#perhaps he's the most eager in the script to please his father and brothers. but his valor is clear | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alldayangst · 4 years ago

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lovebug (Tom Holland)

GIF is from gaybuckybarnes here on Tumblr. You can access my masterlist here. This was written for @worldoftom’s lolbrosgetsicktoochallenge. The prompt I had was: ‘Tom self diagnoses himself as sick. He’s got all the symptoms. He’s speechless, over the edge and just breathless. He never thought he’d get hit by the ‘love-bug’ again’. Inspired by the song Lovebug by Jonas Brothers!

A/N: Y/N is an assistant director on Cherry in this fic. This has a lot of Cherry (the movie) references but most are explained if you haven’t seen the film. Such as, it was filmed in Cleveland and Morocco, directed by Joe and Anthony Russo. Some scenes in this fic borrow from the movie & I’ve linked clips from the film if you’d like to listen/watch along. WC: 4K.

“Yeah, Mum, I’ve just got like the sorest throat at the moment.” Nikki’s picture cuts in and out on a scrambled screen on the South side of London, her husband’s hand periodically reaching out for her, rubbing her shoulder, then leaving the frame almost as quickly as it came in. Even through the low quality, the pixels dashing about his screen, Tom can make out his mother’s brows knitting together and can’t remove the feeling of utter guilt when he sees her grow redder and redder out of anger, concern and confusion for her son. “But I’ve got Harry here with me.” Harry waves from behind his brother, his trusty mug swapped for a Phoenix Coffee Cup in his spare hand, just to get a taste of the States.

Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. He barely drinks coffee on the other side of the pond, and would bet good money that an at home PG Tips would beat America’s swankiest coffee joint any day. But now, he’s betrayed his usual routine and his body’s all out of whack and his throat is hoarse, he’s breathless even at times.

Harry shoots his mum a half smile to comfort her, but he doesn’t know what it's like to be a mother, and his and Tom’s mouth both form an ‘O’ when Nikki begins to type so hard her screen jolts and Tom swears she’s put a dent in it. “You know what? I’m going to give them a piece of my mind, Tom! They’re overworking you!” Nikki looks intensely to find her baby boy in drug-addled eyes and his jungle of curls on his newly shaven head. She guesses it becomes easier when Tom pushes his face halfway into the screen and pleads like the child he’ll always be to her, “Please, please Mum! I can’t have any days off. Under any circumstances, I need to finish this film!”

Tom turns to his younger brother for help. “Tell her, Harry!”

And as little brothers do best, Harry spills the beans as soon as Tom’s phone is in clutch. “Tom’s fallen in love with the first A.D., Y/N.”

Nikki immediately loses her frown, knowing how love can knock Tom off his feet and blow all the wind out of him. Tom’s father, Dom, re-enters the frame to match Nikki’s grin. He never misses an opportunity to tease. “Oo, caught a case of the love bug, have you?”

Harry has to whip the phone around to dodge Tom’s protesting arms reaching for it again. “Don’t listen to Harry. I’m not in love. I just like Y/N.”

“A lot.” Harry mutters. Tom’s family doesn’t budge any further, knowing how bad Tom was hurt after his last relationship. They weren't sure when the love bug would come back to bite him again. So after they all shared a knowing look, Harry handed Tom his phone back. “I’ll keep you updated. Bye, Mum.”

It all started five weeks ago. Tom, at 24, was beginning to feel like love was trudging up a high hill he couldn’t come down from, where every beat of heart was feeling like an ache on an open wound. Tom had yet to meet a lover to prove distance makes the heart grow fonder, finding himself in six month long entanglements and illusions of love before things inevitably went sour.

He’d say, perhaps, you were the closest thing to the real deal. The problem was, he didn’t know if you liked him back.

“When life was beginning, I saw -”

“When life was-”

“When life was be-fuck!”

“When life was beginning, I saw you.”

Tom could make a picture book out of the day he first met you. He remembers how your hair looked that day, the speckles of genuinity in your eyes, how your ear-to-ear smile seemed to be a mirror because every time he saw you from then on, he brandished the same beam. He recalls how his eyes went low as he dropped his script to his lap and stared at your lips, so soft and kissable, as you repeated his words back to him: “When life was beginning, I saw you.” Then you chuckled softly as Tom waited patiently for his head and his heart to return to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m dyslexic. I have a bit of trouble reading.”

“It’s cool, I'm the first A.D. That’s what I’m here for.”

You rubbed your hands on the back of your trousers, your mic jostling in your back pocket as you attempted to rid yourself of your nervous, sweaty palms.

“I’m Y/N.” You reached out for a shake only for Tom to cough loudly into his own hand.

“Fuck! I’m so sorry! That wasn’t me trying to get out of your handshake. I- I-.” Tom looked at his hand for it had failed him for the first time in his life. His hand that had helped him up during handstands, being his crutch through cartwheels and backflips, but had decidedly run out of luck to be on the receiving end of Tom’s monstrous cough impending a handshake with someone his eyes just couldn’t look away from.

You laugh again. Your laugh sounds like melody, Tom muses. Awestruck, he wishes he could play it again, repeat it like a radio hit and never wash himself of the feeling he got when he heard your laugh for the first time.

“It’s all good. I’ll see you around.” You disappear from his trailer, likely on a venture to your own, when Joe and Anthony block his view of you walking away.

Anthony and Joe take on the ghost of you in Tom’s room, “Tom! The man, the myth and the legend!” Joe comes behind him to rub his newly hairless head. “We’re so glad you agreed to do this movie!”

“Bummed that you’re not coming to the Browns game tonight, though.” Anthony remarks, throwing a football at Joe who sets it in his lap.

“Harry and I, we’re British, mate. We play football with our feet.”

Joe doesn’t know it then, but his next words are the beginning of the end for Tom. He rubs on his football and looks Tom in his eye when he poses, “It’s a shame ‘cause the whole crew’s going. First day of filming celebrations.”

“The whole crew?”

Anthony mumbles an ‘mhm’ as he picks up a framed photo of Tom and RDJ sitting pretty on Tom’s dresser, posing like father and son.

Tom’s usually self assured when he’s on set, but he’s hesitant to say this next improvised line. His voice trails off as he speaks. “Including Y/N?”

“Y/N?” Joe queries, with a smile that’s half scary and half comforting, and the butterflies in Tom’s stomach are begging him not to fuck this up and suddenly every second a word is not spoken feels like hours have passed and he might have ruined things before they’ve even started, gosh he just met you and-

Tom tries to play it cool. “I don’t- they’re cool.” Tom coughs again. “I mean, I don’t really know them but Y/N seems cool I guess.”

Anthony and Joe smile at each other, scrambling to exit. “Whole crew’s going, baby!” Joe beams.

“Please don’t tell Y/N I asked!” Tom shouts before they’re out of earshot.

“Yeah, yeah. Anthony, go long!”

A few hours later, Tom was sitting next to an unamused Harry, you on his left, foam fingers pointing every which way.

“Are you a big football fan?” Tom asked, imposter syndrome creeping up on him. He had the best seats in the house, but knew not a thing about this sport he’d come down to watch. Meanwhile, crew and crowd alike sat themselves around you guys, cheering leaving throats raw for days to come and a tussle for a foam finger between Joe and Anthony leading to hundreds of sugary popcorn shells scattered on the stadium floor.

“I mean, I wouldn’t ever turn down the option to look at Odell Beckham Jr. Are you?” you replied.

Tom looked over to his brother who sat with his chin in his hand, lips pulled into a thin straight line as his rusty curls were blown about from the wind of brown and orange flags flown from fans behind him. “We could learn to love it.” Tom flashed you a toothy grin, unsure of where to guide the conversation next. He knew for sure that he wanted to keep talking to you, but his ego began putting up a fight, eager to show himself off if you’d have him in any way. Tom sighed. “Truth is, we have no fucking clue what’s going on.” Tom could hear the commentary about a player reaching the end zone, but they were all just words that went into one ear then came straight out of the other.

You giggled. “I have no idea either. We could make up our own rules if you want.”

Tom likes the way you think. He also likes the way you speak. He loves the way you laugh.

“You have a beautiful laugh.”

You covered your mouth. “Oh, fuck, I hate my laugh!”

“I’d make you laugh a thousand times if I could.”

You pointed to the jumbo screen as Mayfield made a touchdown, unable to stop laughing from sheer nerves as you felt Tom’s hot, burning haze on you. An advert for Cleveland’s Own Phoenix Coffee flashed on the screen as you spoke. “We’ll make our own rules. Every time we see the quarterback pick up the ball, we’ll cheer.”

By the end of the night, Tom is speechless, breathless and over the edge of his chair in faux excitement and anticipation of the quarterback receiving the ball once again.

