren’t touching the ground. You didn’t even have a chance to say hello before he embraced you. Jace clung to you like a newborn babe and kissed you again and again. Septon Daeron pulled you apart gently. 

“Dear Y/N, if you are as happy as I am and can express it better, then tell me how much happiness you imagine we have when we add it all up.” you laughed and shoved his shoulder, “as usual, you say ridiculous things… People who can count their wealth are poor: my true love has grown so huge that I couldn’t measure half of it.” 

“Enough of this nonsense. Let’s get on with it. Follow me.”  The Septon forced you two to refrain from embracing each other during the ceremony; thankfully it was quick. You both were told to sit on your knees and pray before vows were exchanged. You pretended to be praying as you snuck glances at your soon to be husband. 

Daeron told you both to stand, neither of you had cloaks to exchange so instead you skipped right to the vows. It was painfully obvious to Daeron how ill prepared and immature the two lovers he was marrying were. A subtle feeling of dread washed over him staring at the pair. 

You intertwined your hands with each other upon command. “With this kiss, I pledge my love. And take you for my lady wife.” You smiled bigger than you ever had before, “With this kiss, I pledge my love. And take you for my lord husband.” The Septon cleared his voice and declared, “one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” 

Your lips crashed into each other in a searing embrace. A short-lived embrace as Daeron cleared his throat behind you. Your happiness was short lived as you both were quickly pulled apart. 

A plan was already in motion. Once the sun set and the moon rose over the horizon, the nurse would sneak out once again and inform your beloved it was safe. Then you would let a ladder fall from your balcony which he would climb up. It was the same place in the orchard where he watched you the other night.

 You would finally be able to consummate the marriage, and no one would be able to separate you. Not your parents, cousins, church, or state. Only the gods would be able to tear you from your true love… Soon you would realize how cruel the Gods could be.

[cleolinda]

Varney the Vampire: Chapter 15

Chapter 14: So anyway, when do we kill him

I need to start this off with a full Previously On, and you’ll see why in a minute:

Fair damsel Flora Bannerworth was attacked one night by a befanged, leaden-eyed vampyre. Her mother mostly faints about it; it’s her two brothers, Henry and George, who have been trying to protect her and figure out what the fuck is going on. Their allies are their housemate/kinda-uncle, Mr. Marchdale, who was once their mother’s sweetheart before she chose the brothers’ shitheel father (RIP) instead; Flora’s recently returned fiancé, the virtuous young artist Charles Holland; and a Mr. Dr. Chillingworth, who thinks vampyres are bullshit. Amid several incidents where various Bannerworths shoot the vampyre, Henry realizes that the ancestor in a spooky portrait in Flora’s bedroom is one and the same. But also, a mysterious new neighbor keeps offering to buy the family estate. In the last two chapters, Henry and Marchdale paid a visit to this Sir Francis Varney, only to realize that HE is the vampyre/ancestor. Henry said to his face, “HOLY SHIT, YOU’RE THE VAMPYRE.” And the vampyre said, “Nah.”

None of these characters and none of these settings are in this chapter. Instead, two entirely new characters are introduced (for 4800 words). You are either going to love this, or you are going to hate this.

Chapter XV.

THE OLD ADMIRAL AND HIS SERVANT. -- THE COMMUNICATION FROM THE LANDLORD OF THE NELSON'S ARMS.

We've already been told that the servants (both the ones who immediately quit after the vampyring, and the replacements who reluctantly agreed to start working at Bannerworth Hall) have run out and told everybody in the neighborhood everything; Henry's already had total randos ask him about The Horrors. We're told now that:

The servants, who had left the Hall on no other account, as they declare, but sheer fright at the awful visits of the vampyre, spread the news far and wide, so that in the adjoining villages and market-towns the vampyre of Bannerworth Hall became quite a staple article of conversation. [...] Everywhere then, in every house, public as well as private, something was being continually said of the vampyre. [...] But nowhere was gossiping carried on upon the subject with more systematic fervour than at an inn called the Nelson's Arms, which was in the high street of the nearest market town to the Hall. There, it seemed as if the lovers of the horrible made a point of holding their head quarters, and so thirsty did the numerous discussions make the guests, that the landlord was heard to declare that he, from his heart, really considered a vampyre as very nearly equal to a contested election.