“Another coffee?” The service worker asked.

“Yes please!” You and Tom both say in unison, pumped as the quarterback began circling around to collect the ball in open arms.

The footage of the game is cut abruptly as the camera points to a confused, solo Harry; Anthony and Joe are seen at the edge of the frame whispering suggestively and pointing towards Tom, the camera eventually capturing the superstar who looks back up at his own reflection. Poorly green screened hearts flood the screen and the camera pans to include you in the frame too. Tom looks on in horror when he realises what’s going on and how it could be too late, and turns to you.

“I promise I didn’t know this was going on. We don’t have to.” Tom panics.

You hear him loud and clear, that you don’t have to, but your heart and eleven thousand people are telling you to kiss him otherwise. “Oh well. We should just do it.” you murmur, the bright pink ‘KISSCAM’ logo flashing in and out.

It doesn’t take more than a moment for the gap between you and Tom to close, for your face to get lost behind his, his lips pressing against yours, eyes closed, trusting each other to share your air. This was probably the first thing that night worth cheering for, howls and whistles erupting around you.

Tom doesn’t understand American football, but he thinks that the best seats in the house could be anywhere next to you.

Harry’s on the phone to his twin brother, Sam, when you and the rest of the crew make it back to the hotel later on. “-Yeah, and Tom spent half the night with the first A.D. cheering and screaming at fuck all.”

The Cleveland Browns lost that night, but Tom remains none the wiser. He stood in the doorway as Harry continued to relay his day to Sam. “Oh, and Tom, Mum said to give her a call, eavesdropper.” He flicks Tom’s reddening nose before closing the door.

A week and a half later, Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. He never has the time anymore to attend ‘real’ football games back home, and he actually understands the game back in Britain. But now, he’s cheered at almost every given opportunity to impress you stupidly, and his chest and voice is suffering as a consequence.

You and Tom walked onto set with your pinkies intertwined, growing closer and closer by the minute, but Tom doesn’t miss how Ciara’s boyfriend visits set every day for her, doesn’t miss how they rub their nose together in this lovey-dovey affection he wishes he could bestow upon you.

The scene wasn’t working.

The crew was beginning to grow restless and Tom silently became more frustrated as the minutes went by and he was unable to get his lines right. He remembers how a week ago, it felt so easy. You were there to correct him when he stumbled upon his lines and you picked him up so effortlessly, a twinkling smile on your face. But then? Then you were different. Your eyes were scrunched up behind the lens of the camera and you were mumbling something to Anthony about how the sun was due to go down in Ohio soon so you needed to hurry along.

“Alright.” you announced. “Take five!”

And Tom was thankful, Ciara perched upon a swing for the scene they were filming, Tom dwindling the rope of the swing under his finger as her boyfriend approached her once again. “Hey dude, are you okay?”

Ciara looked at Tom with the same concern, hands finding home in her boyfriend’s nest of hair. “Yeah, Tom, are you okay?”

Tom coughed into his hand. “Yeah, guys, I’m good.”

“I think you’re coming down with a nasty cough.” Ciara muttered.

“Yeah. It’s you guys. You’re too cute. You make me sick.” Tom laughed humourlessly for a short while, wanting to be that adorable with someone, maybe not anyone, maybe just with you someday. Then Tom shook his head, a bitter feeling in his throat as he yawned. “It’s the Browns game. I was yelling and screaming every time a quarterback got the ball. Of course I’m a little unwell. I’ll be good as new in a few days though.”

Ciara already knew Tom wasn’t playing a man with the healthiest of habits, but she worried that Tom was getting this bad this early. “Maybe you should talk to the first A.D. about reducing shoot days from five to three?”

Tom didn’t like the prospect of seeing you less. “Yeah.” Harry had a clapperboard between his hands, leading Tom’s eyebrows to furrow as his brother yelled something about it being take 13. “Maybe.”

Harry resumed to a new position in your chair, with you taking Harry’s place right across from Tom, a coffee waiting for him when the scene was over like Harry always did. Ciara’s boyfriend left the frame to watch supportively on the sidelines.

“Lights. Camera. Action!” Anthony called. “Time is money, you guys! Let’s try to get this one right this time.”

They’d been over this already twelve times today.

“Hey, I’m really happy you’re here.”

Ciara read her line back. “Why’s that?”

Tom could hear whispers of the crew, the sound guy glaring at them in case they were picked up in the scene, and he knew it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t for some reason get the next line out all day. And that reason, unbeknownst to everyone, was because Tom couldn’t say something he didn’t mean - feeling like his heart was locked in a cage for which only you had the key. He looked past his co-star, Ciara, and up at you; feeling so close but you were far away, leaving him all day without anything to say. And overcoming his speechlessness and breathlessness, even in just that moment, he ran his hand over the rope to say, “Cause I like you. A lot.”

Ciara and the rest of the crew broke into a wide smile once Tom finally spoke his next line, but the only person Tom was focused on was you, who wasn’t smiling, but mouthing his words back to him.

Ciara breathed, “Shut up.”

And Tom’s sure to look you in the eye when he says, “I really do.”

When the filming for the day is said and done, Tom makes a beeline for you across the greenery. You hand over his coffee to him, “It’s a little cold now, but a warm hand is holding it.”

Tom quirks an eyebrow. “Are you inviting me to hold your hand?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“You swapped jobs with Harry, I saw.”

“Yeah, well. It’s good he gets to grips with the job now. You know, in case anything changes.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket. “I should probably give you my number. In case anything changes.”

“Oh no, yeah. Your number is?”

“216-XXX-XXX. Speaking of changes, I heard you’re trying to get your days reduced.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Tom looks at your face that bears no trace of guilt. “You’re just like me!” He pulls you close.

“Tom, if what happened today is because you’re working too much, I’m happy to reduce your time.”

“Nah, nah.” Tom sniffles, rubbing his nose on a jacket probably worth more than your life. “I’m just a bit sick, s’all. I’ll be fine.”

Two weeks pass and Tom’s no better. With the Cleveland game nearly a month ago, Tom has nothing to blame and as first A.D., you’re obligated to reduce his hours. Tom’s on the phone with his mother when you approach his trailer.

“Don’t listen to Harry. I’m not in love. I just like Y/N.”

“A lot. I’ll keep you updated. Bye, Mum.”

You’re so quick to skip happily back to your trailer that you miss Harry calling out to his brother, he’s his protector now that his mother was countries apart. “Tom?” Harry starts.

Tom mumbles an ‘mhm’, hoping Harry would make it quick as he sees you FaceTiming him. If only his mother could see him like this. He’d get to call her tomorrow and tell her he’d called you for the first time yesterday, he could hardly wait to utter, 'I've finally found the missing part of me’. Harry sighs as the FaceTime ringing is relentless. Tom’s eyebrows threaten to meet in the middle of his face as he clutches onto his phone.

“Tom.” Harry begins. “Y/N is giving up assistant director.”

Tom’s really not sure where Harry gets the source of his information from, but he’s sure this isn’t true. He thinks you’d tell him before his brother if you were leaving the film behind, leaving him behind.

The film is due to move filming to Morocco soon, and Tom’s well aware that not all film crew joins them when production moves abroad, but to Tom, you’re an extension of this movie universe. And Tom refuses to leave the memories of you in this filming cycle. “How’d you know?”

“I’m taking over.” Tom’s screen lights up with the glow of your call, and as bright as it is, as bright as you are, as bright as your smile surely is on the other end of the phone call, Tom’s in his deepest darkest feelings wondering how he fooled himself into thinking romance could go right for him this time.

He’s going to Morocco. You’re not. You’re funny, smart, promising, beautiful. You’ll find someone good for you, a better pair by the time he’s back.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t work out, man.” Tom sulks in his bed, the light from your constant calls bleeding through his bed sheets. “I just wanted to warn you.” Tom nods, screaming into his pillow. Harry decides that’s his cue to leave, a glimmer of light from outside seeping through the crack of the door as Harry escorts himself. Tom musters all his might and courage to reluctantly answer your phone, the ear-to-ear grin he knows so well greeting him once again.

Suddenly, he forgot how to speak. Hopeless, breathless, couldn’t you see that?

“Tom?” You call out his name a few times before cutting straight to the point. “Do you like me?”

Tom shifts slightly but not enough to show that he’s alarmed. “Huh? Yeah, I like you.”

He sits up, but doesn’t reciprocate the outrageous smile you wear like a heart on your sleeve. Tom’s eyes are sunken, dark circles forming under his eyes where he and his disturbed character become one. You suddenly remember why you shouldn’t have run away so fast, perhaps Tom was overworking himself. He continues, “But I’m an emotionally unavailable hopeless romantic. So I wouldn’t waste your time on me.”

Tom can’t help the hurt in his heart when he sees your smile drop so suddenly, knowing it was earnest. “Tom, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, life is unfair. And I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead. We wouldn’t work out. And I like our friendship now. We should stay that way.”

You’re not convincing when you nod rapidly, not letting Tom see your face as you play with your fingers to avoid his gaze. “Yeah, I agree.” You’re much less convincing when the last frame Tom caught of you was a shot of tears dripping down your face, as three rings followed you. Tom’s screen went black in your absence, and Tom falls asleep with eyes even redder from crying, and he wonders when he’s gonna shake this sickness.

It’d been a few days since Tom had got his shots to allow him to go to Morocco. He sat opposite the doctor on set, a coffee cup placed on the desk between him.

Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. Shots always have their side effects, and he’d taken multiple shots in one day. And now, he specifically asked for you to hold his hand during the process, Harry branded in a glinting jaw-drop, only for you to leave directly after.

“I’m speechless, constantly feeling over the edge, breathless.” Tom explains his symptoms to the doctor. “At first I thought it was because of that stupid football game, then all the coffee I’m drinking, now I don’t know if it’s the shots. I feel like shit, doc.”

“I know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“What?”

“Lovebug.”

Tom stares at the doctor in utter bewilderment. “You figured that out based on my symptoms?”

“I figured that out based on the puppy dog eyes you gave for your first A.D. when they left without a word.” The doctor begins to laugh softly, but Tom is unamused. How is he supposed to shake this illness after completely ruining your relationship? How is he supposed to mend your bond after talking so recklessly, so emotionally? “Tom, I’m not here to be a fairy godmother, I’m being strictly medical. At a certain point, what you feel in your mind affects your body. So I prescribe that you talk to Y/N and say everything you need to say.”

And while that seemed easy enough, Tom’s ego was at work again, and Tom was feeling far too bruised and wounded to speak to you first. Surely if you cared enough, if you liked him back, if you were willing to be distanced, you would reach out first.

It seems Tom’s pride had forgotten that you already did.

“I heard that this is the exact shit that happened in Cleveland, and he couldn’t get the line out.” Tom hears the whisperings from behind the camera, the amount of familiar faces in the crew dwindling after the change in location. He doesn’t respond. He waits for someone to take five. And when no one throws him a bone, he asks Harry to.

“Alright, everyone take five.”

“Someone get this kid a fucking coffee, he’s always on edge.” Joe instructs.

“And you think giving a kid in twenties coffee is taking him off edge?” Anthony chuckles.

Tom doesn’t care whether or not he gets the coffee, rocking side to side. He’s got all the motion for this role, but he feels nothing. All he felt was for you.

“Here.” Harry sets a Moroccan mint tea down next to Tom, hoping it would calm him down. When Tom takes a few sips, the look in his eyes is less pleading, and everyone’s ready to rumble, this being the last scene of the day.

Harry feeds Tom the line. “Baby, are you seeing bad things?” Tom is seeing bad things. A life without love, a life without you. Unable to contain it all, Tom turns his frustration into laughter. “Why are you calling me baby for, man?” Tom has this ear-to-ear grin but even he feels it's not as innocent, as genuine as yours. He never knew a smile so wide could be so full of pain.

“I have an idea.” Harry saunters off to collect his phone. “Don’t stop rolling the cameras.”

When Harry comes back, there’s sounds of shifting erupting from his phone. “Hi, Tom.”

Tom didn’t know it would be so bittersweet to hear your voice again. He wasn’t sure if he should put walls up again or if twice was the charm. Even if you worked out in the short term, whose to say Tom wouldn’t get hurt again? And Tom wouldn’t want to hurt you.

“Are they taking good care of you out there? I don’t think I took good care of you.” Tom doesn’t say anything on the other side of the line, so you continue. “I’m not a good A.D. if you’re always sick and tired, and I didn’t want to see you any less, which was selfish of me, so I didn’t change your schedule.” You sigh as you admit why you left. “When you asked, though, I swear I was gonna do it, but then I heard you liked me, and I got carried away. I had to remove myself from the situation to do what’s best for you. Do you understand me? I did it for you.”

“I, uh, I got a diagnosis.” Tom stumbles.

“Oh my gosh, are you seriously sick?”

“I’m speechless. Over the edge, breathless.” Tom laughed dryly, finally feeling like he can choose an ending.

“What did they say it was?”

“Lovebug.” Harry smiles softly at his brother.

Your laugh is like nectar entering Tom’s ear.

“I might just love you way too much, Y/N.”

“Are you sure you’re doin’ okay?” Tom tries his best not to sound dejected that you didn’t say it back, knowing he’s already felt the brunt of this heartache already.

“I just miss you, that’s all.”

“I miss you too. I love you.” Joe stops recording, and Harry lowly whispers ‘take.fucking.five.’ as he and the crew creep away from Tom’s new found love scene.

“Anthony, can I borrow your phone?” Harry begins to type Nikki’s number as soon as Anthony gives over the phone. “Mum, Tom just told the first A.D. he’s in love with them so guess who’s out of a job?”

Tom knows why he’s sick. He used to feel like love was trudging up a high hill he couldn’t come down from, where every beat of heart was feeling like an ache on an open wound. Tom had yet to meet a lover to prove distance makes the heart grow fonder, finding himself in six month long entanglements and illusions of love before things inevitably went sour. But now, Tom has found you.

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sultanaesma · 4 years ago

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DENIZ BAYSAL, 24, ESMA SULTAN. ❝ ⤚⟶ EUROPE, 1458. THANKS IS GIVEN BY THE SULTANA , ESME SULTAN FROM OTTOMAN EMPIRE. THEY ARE AT BEST AMIABLE, AND AT THEIR WORST WEAK-WILLED. WHILST ABROAD, THEIR AMBITION IS TO INTEGRATE INTO EUROPEAN CULTURE. SHE SEEM/S TO REMIND EVERYONE OF DENIZ BAYSAL & CAREFUL CLEASING OF THE HANDS AND FEET IN PREPARATION FOR PRAYER, GLIMMERS OF GEMS WITHIN MIDNIGHT-DARK HAIR, ELABORATE ARABIC SCRIPT WRITTEN IN GRACEFUL PENMANSHIP. ❞

FULL NAME : esma sultan of the ottoman empire

TITLES : sultana

BIRTHPLACE : constantinople, anatolia

AGE : 24

LANGUAGES :

native : arabic, ottoman turkish

high proficiency : persian

intermediate : latin, french

learning : german

DYNASTY / HOUSE: osman

MOTHER & FATHER : sultan iskender and haseki sultan nehir

SPOUSE : n/a

ISSUE : n/a

SIBLINGS : murad, mihrimah, hiranur’s daughter (half), branimira’s son (half)

OTHER : engaged to the prince of austria

ZODIAC : cancer

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION : muslim

ORIENTATION : biromantic

PERSONALITY TYPE : infp

VICES : sloth, pride

VIRTUES : patience, charity

FACECLAIM : deniz baysal

HEIGHT : 5'7

RECOGNISABLE FEATURES : wide smile, strong brow

REPUTATION IN FLORENCE : graceful, witty and kind, a person who easily extends the hand of friendship to others and is known for their sweet and patient countenance

WANTED CONNECTIONS : female friendships of all kinds and creeds, relationships with other characters with a high degree of piety, regardless of their faith, perhaps somebody who doesn’t like her to explore how she would react to this happening, relationships with somebody politically inclined who can take advantage of her naivety.

App Bits

Esma knows too much, and that has long been her problem in life. She knows much, but says nothing, keeping her mouth occupied with pretty smiles and honeyed words rather than speaking her mind. This passive countenance has led to two situations that she isn't entirely pleased with, the first being her elder brother's claim. Whilst Esma does not scorn or dislike Murad, she is aware of the instability that comes with a position in the Ottoman court - especially the most prestigious of all, that of the sultan. She worries for him, should he ever succeed their father, believing his ailments render him unsuitable for the role, unable to see the snakes in the grass, and more than that, worries that he will be unable to maintain the glorious victories their father has achieved over the years. The second is a far more personal matter. Esma is truly dedicated to the Ottoman Empire, willing to serve however she can, however, she isn't certain that renouncing her faith in order to take her place in the Holy Roman Empire is the best way to do so. A devout woman, she greatly fears the day she will have to wed, and does not want any children she bears to grow up outside of the Islamic religion. She isn't used to speaking her mind, keeping her opinions veiled behind what she thinks others want to hear, but time is rapidly running out, and with the walls closing in, she must find her tongue or else lose her chance to shape her own destiny.