Ahhh, contested elections. Sad lol. But now, we're told, on the very evening of the day that Henry accused Varney of being a vampyre, and Varney just shrugged, two new characters that we don't know shit about have arrived:

One of these people was a man who seemed fast verging upon seventy years of age, although, from his still ruddy and embrowned complexion and stentorian voice, it was quite evident he intended yet to keep time at arm's-length for many years to come. He was attired in ample and expensive clothing, but every article had a naval animus about it, if we may be allowed such an expression with regard to clothing. On his buttons was an anchor, and the general assortment and colour of the clothing as nearly assimilated as possible to the undress naval uniform of an officer of high rank some fifty or sixty years ago. His companion was a younger man, and about his appearance there was no secret at all. He was a genuine sailor, and he wore the shore costume of one. He was hearty-looking, and well dressed, and evidently well fed.

James Malcolm Rymer's favorite humor format is Characters Who Don't Talk Classy Lmao:

"Heave to!" [the younger man] then shouted to the postillion, who was about to drive the chaise into the yard. "Heave to, you lubberly son of a gun! we don't want to go into the dock." "Ah!" said the old man, "let's get out, Jack. This is the port; and, do you hear, and be cursed to you, let's have no swearing, d -- n you, nor bad language, you lazy swab."

Lol. Rofl, even.

The Younger Man is Jack Pringle, and he helpfully informs The Old Man, one Admiral Bell, that he has been his [the Admiral's] walley de sham on dry land for ten years. The Dictionaries of the Scots Language (before and after 1700)  inform us that this term is derived from the French valet de chambre, a personal servant. (The search also turned up some British and Irish usage, and Jack does not otherwise sound Scottish, or even "Scottish.") Interestingly, when I googled this phrase, the image search tab pulled up nothing but Varney the Vampire illustrations. None of them had Jack or the Admiral.

I'm belaboring this point because about 85% of this chapter is just these two characters squabbling and it is draining my will to live.

"Be quiet, will you!" shouted the admiral, for such indeed he was. "Be quiet." [...] "Belay there," said Jack; and he gave the landlord what he considered a gentle admonition, but which consisted of such a dig in the ribs, that he made as many evolutions as the clown in a pantomime when he vociferated hot codlings.

"Hot Codlings" is a song from a Mother Goose pantomime. What evolutions are vociferating. Why are words doing this. Where are we.

Bruised and confused, the landlord of the Nelson's Arms is doing his best to be hospitable; finally, the Admiral reveals that he has been sent a letter asking him to stop at this very inn, here in Uxotter (which might be Uttoxeter), by one Josiah Crinkles:

"Who the deuce is he?"

I don't know, you're the one who just drove up! The landlord cannot seem to get anything useful out of his mouth for several lines, because James Malcolm Rymer gets paid more that way. Note: "d -- -- d" will show up several times; it's just "damned," censored, and it's the expletive these two mostly fall back on:

"I'll make you smile out of the other side of that d -- -- d great hatchway of a mouth of yours in a minute. Who is Crinkles?" [The landlord:] "Oh, Mr. Crinkles, sir, everybody knows. A most respectable attorney, sir, indeed, a highly respectable man, sir." [Several lines of banter] "To come a hundred and seventy miles to see a d -- -- d swab of a rascally lawyer!"

But then, Jack Pringle says something interesting:

"Well, but where's Master Charles? Lawyers, in course, sir, is all blessed rogues; but howsomedever, he may have for once in his life this here one of 'em have told us of the right channel, and if so be as he has, don't be the Yankee to leave him among the pirates. I'm ashamed of you."

Who in this story do we know named Charles? We'll get to that several hundred words from now. Meanwhile, a bit more of the rapport between Jack Pringle and the Admiral:

"You infernal scoundrel; how dare you preach to me in such a way, you lubberly rascal?" "Cos you desarves it." "Mutiny -- mutiny -- by Jove! Jack, I'll have you put in irons -- you're a scoundrel, and no seaman." "No seaman! -- no seaman!"

The fact that this line does not end with the dialogue tag "he ejaculated" is one of literature's great tragedies.

This goes on for so long that it starts to take on a nonsensical—dadaist? that can't be right? what is happening. I don't know—quality:

"Confound you, who is doing it?" "The devil." "Who is?" "Don't, then."

Over a couple hundred words, Jack and the Admiral demand grog and a private room at the inn, and for the landlord to send for one Mr. Josiah Crinkles ("and tell him Jack Pringle is here too"). After jawing a while about how they'll serve this rascally lawyer out howsomedever, Jack says something interesting again:

"And, then, again, he may know something about Master Charles, sir, you know. Lord love him, don't you remember when he came aboard to see you once at Portsmouth?"