The model of an Ottoman princess, Esma is beautiful, and known to be a kind and popular figure. The grace she exudes does not come naturally to her, though, but is the result of years of careful work and tutoring to cultivate her outer façade - though she does not see this as an act on her part, rather than a deep desire to better herself. A selfless woman, everything she does is in service of her father's rule, and her devotion to her faith, the two most important things in her life. Academic and intelligent, her wit quickly earns the friendship of others, though her inherent sweetness helps to maintain those friendships, and she never uses her humour against others. However, Esma is a coward, unable to voice her true feelings for fear of having others think ill of her. She can flawlessly speak what she believes others want to hear from her, but bites her tongue when it comes to her own opinions - particularly if those opinions are set to rock the boat. Indecisive, and perhaps a little shallow, she can easily be won over by well-placed words and pretty things, and can be a little naïve to the machinations of others, leaving her vulnerable to be used as a pawn by other's scheming. Though she is aware of such plots occurring, she is not as bright as she believes she is, and struggles to see such things when aimed at her, or when coming from somebody she has already put her easily-earned trust in.

Esma has often dreamed of being married since childhood, idealising the view of her future husband in her head. As a young girl, she could often be found playing with dolls, imagining the day when they would be replaced by her own sweet babes in her arms. As she’s grown older, the desire for matrimony and motherhood has only intensified, but Esma never imagined she would be marrying into a European country. In her mind, the only option was ever a Muslim prince, or at worst, a worthy man from her own country. The idea of conversion is terrifying to the young Sultana, who despite her vast knowledge of the world, knows little of Catholicism, and fears what awaits her in the afterlife should she turn her back on the religion she has devoted her life to. Similarly, the idea of raising her children in a different faith fills her with revulsion. She does not see the path ahead of her, as consort to an Austrian Prince, as anything but a tool from which the sultan can expand his power, and whilst she is usually more than eager to aid in bettering the empire by however she can, she sees this move less as betterment and more as a means of control by European factions. Thus, she quietly works to convince her family to support her in ending the relationship as subtly as she can for fear of worsening international relations.

Esma is a gifted writer and meticulous diary keeper. As a woman who keeps so much hidden away inside, locked away for herself and herself alone, she finds writing her thoughts and feelings down to be the sole way in which she can fully express herself, a therapeutic endeavour that helps her maintain her placid countenance. She fears what would happen if anybody were to find and read her writings, especially with so much weighing on her mind. Recently, she has taken to developing her own code, so that anybody who stumbles across her diaries would find nothing they could possibly hope to decipher, and the thoughts within her mind remain as private as possible

#crhs.intro #the only gif i will ever use of this pretty baby #since she has no period resources rip

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rosepyrearchive · 4 years ago

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𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

an experiment of posting a drabble a day, from a few sentences to a paragraph or more. i posted them on my old blog, now i’m going to compile them all here !

fingers carefully shift the lavender crystal in betwixt her thin fingers. for years, it had remained faithfully at the base of her throat, the way wolves protect each other’s most delicate parts; her father always did the same. now, there’s somewhere else she’d like to place that power, that protection. what color would the crystal turn, when placed in anakin’s palm ? blue, like his eyes, or red, like the blood he sheds ? the choker she once wore, pastel colored velvet around her neck, has an empty slot where she’d pulled the gem from, and now it finds a new home on a long chain of beskar; where she imagines it will press right in the middle of his chest, beneath his tunic & tabard. no matter what becomes of him, or what tries to hurt him . . . the chain and crystal will remain.

ii.

in her mother’s arms, she is just a daughter, a doll. on stage, she is better than a mortal girl, or even the immortal one she became; she’s a ballerina in tufts of pink & tulle. i am a good girl, even now when they’re all in the ground. now that the curtains of earth & velvet have fallen, though, who is she ? who does she become, without the pale pink ribbons & tight bodice of her costumes ? the voice, the visions, the hallucinations seem to answer for her; a ghost, a hazy, obscure daydream who cannot truly exist. who is she ? where does the camouflage, the eagerness to please end ? serena supposes it doesn’t end at all; and in that, she is a russian doll of nothingness.

iii.

she’s never seen him without his helmet. no one has, serena imagines — not in this state of his life, where removing it means deprivation and vulnerability; the simple act and thought is filled with an intimacy serena knows she could never earn from him, but … the yearning doesn’t stop, nor does the longing and curiosity to see his pallid skin, scarred & tainted, the marks that must cover his cheeks and chest. where do they end ? are they like ripples in waves or a pattern ? and … when she stands near him, does he ever look at her ? the blackness of his shield hides it all, and it does it’s job in making her nervous; serena can never stand still in his presence, thighs shaking and nails digging trench tracks into her soft palms. darth vader is terrible, awful, even cruel … so what is it that allures her so deeply, and why ? then again, if she knew, perhaps the shimmering butterflies would subside and she could see clearly, see this for what it was. he wasn’t even using her — and she is the very picture of devotion.

iv.

to what end does the fae steal a fair maiden ? or is it truly a crime, when the victim is so terribly willing ? allie’s feet move so mesmerizingly, around & around while flowers and mushrooms bloom from beneath her soles; her palm is so open – ❪ come to me, serena ! ❫ perspiration of late summer sticks to serena’s forehead, betwixt her rosy fingers, ❪ 𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂 ? 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙴 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚈 … ❫ and without a regret, she lays her hand in the other girl’s. she sups on honeyed milk, gives her name. the fairies covet gold, and what is serena, if not well - dressed in a golden shroud, from her crown to the hem of her long dress ? what does she have to fear, when she is magic all on her own ? allie’s hand lifts both of theirs high as she twirls serena amidst the flowers, and she swears she can feel grass grow from her steps.

calloused fingers dig deep into serena’s sweet, soft dimples; and from her jaw, trickles of sweet wine drip, down her neck, like spilled rubies on her pale skin. you hurt me, she wants to say. you’ve hurt me, and i am the one who’s sorry. hollis draws his thumb down to her chin, leaving perfect smudged fingerprints across her the way one would drag their fingers across a fogged glass. his eyes are a dull, venomous green as he calls her a name that doesn’t belong to her. that isn’t me, serena wants to cry. non, mon rêve, you’re much prettier than she ever was, hollis would reply, because this isn’t the first time. he squeezes bruises into her little arms as he kisses her, and serena thinks she kisses him back.

vi.

allow the camera to pan upwards, from her pale pink ballet slippers into her soft cotton dress, her feet turn out in first position as she raises her hands into fourth, pulled up by soft silk strings by an invisible puppeteer. the stage is her church, a massive, all encompassing world of history & grace, and then the world becomes it’s own stage; and serena’s performance is all consumed, like an apple in the garden of eden. isn’t she so lovely, so flawless, our little ballerina ornament ? serena doesn’t know who, or what, controls her actions – her lies, her pliés. some entity who refuses to present themselves, only bothering to choreograph her life & watch her from behind the scenes; she is both fresh as a flower, brought up in springtime, & as broken as skeletons that have long withered to dusk in their caskets. even in her most secluded moments, she does not feel alone – not truly. this puppet master is always watching, writing their script, judging her arches and how gracefully she can slide across the floor in her pointe shoes. when she takes her final bow, it’s only the studio mirror that gazes back at her, her own doelike brown eyes, her own slim form – there’s no cables attaching her to the ceiling.

this life is so very boring, so unlike the dreamy world she longed for as a foolish girl. i had long ruined my own life with my own dissatisfaction before someone else destroyed it for me.

viii.

longing lurks deep behind a golden - brown gaze / what comfort can she take in the jedi code, when it’s cold, hard … and ben’s hand is warm, all encompassing ? the code, the code … the temple is a stage, and the council pulls her strings, but the one thing they can’t take from her is her mind; in there, she is strong, stone. they encourage compassion: but no attachments. what is that, to her ? what is it compared to the sunlight she feels in ben’s eyes when he leans down to kiss her temple, or the delight serena can see in him when she enters the room ? ❪ because love is the death of duty, as wiser men say ❫ in many ways, she is greater than other girls; a doll - like padawan, bright, intelligent – but in the end, she is still human, and she finds no love within the code / only does she find the serenity it speaks of in ben’s embrace, and the way he bends over at the waist to hold her, and he is all around her like cologne. that is a glory & a tragedy worth dying for.

viii.

fear has always cut deep within serena’s soft skin; it was easy to pull her apart like a pomegranate, see the little pin - prick razors of fright, but nothing had made her so afraid since meeting the jedi. she’s a fragile heart wound tightly in red ribbons and strings, each tied to the pinkie finger of every person she loves. some of the ends are cut, some fray towards the latter, but she doesn’t forget. she doesn’t let go, not in her deep heart, where they are safe. the jedi don’t agree; and her body wracks with guilt as she resists placing ribbons on their fingers. they cannot love me, she knows / so why isn’t it enough to stop her ?

ix.

every part of my body aches. serena sits on the hard bathroom floor like a stain on the tile, the tulle of her practice skirt shimmering in the dim fluorescents. the plastic stall divider is freezing against her shoulders, and it hurts when her head falls back against it. the bathroom is empty, but the room is loud. DISGUSTING GIRL. IT HURTS. what hurts ? I CAN’T FIND IT ANYMORE, IT’S SPREAD LIKE A POISON. she finds sanctuary in her own little white lies, and this stall where none of the other ballerinas go – she’s a soloist, a prima; she is special. allegedly. she barely notices the wine - red trickle of blood that spills from her nose, gravity pulling it down her perfect pale face. the relief is nearly instant, whatever ache she’d had seems to fade away / her eyes hone in on the empty plastic bag, only remnants of white pill powder left. the same resin seems to linger on the tip of her pointe shoe, that she’d used to crush it all up. the urge to smash the wooden end of her slipper into the stupid godforsaken plastic container as hard as she can and see how much damage she can do washes over her; but she’s too shocked by the sudden violent urge to act on it. instead, serena lets the clarity & ability to focus drown out the voices that scream in her tender head, and brings herself to stand.