And right when you think we might hear who Master Charles is, they start arguing again, this time about the time they were yard arm to yard arm with those two Yankee frigates (wait they were what now? when now? the War of 1812, maybe? they can't both be old enough for the American Revolution?) and "you didn't call me a marine then," which is insulting and distinct from "seaman" in some way,

"when the scuppers were running with blood. Was I a seaman then?" "You were, Jack -- you were; and you saved my life." "I didn't." "You did."

CHRIST ALMIGHTY THEY KEEP ARGUING ABOUT THIS (bickering is how they show they care) until finally the landlord, with a flourish, ushers in one Mr. Josiah Crinkles.

A little, neatly dressed man made his appearance, and advanced rather timidly into the room. Perhaps he had heard from the landlord that the parties who had sent for him were of rather a violent sort. "So you are Crinkles, are you?" cried the admiral. "Sit down, though you are a lawyer."

There is no respect for lawyers in the Admiral's house! Ship! Room! We are now about halfway through the chapter. God give me strength. The Admiral bids Josiah Crinkles read the full supercut of the letter from Josiah Crinkles, aloud. I will reproduce it in full whether you like it or not:

"To Admiral Bell. "Admiral, -- Being, from various circumstances, aware that you take a warm and a praiseworthy interest in your nephew Charles Holland,

CHARLES HOLLAND BABY

I venture to write to you concerning a matter in which your immediate and active co-operation with others may rescue him from a condition which will prove, if allowed to continue, very much to his detriment, and ultimate unhappiness. "You are, then, hereby informed, that he, Charles Holland, has, much earlier than he ought to have done, returned to England, and that the object of his return is to contract a marriage into a family in every way objectionable, and with a girl who is highly objectionable. "You, admiral, are his nearest and almost his only relative in the world; you are the guardian of his property, and, therefore, it becomes a duty on your part to interfere to save him from the ruinous consequences of a marriage, which is sure to bring ruin and distress upon himself and all who take an interest in his welfare. "The family he wishes to marry into is named Bannerworth, and the young lady's name is Flora Bannerworth. When, however, I inform you that a vampyre is in that family, and that if he married into it, he marries a vampyre, and will have vampyres for children,

Remember what I said about family stains and tainted bloodlines?

"I trust I have said enough to warn you upon the subject, and to induce you to lose no time in repairing to the spot. "If you stop at the Nelson's Arms in Uxotter, you will hear of me. I can be sent for, when I will tell you more. "Yours, very obediently and humbly, "JOSIAH CRINKLES." P.S. I enclose you Dr. Johnson's definition of a vampyre, which is as follows: "VAMPYRE (a German blood-sucker) -- by which you perceive how many vampyres, from time immemorial, must have been well entertained at the expense of John Bull, at the court of St. James, where nothing hardly is to be met with but German blood-suckers."

I was legitimately about five minutes from hitting post with this written as "I despair of figuring out who Dr. Johnson is," when suddenly I managed to dredge SAMUEL JOHNSON WITH THE DICTIONARY!! out of my covid-riddled brain. ~Dr. Johnson didn't define "vampyre" (any spelling), so whatever Rymer's on about here, he made it up himself with a wink to the reader.

I also wasn't going to deal with the fact that vampyres are suddenly German rather than Norwegian, or Swedish, or Levantine, or Arabian. But then I realized that this might be related to that time Empress Maria Theresa sent a guy out to deal with A Vampire Problem. (The fact that I'm the kind of person who would go, "Oh, right, the Austrian vampire problem" is why I'm recapping this godforsaken serial in the first place.) And you might refer to vampires as "German" because all the areas involved, including the Austrian Empire, were in the German Confederation at the time Rymer was writing in the 1840s. Referred to as "the 18th-Century Vampire Controversy,"

The panic began with an outbreak of alleged vampire attacks in East Prussia in 1721 and in the Habsburg monarchy from 1725 to 1734, which spread to other localities. [...] The problem was exacerbated by rural epidemics of so-called vampire attacks, undoubtedly caused by the higher amount of superstition that was present in village communities, with locals digging up bodies and in some cases, staking them.

I gotta refer you here back to Chapter 14 last week, in which we discussed a Romanian incident of this nature that happened in 2003. Meanwhile, back in the 18th century, some real-true vampire history is unfolding: this panic was the subject of Dom Augustine Calmet's classic Treatise on the Apparitions of Spirits and on Vampires or Revenants of Hungary, Moravia, et al. ("Numerous readers, including both a critical Voltaire and numerous supportive demonologists interpreted the treatise as claiming that vampires existed.") The hysteria spread to Austria, where Empress Maria Theresa sent her personal physician to sort this shit out; there is a movie somewhere to be made about Gerard van Swieten, Vampire Hunter. Except for the fact that he came to the conclusion that vampires were bullshit in his report, Discourse on the Existence of Ghosts; as a result, Maria Theresa decreed that her subjects must stop digging up corpses and doing unfortunate vampire-hunter things to them. (Or is that just what they wanted us to think??) "Dr. Johnson's" definition of vampyres as German could have been referring to any/all of the Controversy, and it has more real-life historical basis than Vampyres of Norway. So I'll allow it. *gavel*

by which you perceive how many vampyres, from time immemorial, must have been well entertained at the expense of John Bull, at the court of St. James, where nothing hardly is to be met with but German blood-suckers.

Wait, what?

Is this referring to young Queen Victoria's husband, Prince Albert, being German? Is this like the mystifying snark about "German princes" earlier? Have I finally cracked this? British citizens were chortling over their penny papers at such political humor, I guess?

Meanwhile, the Admiral is bellowing; the lawyer is stammering. What we come to understand, after all my digressions about German vampyres, is:

Josiah Crinkles didn't write this letter.

And he has no idea who did. He's only heard of Admiral Bell "as one of those gallant officers who have spent a long life in nobly fighting their country's battles, and who are entitled to the admiration and the applause of every Englishman." Well, when you put it that way: Jack and the Admiral decide that Josiah Crinkles, Esq., is a fine and honorable gentleman, even if he is a lawyer! I sure hope you didn't have anywhere you meant to go today!

"No. I'm d -- -- d if you go like that," said Jack, as he sprang to the door, and put his back against it. "You shall take a glass with me in honour of the wooden walls of Old England, d -- -e ["damn me"?], if you was twenty lawyers."

Uh, slow down with the false imprisonment there. What Josiah does know is a little bit about the Bannerworth family, by which I mean everything, and we're gonna hear all about it, again, because James Malcolm Rymer got bills.

There is still another 1700 words left in this chapter, by the way.

"Shiver my timbers!" said Jack Pringle, [...] -- "Shiver my timbers, if I knows what a wamphigher is, unless he's some distant relation to Davy Jones!"

Jack Pringle's interpretations of the word "vampyre" is maybe my favorite thing about the entire serial.

Jack and the Admiral bickering for another 300 words is maybe my least favorite thing about the entire serial. WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO HEAR ABOUT THE VAMPYRE? "It appears that one night Miss Flora Bannerworth, a young lady of great beauty, and respected and admired by all who—Jack and the Admiral are still bickering. Nobly, Josiah Crinkles continues to recap chapters 1 and 2 for us (in fairness, this may have actually been helpful to penny dreadful readers in 1845). But what of the Admiral's nephew? Josiah knows nothing, much less what was written in the letter. You'd think it was Varney being nefarious, except that I don't know how he would know anything about Charles, either. One wonders who might.

[A couple hundred words of bickering]

The Admiral asks Josiah what he would do about a nephew who "has got a liking for this girl, who has had her neck bitten by a vampyre, you see."

[Josiah:] "Taking, my dear sir, what in my humble judgment appears a reasonable view of this subject, I should say it would be a dreadful thing for your nephew to marry into a family any member of which was liable to the visitations of a vampyre." "It wouldn't be pleasant." "The young lady might have children." "Oh, lots," cried Jack. "Hold your noise, Jack." "Ay, ay, sir." "And she might herself actually, when after death she became a vampyre, come and feed on her own children."

I did not remember any of this when I wrote the Consequences of Your Decision to Propagate the Family Stain section, and I'm starting to feel very smart for putting it in.

"Whew!" whistled Jack; "she might bite us all, and we should be a whole ship's crew o' wamphigaers. There would be a confounded go!"

For some reason, this bit is just absolutely fucking iconic to me. Indeed, Jack. In case of wamphigaers, the go would be confounded.