❪ 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊 ❫

pink silk shimmers in the early morning sun; her blush is just as pretty, sitting across from her father at the iron balcony table. he is her king, her first love, and serena revels in the attention her father lavishes on her. everything is still so new, so beautiful, when she’s young – serena dreams of the future, of white veils and cotillions. her distance isn’t yet defensive, but a sweet daydream, of romantic notions & hopes. serena dreams of the far away, of paris and rushing crowds. you have the carlisle look, julian had told her, once. your brother has it too. someday, this world will be wrapped around your little finger. be kind to it. serena had smiled so lovely at that – let the world be kind. let it show her kindness.

xi.

❪ 𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘 ❫

this is a private moment; but serena can feel the hidden camera lenses on her, seeking that million dollar photo of palpable grief, or the bullet hole in her father’s chest, as if it weren’t hidden from view behind his favorite suit. she won’t cry. serena had already emptied herself of every golden tear when she’d cleaned her father’s face, when she’d combed his hair. she was the one who’d laid his arms over his chest, with her favorite stuffed animal between them to keep him company. august pulls all her curls behind her head, and lays his hands on her thin shoulders, squeezing just enough to be a reassurance. a million questions ran through her head – every single one beginning with why.

her fingers drift, softly, for the last time, over her father’s cheek. she pretends it’s warm with life, and not chilling to the bone. if he could be killed, then no one is safe.

xii.

❪ 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ❫

be kind to the world. serena’s innocence had died screaming, yet she still remembers the words her father had told her. sunlight streams through the trees above, but she is too stiff to move just yet; so she lies there in the grass, flowers having bloomed over the years of her sleep through her hair and around her body. a new era has begun, everything she knows is gone. everyone she loves is gone. maybe it’s the haziness of first waking up after a half - century, but there’s a determination beneath her silk skin, her ivory bones. serena has become something new, just as the world has – beneath the porcelain, her ribs have grown steel. she will not be so breakable ever again.

xiii.

in the movies, pearls are always being yanked from necks, the precious little beads clattering to the hardwood floor in bunches. serena allows the pretty necklace to drift through her fingers, remembering the time her mother had wrapped it around her neck. she’d felt like such a little madam in her maman’s pearls. there’s a little secret: those pearls in films, dramatic as they were, were fake. maman’s were genuine, and the little pieces were knotted in between, meaning even if she’d ripped them from her throat, only one or two at worst would go missing. her mother was too much of a lady, anyway … prone to melancholy and hurt, but not quite fits. what a complicated love, the one between a mother & a daughter … serena finds herself missing her mother’s arms more often than not these days, and the security that came with them.

xiv.

valentine’s day has always been a non - affair romantically; her favorites were dinner dates with her family, the men being the gentlemen, and the one day her maman would let her wear her red lipstick. the couples on the street below her balcony make her feel something, but is it jealousy, or nostalgia ? her palm cradles her jaw as she leans against the iron barrier. a man kisses a woman, and why does her heart lurch for something so impossible ? to love, to be loved … she would never be capable of it, her last boyfriend had told her so. adam had as well. anyone who would want to spend this day with her is dead, and no one else could accept the things she’d done, the person she’s become beneath the lace and ribbons. hallowed, broken.

xv.

i hate the dirt. i hate the grime that i can’t wash away, and the fingerprint i leave on the pristine envelope that the postman gives me, his gaze apologetic. until i look at the handwriting, i don’t understand why. it’s been a week since he could last reach us on the battlefield, to give us some form of comfort and relief, and he only gives me a single letter. there should be more. serena writes to me every day, there should be at least six or seven, all beginning with my dearest brother; but even the single letter isn’t from my sister, but my wife. i should be excited for that, but i’m not – not when i can’t fathom why there’s only this one letter. when i tear into it, a picture falls out: my wife, holding our son. this is a happy moment, and i can feel pressure build behind my eyes, but it’s distracted, because serena should be in this photo. she isn’t, because for some godforsaken reason she’s here in europe – and that’s enough to push the tears from my eyes. i should be there, and serena should be holding her nephew and accepting our request to be his godmother.

but she isn’t, and i’m not either.

xvi.

the streets of new york now aren’t so different from the streets of new york in my childhood. the fashion is different; women wear shorter skirts, deeper cuts to expose their collarbones, and these are changes i like. the buildings still creep into the clouds like pillars of divinity, and the sidewalks are crowded, but no one pays too much attention to anyone else. the men dress differently too, and those changes i don’t like, but if i sit and close my eyes … it’s still all the same, and i can picture the cars, the pretty women and handsome men … even my silly little girl friends, the ones who would walk with me during breaks in ballet when we had so little else to do. when i close my eyes, it doesn’t feel like a lifetime ago.

xvii.

it happens gradually, then all at once, like the impatience of waiting for a rose to blossom. one day you wake up, and it’s simply bloomed, petals spread wide in the sunshine. in that case, serena wonders which moment it was that made her realize her feelings for ben had flowered ── was it the time his fingers grazed hers on the piano keys, and he played the wrong note to make her laugh ? or perhaps when he smiled at her so earnestly, all white teeth and curled lips that met the crinkles by his eyes ? she can’t pinpoint the exact moment she realized she loves ben kenobi; serena only knows what she feels now, the safety of his warm hugs, the way the word ‘graves’ slips between her teeth and she doesn’t choke trying to reel it back in. home was something impossible, turned to ash & bone, but then she finds herself sitting at their table in the coffee shop & she thinks perhaps a home can be rebuilt.

xviii.

prayer used to come first thing in the morning, a mantra spoken breathlessly to open air. it’s not an ideology that serena subscribes to anymore ❪ part of her wonders if she ever did ❫ , but old habits had died hard. she wants to enjoy a new one. ben is there, barely awake while thick raindrops smack against the balcony doors, and serena shimmies his boxers down his thighs. she’s already asked him nicely, with her polite manners and pretty mouth ── and she tries to mask her eagerness with languid movements, laying her cheek to his hip and letting her long curls fall over his body. serena knows he can feel her by the way he shudders when her eyelashes flit over him, her rose - petal fingers everywhere and nowhere because they aren’t exactly where ben wants them. you should tell me what you like, serena offers with a wicked little smile, dragging his hand until he can grip her curls, holding sunshine in his palms.

xix.

when the legs beat against each other in the midst of a jete, it’s a battu jete … beaten. everything is more beautiful in french, and serena thinks it’s true of herself as well. she had been her company director’s little princess, sliding into his queen; she would’ve been the youngest prima ballerina in history. she would’ve had a life. she would’ve had a brother. orson does so much for her, and serena can hardly find it in herself to be grateful, can hardly repeat the pleasantries and manners she’d been taught to sing since she was a little girl letting words tumble from her mouth. instead, serena tries to create a peaceful world, she jumps at the chance to redesign the building he buys, create a setting of her own making; only to lay under the covers, sleeping next to a pillow she pretends is august.

xx.

disgusting. vile. serena watches august rip a newspaper in half, once, twice, then three times, letting the pieces fly onto the floor and cover the coffee table. the headline had once read about her, calling her a top three debutante in new york’s uppercrust society. not just in the top three, but ranked number one. shouldn’t we be proud ? serena asks him. shouldn’t i be flattered ? august had fallen to his knees in front of the chaise where she sat after that, holding her little hands in his own. he squeezes them so tight serena winces. tell me, he begs. tell me if anyone ever touches you. tell me, and i’ll kill them. with all the naivety in the world, serena giggles, shaking her head. nonsense, my darling brother. the only man i love is you; and the only man who shall ever touch me is not here yet.

xxi.