The Admiral steels himself to see "to the very bottom of this affair, were it deeper than fathom ever sounded. Charles Holland was my poor sister's son; he's the only relative I have in the wide world, and his happiness is dearer to my heart than my own." Having changed his mind about d-- -- d lawyers, Jack Pringle wishes Josiah Crinkles well, and he and the Admiral resolve to go find Charles at once—"our nevy," that is to say, "nephew," so—our nephew? Well, Jack and the Admiral definitely have an "argumentative life partners" vibe, be they employer and walley or not. So they'll go see Charles,

"see the young lady too, and lay hold o' the wamphigher if we can, as well, and go at the whole affair broadside to broadside, till we make a prize of all the particulars, arter which we can turn it over in our minds agin, and see what's to be done." "Jack, you are right. Come along."

As I've said, I did read halfway through the entire serial some ten years ago. These two are (give or take) 67% exhausting and 33% hilarious when deployed at just the right narrative moment. I'll run the numbers again once we're a few more chapters in.

Varney the Vampire masterpost

[herefortheships]

You ever have a headcanon with interesting potential but then you remember canon and that busts it?

I just had the thought "what if 'taking your husband's name' was literal when it came to Delores and Betelgeuse?", which well, it would make sense to be able to summon the soul of your freshly-dead spouse if you were trying to steal it to gain immortality, right?

But then I remembered that Delores never tries to summon him by his name, nor seems to know that he can be summoned like that. I checked an "all Delores scenes" vid on youtube and she says his name just twice in the whole movie. Once to the janitor, and once in the church.

It just... it doesn't feel right that she doesn't seem to know how to summon him, bc it feels to me that ofc everyone knows how to summon him. It's Betelgeuse! Even Rory knows how to summon him!

...huh.

Actually, maybe she can't summon Betelgeuse bc her ritual wasn't complete. Which would mean she'd need to keep someone around who can summon B for her. Or, if it's more an issue with location rather than with ability, someone who can lead her to the model where B likes to hang out. Cause tbh, I'd quite like to see Rory again. Terrible person, but great character!

You ever had a headcanon that re-gained interesting potential while you were sharing it lol?

I think Delores might just be unaware of Betelgeuse's name curse. She was locked in those boxes maybe ever since she came into the afterlife (or maybe she was locked away because they knew she had become a Soul Sucker? Room for headcanons there). It's likely that Betelgeuse's name curse happened too long after his and Delores's death.

That said, she could have found out through the movie, only she didn't for some reason. The afterlife people like Wolf Jackson are no longer afraid just saying Betelgeuse's name (Wolf says his name several times and he isn't afraid of him at all), so she wouldn't have had a reason to be suspect of his name having some sort of power over him, anyway. In Rory's case, he only knew because of Lydia.

As for headcanons that are busted by the actual canon, I totally had one for years and I have no idea how I made this one up, but I was so sure of it 😆. Listen, I thought that Juno the caseworker was the one who casted whatever curse is upon Betelgeuse's name and banished him off to the model at the Maitland's house as punishment for something he did. (I'm sure I even wrote about it here recently even, when brand new to the fandom, lmao).

I knew he worked for Juno, but I'm pretty sure the only thing that's mentioned about the whole matter in the movie is that he was her assistant but he was a troublemaker and eventually he went off on his own as a freelance bio exorcist. Juno was aware that saying his name three times would summon him (she doesn't seem scared to say his name herself, though, but wouldn't let Barbara and Adam mention it even once), but upon rewatching the movie now that I'm obsessed with Beetlejuice vs before as a casual fan, I don't think there's any indication that it was her who cursed him.

I guess his name curse is still open for headcanons. Maybe he even casted some spell on himself, or maybe it's a punishment for his many crimes (the man has a thick file with his name on it in Wolf Jackson's office lol). His crimes also explain why he's been around for over 600 years unable to pass on. Being a civil servant seems to be a form of Purgatory in the world of Beetlejuice. He won't be able to pass on until he's served all those years, unless he does something to pay them back if that's possible, I guess. Violating code 699 now added 100 years more to his civil work time 😭 (I think I read it was 100 years, but I'm not sure, so fact-check me on that one).

But yes, that was my headcanon that I felt was pretty solid but then rewatching the movie I went like "wait, how did I come to that conclusion?" 😅. It happens. Earlier tonight even, I almost got to the conclusion that Astrid was dead all along, and then I remembered Jeremy literally almost stole her life. Plus, she interacted with other alive people who are normies, like her classmates, Delia, the people at the funeral, etc.