the sunlight doesn’t seem so bright, but the city is just as bustling as the last time she’d seen it. what year had that been ? somewhere around nineteen forty, serena thinks. her old ballet studio has moved; it’s previous location now just another parking lot in new york city. everything about it gives her whiplash. it’s all the same and all entirely different. she almost expects to see august across the street, handsome smile & hair swept back, but she knows she won’t. he’s dead, and so is everyone else she ever knew. there’s a pressure on her shoulders, wondering when someone will notice the imaginary blood seeping out of her core, or when someone will realize she’s half - dead. little walking dead girl, schrodinger’s girl, dead and alive.

xxii.

photographs from another era are spread all across the wooden table serena sits at, glimmering and shining in their black and white glory, sepia, and even a few colored ones. they all had a touch of grain to them, the consequence of new, unperfected technology, but serena adores them. after all, in every photo she sees the face of someone she loves. her grandfather royce, cradling the toddler version of herself in his arms, and then them at a later age, serena with her arms wrapped tightly around him. in another photo, serena sits in his lap, while her grandmother, the woman for whom she was named, hugs them both from behind. so many lost smiles, shining with no idea of what’s to come. her finger traces along another photo, of her mother posing with her in her first pair of pointe shoes. she’d been so proud that day, and serena can’t help but smile back at her. these little moments are all she has left now; what if she forgets it all someday ? at least she won’t forget their faces. serena glues the back of the photos, pasting them into a scrapbook. there are new people she doesn’t want to forget someday as well, and for them, serena glances at a newer camera. she doesn’t have to forget.

xxiii.

moy lebed. my swan. mr. nikolaev calls her that, from the first moment he saw her complete the thirty - two fouettés in odile’s coda. serena sighs into the open studio. the sky has long gone dark, and every other dancer and crew member has gone home — but she remains. this is the dedication that will make me the prima, serena reminds herself. this is what sets me apart. she counts the steps in her head until she loses herself to the imagined music, eyes closed while she moves her arms and tip - toes across the floor. serena is the very picture of a music box ballerina when she kicks her foot up, finding her north star and turning in pirouettes. not even the quiet opening of a door interrupts her focus. august takes her little waist in his hands and helps to give her the extra momentum. then he hoists her over his shoulder, telling her how mother is so worried, and she has to come home right away… all spoken with his hidden, wry smile.

xxiv.

i had never tried to impress anyone the way i’d tried to impress mr. nikolaev, my ballet master and choreographer. my every waking moment was spent under his scrutinizing gaze, attempting to dissect his utter dissatisfaction with the world for it’s lack of grace and beauty and what he felt towards me specifically … all in a leotard and tights that would only leave the color of my skin to our imaginations, and mirrors on every wall reminding me of that fact. i don’t know if i tried harder to gain his attention in the first place, or if i would have killed myself trying to keep it. no girl is ever more beautiful than they are at sixteen, and though i didn’t realize it, perhaps if i had lived to see him again in my later years he would’ve been impressed with my freckles, my dimples, and my big eyes at the age of twenty – i’ve heard i don’t look so different. still, i was even more girlish then than i am now, and three times as shy ; ballet was all i could use to get him to look at me, to make him pay attention & perhaps remember why he took this job in the first place after his own short, but famed career. i would be perfect ; not just for him, but for myself. it didn’t hurt anything that i was his little prima prodigy. he smiled for the first time when he called me his moy lebed, his swan, and i can’t remember the last thing, even now, that had made my heart soar so much.

xxv.

‘are you ready?’ on the cusp of spring in the midst of march, lies serena’s birthday. thirteen is such a special age for a girl ; not quite a woman yet, not quite a girl anymore, but leaving the throes of childhood behind. august’s question comes with an excited edge to his voice and a slim box in his hands, with pink wrapping paper and white ribbons. the other guests at the party had long dissipated, and serena sits on the edge of her bed, feet swinging back and forth to dissipate a bit of the thrill she feels. ‘i’ve been waiting all day!’ is what serena replies, taking the gift into her lap. her brother sits down next to her ; he’s twenty, seven years older, and a man grown, but it’s as if there’s no difference between them as august wraps his arm around her waist, matching brown eyes gleaming as he watches her carefully pry apart the paper to reveal a box of velvet. ‘it’s sentimental,’ august had said, as to why he couldn’t let her open it amongst the guests. private, serena thinks. her brother was always a private man. when she lifts the lid, and august uses his other hand to fold away the white paper, it reveals a precious, heart - shaped golden locket. he pulls it out by the chain, letting the pendent rest in serena’s palms. ‘it’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,’ serena says, eyes glimmering. august’s fingers snap the clasp, and inside, a photo of himself on one side, and then a photo of their parents from their wedding day on the other. serena beams as august closes it then places the necklace around her neck, the pendent falling just at her collarbones. ‘it’s beautiful, my wonderful brother,’ she says, and august kisses her crown. ‘it’s almost as lovely as you, my sweet little sister, and you deserve lovely things. this way, we’ll always be with you.’

xxvi.

julian’s wedding band was like him ; it was a simple golden band, with ivy growing around it, interrupted only by a diagonal line of diamonds. when serena tilts it back, she can see her mother’s name engraved in it. eirene’s was a little flashier, with a bigger diamond in the center. it wasn’t because of her personality, though … in that, serena can still see her father, wanting to impress her, wanting to give his wife the world. julian’s ring occupies her left thumb ; she couldn’t bear to get it resized for her dainty hands, so it’s the best she could manage. he’d had a lithe frame, and for that she’s thankful – serena remembers sliding the ring off of his finger when she’d crossed his arms over his chest, holding it between her fingers. she had to have it. her mother had worn hers until the very last, until she had slipped from serena’s hand into the ocean’s embrace. serena had only been able to just clasp the ring, before it too could fall from her grasp. now, it rests on her index finger, where at least on her hands, her parents could still be together.

#◞ ⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐔𝐄 ⠀ ⠀ —— ⠀ ⠀ the sweetest flowerets gleam.#◞ ⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 ⠀ ⠀ —— ⠀ ⠀ may these memories break our fall.

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years ago

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libera nos a malo Chapter 4: The Victory of Pyrrhus

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 4/20

libera nos a malo masterpost+

unstoppable force/immovable object masterpost+

<< chapter three+

chapter five+ >>

“You’ve done very well today, Miss Miranda,” pronounced Healer A’isha as she ran her wand over Miranda’s body and studied the translucent diagnostic image that superimposed itself on Miranda’s skin as she did. “I am very pleased with what I see here.”

“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without Severus dogging me,” replied Miranda with a wry smile, trying not to look at the sickening sight of her color-coded internal organs on display for the room to see. The examination table she was lying on was making her shiver, even as the acrid smell of the hospital room made her stomach churn. Severus seemed to sense her discomfort, silently taking one of her trembling hands and lacing his fingers through hers while the Healer did her poking and prodding. Like many people, Miranda hated anything resembling a hospital, and it bothered her how quickly being in one reduced her to a mass of overwrought nerves.

“Yes, and a terrible patient you were too,” Severus observed. By the glint in his eye, she suspected he was baiting her on purpose—he knew her well enough to understand that an angry Miranda was more grounded than a frightened one.

“Hmm…” Healer A’isha hummed. Internal examination completed, she vanished the grotesque spell and lifted the hem of Miranda’s robe in order to examine the scars sprawling over the American’s abdomen. Although they were still an angry shade of red, the skin was tightly closed over the wounds. One more set of battle souvenirs for her to remember her adventures by.

“Well, what do you think?” Miranda asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of her voice.

“I think that you may resume light duties tonight. But if you receive any further injuries, I expect you to come straight here. The wounds are closed, but still inflamed by the căpcăun venom.”

“If it would be more prudent for her to continue to avoid active duty, perhaps another fortnight of rest would be advisable,” Severus said.

Miranda shot him a glare, but he was looking over her head at the Healer and avoiding her eyes completely.

“No, I think we can let you try your wings, Miss Miranda.” She pulled a roll of parchment out of her lime green robes and waved her wand over it. A florid script enumerating a list of potions and balms appeared on it, and Miranda was pleased to see that this new regimen was significantly shorter than the one she was currently subject to. “Please take this down to the apothecary, and wait for him to fill the order. We’ll cut back your healing potion to twice daily, and I’ve ordered a different balm for your scars that will not require bandaging. You understand the magical and physical exercises you should perform, and also the limits you should respect?”

“I do,” Miranda said.

“Excellent. Please return in two weeks so that I may see how you do with the increased activity. If all goes well we can lengthen the time between appointments again.”

“Thank you Healer A’isha.”

“You are very welcome. Good day, Professor Severus.”

“Healer A’isha,” he returned.

The door closed softly behind the Healer, and Severus helped Miranda sit up on the edge of the narrow bed. She let her hand slide up his arm, weaving her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck and he gave her half a smile before leaning down to kiss her. His thin lips were hungry on hers, coaxing sighs from her and swallowing them eagerly until she felt quite boneless in his embrace.

“So you did miss me,” she teased, surprised by the ardor of his welcome, especially since a nurse or a Healer might wander in at any moment and shame them like a pair of naughty teenagers.

“Surprising is it not?” he replied, peppering her face with feather-light kisses that made her lean towards him; aching for more satisfactory contact. “If you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps we might retire to you cabin.”

Oh, right. Her cabin. The heat that his touch had inspired in her body snuffed out and she pulled away from him, swinging over the opposite side of the table and beginning to dress with business-like efficiency.

“Well, about that,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but one of my brothers decided to come back with me.”

His shoulders tensed up a quarter-inch the way they always did when she said something that he didn’t care for.

“I see.”

“Finn wouldn’t take no for an answer. I think he wants to vet you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the funniest thing. Even though I’m a grown woman, he still sees me as his baby sister and gets inconveniently protective at the most inopportune times.” She sat down on the edge of the bed to lace up her boots, turning her back on Severus’s pointed gaze. “Anyway, he’s back at the ranch sleeping, and I’m honestly exhausted myself. My body has no idea what time it is anymore. I was thinking I’d go back and catch some sleep before my shift with Aaron, and maybe you could mosey over to the cabin later tonight, say 10ish, and get the worst over with.”

“I see.”

The enigmatic answer snapped what was left of Miranda’s paltry patience. Between the the portkey lag and the guilt that was weighing on her over not extending a proper Christmas invitation to Severus in the first place, she was rather done-in.

“Look, you don’t have to meet him if you don’t want to,” she said angrily. “He’s not all bad. I mean, he’s an ass, but so are you. You might get along.”

Her cheeks were flaming when she stood up to face him—just in time to see a flash of pain twist his expression before he could banish it behind an impassive mask.

“As you like, Miranda,” he shrugged, feigning indifference. “I am willing to meet your brother if you wish for me to do so.”

The victory gave her no pleasure—maybe she should start kicking puppies for fun in her spare time too.

“Great. I’ll see you after work then.”

“Yes. You will.”

His response was half promise and half challenge; and she was within a hair’s breadth of allowing a casual I love you to escape her lips. But she bit her tongue to trap the impish spark from escaping.

She’d learned the hard way what came of lighting a campfire with kerosene.

*****

It should have been a pleasant night. The mercury was well above freezing, and Shoreditch was still sporting her Christmas finery; with twinkling lights and holly wrapped around every lamppost and store window. But the mist that might have made the neighborhood blur into a sugarplum fantasy sat thick and muddy like cold pea soup—unyielding, unappetizing, cloying in the lungs until one wanted to gasp for air.

“Maggie was cute as a bug at Mass yesterday,” Aaron said as he and Miranda patrolled through the abandoned streets. “Good as gold too. Didn’t make a peep until the end when she started trying to sing with the choir.”

His cheerful voice grated on Miranda’s fraying nerves. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Naw, you were right to go home. The folks must’ve been glad to see you.”

“They were. Finn even insisted on coming back for a spell.”

“That’s great! Why don’t y’all come to Mass with us on Sunday?”

Aaron’s relentless good mood was beginning to warm her. “That could work. Finn was talking about wanting to go down to Landanwg in Wales that day. Seamus is sending him on a wild goose chase after some album.”

“Landanwg? I’ve been meaning to get back down there. Best cawl on the island in my opinion, and the church is something to see.”

“Sounds like it’s settled then.”

The wind picked up and Miranda wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. She could feel her left shoulder riding high, and even the basic Hominum Revelio she’d used earlier in the shift had been fuzzy at best. If Aaron was aware of her struggles—and she’d be surprised if he weren’t—he was polite enough not to draw attention to them.

“I couldn’t believe the number of dresses Rachel’s mother sent for Maggie. I doubt that baby’ll wear above half of them before she grows out of the duds.”

“You made a good baby, Aaron.”

“I think so, if I do say so my…”

His voice trailed off and Miranda shivered, the hair on her arms standing on end as though some electric shock at touched her skin. Aaron’s shift from doting father to deadly Auror was instantaneous, and both of them had their wands in hand as they searched the mist for whatever foul stench had disturbed them.

“Did you hear something?” Miranda asked in a low voice.

Aaron put a finger on her arm and tapped,

NOT DO YOU HEAR SOMETHING DO YOU SMELL SOMETHING

Her fingers tensed around her alder wand, and she fancied it clung to the palm of her hand, ready to defend her to the last. Beside her, Aaron’s body was going through a set of inhuman contortions, until he dropped down on all fours and sprang into the midst, his dapper suit exchanged for the form of a massive bloodhound. He restrained himself to a sedate pace that his partner, hampered by her merely human legs might have a prayer of following, and she ran lightly after him, flicking her wand at her feet to muffle the crunch of the snow beneath her boots.

The chase led them to a residential street, lined with townhouses and matched hazelnut hedgerows. Aaron made short work digging a path through one of the bushes, and Miranda was able to push through after him without any trouble. She stopped short on the other side, where she found her friend nosing the body of a young woman, lying close on the ground with a dark haired man. The blood on the twisted corpses had barely congealed, and a juvenile thestral was boldly snaking around the bodies, eager to feast on the scent of death. Miranda stared down the sulfurous creature, and it recoiled, distrustful of a witch that was willing to meet its burning eyes.

Aaron barked once in question, and the old rhythm of hunt and search imposed itself on Miranda’s bones. She quickly searched the bodies, discovering an unused wand, a Magical ID, and a handbag full of No-Maj paraphernalia, and shoving them into her pockets for later perusal. The wounds on their bodies were sickeningly familiar, and she wondered if this were Severus’s handiwork; or if he’d taught his signature curse to that many of his Death Eater comrades.

“He was a wizard. It looks like she was No-Maj,” Miranda murmured, digging four coins out of a pocket and placing them, one by one, over the eyes that would see no more. “Eternal rest grand unto them…”

She hit the dirt as Aaron, still in his animagus form, landed hard on her back, sheltering her from the vile green light that snaked overhead and splintered the hedge behind them. Before the bark could settle, Aaron had launched himself at their assailants, bounding towards the pair of black-clad wizards that appeared from shadows between the houses. Miranda covered the bloodhound’s charge, firing blasts of white that sizzled and sparked as they collided with the red bolts exploding from the wands of the Death Eaters. Within seconds, Aaron had brought down the taller of the two, snapping and snarling while the wizard yelped and struggled under the hound’s weight. The remaining Death Eater redoubled his attack, leaving his companion to fend for himself as he advanced on Miranda, red curses flying.

It was a duel that would have bored her to tears six months earlier, but tonight Miranda was hard pressed to keep up with the frenzy of deadly spells, and soon she was muttering her incantations through gritted teeth. Sweat poured from her brow as she forced hex after hex, humiliated by her puny efforts. At least Severus wasn’t here to witness them.

“Fuck!” she swore, crumpling to the ground as a nasty curse caught her square in the stomach. One arm went protectively around the wound as she rolled through her fall, and she could feel the skin crackling beneath her tunic as she gasped with pain.

By the time she managed to hobble to her feet, it was over. Aaron abandoned his barely moving prize to attack Miranda’s foe, and stumbled when the Death Eater disappeared with a violent crack; reappearing an instant later at his fallen comrade’s side. Another crack and the two wizards were gone; out of range and untraceable. Aaron sniffed his way over the ground for several moments while Miranda sat back on her heels, panting and holding her injured stomach. When the southerner was satisfied with his search, he snapped up the fallen wand of the taller Death Eater and trotted to Miranda’s side. A long, low whine emanated from his throat, and he shifted back to his human form, frowning down at his friend.

“Are you alright?” he demanded, stooping next to her. “Don’t answer that, I know you’ll lie. Just let me see where he got you.”

“Fine, I’m fine,” she protested through her panting; but she didn’t struggle when he gently pushed her back so that he could roll up the hem of her tunic and prod the blackened skin beneath.

“I’m calling Fisher and Hart, and then I’m taking you to St Mungo’s.”

She pushed him away and yanked down her tunic. “No! I’ve been there once already today. If I go back this soon, Healer A’isha will put me back on disabled and I’m not going to sit on the bench anymore!”

“Listen, you bull-headed woman, you’re barely off the disabled list because you nearly died. You’re going.”

It was time to switch tactics. “What if I go home right now?” she cajoled. “Severus is going to be there, and he can clean up this mess as well as any Healer.”

She could almost see Aaron’s internal debate raging. “And you have to take the rest of the week off.”

“But…”

“No buts! I don’t need you putting my ass in danger because you’re trying to run before you can crawl.”

“Will you come by and tell me what you and the others find here tonight?”

“I will.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

“Deal.”

They spat on their palms and shook to seal the bargain, a remnant of their schoolyard days. She leaned a little harder on him than she liked as he helped her to her feet, and he did her the honor of pretending not to notice.

“Don’t worry, Mira,” he said when she was steady. “You’ll be up to speed faster than green grass through a goose. You’ve just gotta have a little patience.”

“You think?” she replied testily, giving the besmirched lawn a final look. If one more person told her to be patient, she was either going to scream, or hex the fool into next Sunday. Aaron wisely held his tongue, and she limped into the shadows to Apparate home before she could give in to the impulse.

*****

A quarter past the appointed hour was as late as Severus could force himself to arrive anywhere without breaking out in hives. He made his way up the footpath to Miranda’s cabin (he did not mosey—he never moseyed), well aware that it would likely be an hour or more before she would deign to appear. He’d spent the last half hour debating over whether or not he should knock rather than simply enter, as was his habit, and had at last settled on knocking—if only because it seemed imprudent to startle a man raised in a family of bounty hunters.

Three short raps brought his host to the door. Miranda’s brother was clad in ripped blue jeans (did the man not own proper clothing?) and a black t-shirt. His dark hair was sculpted into a somewhat taller version of the pompadour that Aaron favored, his sharp blue eyes reminded Severus uncomfortably of Conor Rose’s, and a cigarette dangled negligently from his lips. All this, of course, was overshadowed by the fact that the man seemed to have mislaid his right arm somewhere. Fortunately, Severus had plenty of practice maintaining an impassive expression while being subjected to unpleasant circumstances, and was able to keep his startled reaction to himself.

“Severus Snape, I presume,” the man said around his cigarette.

“Correct, Mr Rose,” Severus replied, shaking Finn’s left hand somewhat awkwardly with his right.

“That’s me. Guess you’d better come in.”

The window was thrown open to the winter night, and the fire was burning high in the fireplace to compensate. A supper of cold meat, cheese, and clementines was haphazardly set on the table, along with a tin of fanciful Christmas biscuits. There was a half-drunk Muggle beer on the counter next to a bucket holding a dozen more on ice. Several Muggle magazines littered the coffee table, and a racket the likes of which Severus had never endured shrieked from the turntable.

Charming.

“Mira ain’t back yet. You wanna beer?” Finn asked, pulling a bottle out of the bucket and passing it to Severus before he could reply.

Severus did not want a beer, but he suspected the alcohol might be a necessary social lubricant in the current situation. “Thank you.”

Finn sauntered over to the table, and sprawled out on one of the chairs like an ungainly cat. Severus sat down like a proper human being, and summoned a glass from the cupboard with a silent accio, pouring the dark brew into it while Finn drank directly from the bottle like his Barbarian sister. Severus took a bracing sip, and the smokey flavor pleased him more than he’d thought it would. Now if only he could drown out the caterwauling from the turntable, they might manage to feign some semblance of civilization.

“So,” Finn said, “how’d you meet my sister?”

It begins. “She, shall we say, conscripted my aid in subduing one of her marks last summer,” Severus replied with a touch of irony.

“Obliging of you. You must’ve done a decent job if she kept you around. How long’ve you been a teacher?”

“Fifteen years.”

“That sounds God-awful. Do you like it?”

“No.” He did not like this one-way interrogation either. “I take it you are part of the Rose family business?”

Finn was not going down quietly. “Yep. You’ve done a good job, by the way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not asking about my arm. I saw you gape at it, but most people would’ve missed that, you covered it so quick. You’ve got a decent poker face.”

“So I’m told.”

“Go ahead and ask.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.” This was worse than sparring with Miranda—all of the irritation and none of the pleasure.

“I mean, go ahead and ask about my arm. Most people are bustin’ at the seams to know.”

Severus was in no mood to give the man what he so clearly wanted. “I don’t see why I should care about any of the limbs you have managed to lose.”

Finn laughed and dropped the end of his cigarette into an empty beer bottle, while Severus took a long drink from his glass to steady his temper. Before either man could regroup for another tilt, the door banged open and Miranda limped through it, face pale, one arm wrapped around her stomach and the other moving from the wall to the sofa for balance. Both men were on their feet in an instant.

“What the hell happened to you?” Finn demanded.

“Nothing. A couple of Death Eaters,” Miranda replied, sinking down on the sofa.

Severus flexed his left arm involuntarily, and quickly closed the door as though he were concerned his fellows had followed Miranda home.

“Death Eaters?” Finn asked. “You mean those punks you were telling me about?”

“Yes. They got away, but one of them left his wand behind. Aaron and a couple of the other Aurors are going over the crime scene. We’ll catch them. It’s only a matter of time.”

“That still does not explain why you are limping,” Severus observed pointedly.

“I was getting to it.” She winced, pulling up her tunic to expose the blackened skin beneath. “I got hit in the fray. It feels like an adusto, and a clumsy one at that.”

Severus thrust Finn out of the way and dropped to one knee beside her to examine the wound. Fury coursed through him, causing his fingers to tremble as he ran them over the injured skin.

“What are you doing here?” he said angrily. “You should have gone to St Mungo’s. What was Aaron thinking, letting you come home in this condition?”

She flinched under his examination. “I’m not going back; I was just there. I thought you could take care of it.”

“It’s not an option. You’re going.”

“Come on, please? It’s only a little curse; no big deal.”

Her cajoling snapped the remaining thread of his patience. “Apparently nothing short of dying is a big deal to you, you daft woman! Perhaps you were not paying attention to Healer A’isha this morning, but I was. You were to return to the hospital immediately if you suffered any further injuries. Perhaps I do not wish to be a party to any more of your reckless, juvenile behavior!”

She blinked at him, obviously surprised by his unusual outburst, and he cursed himself for losing control in front of his infuriating lover and her wretched brother. A tense silence fell over the room while Severus caught his breath. Finn, seemingly unconcerned by his sister’s condition, produced a cigarette for her and a fresh one for himself, which he lit deliberately before voicing his opinion.

“Seems to me you don’t need to go pickin’ at my sister,” the American said. “Either fix her up or don’t; but there ain’t no call to be fussin’ her like a flustered ol’ school marm.”

Severus glared at the siblings and bit back the growl that was threatening to escape his throat. How it was that Miranda managed to reduce him to this level was beyond him; and he knew that the only way he would get her to St Mungo’s now was by throwing her over her his shoulder and dragging her by force, probably after stunning her fool of a brother first. He was too angry to enjoy either fantasy, especially when he found himself storming into his lover’s potions closet to gather the supplies to tend her wounds. No wonder she treated him like her faithful cur—he was so quick to play the part it made him sick.

“Thank you, Severus, I knew I could count on you,” she said.

“I don’t want your thanks,” he bit back. She ran her fingers through his hair while he worked, and he shook off her touch like it burned him.

Finn brought over a plate of food and a fresh beer for the patient; joining her on the sofa to enjoy the evening’s entertainment of Severus the Nursemaid. Soon they were talking over his head while he applied counter-curses, balms, and dittany, coaxing the skin back to a healthy shade of pink; a servant forgotten.

“What were the punks doing when you broke up their tea party?” Finn asked.

Miranda frowned at the piece of salami she was rolling around a mozzarella slice. “They offed a couple of people up in Shoreditch; a wizard and a No-maj woman.”

“That’s a cryin’ shame. Remind me what those shits are up to?”

“They’re stooges for some dark wizard who wants to take over the world.”

Finn snorted. “Is that all dark wizards ever want to do?”

“They are pretty unoriginal that way, aren’t they?”

“If I were a dark wizard, I’d just want my pantry full of fixin’s, my fridge full of beer, an endless supply of cigarettes, and eternal youth.”

“And all the women of the world to fawn on you?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

Miranda slapped her brother’s arm lightly. “You are such an ass.”

He winked back. “But I’m an ass with wholesome tastes. What about you Severus Snape? What would you do if you were a dark wizard?”

Miranda choked and sputtered on the beer she was trying to drink, and came up laughing so hard her face turned red. Severus tied the last bandage into place and rolled down her tunic with measured care before bothering to reply.

“I would never answer another foolish question for the rest of my life,” he said—and meant it.

“That’s pretty good!” Finn laughed. “Mira, your boyfriend’s got a sense of humor after all.”

“It’s one of the things I like about him,” Miranda agreed.

Severus left the Americans to their jocularity; first returning the supplies to the potions closet, and then stalking to the loo to scrub the mess from his hands. He stood there for some time, glaring at his sallow reflection and wondering what in Merlin’s name he was doing here in the first place. He’d rendered service to his lover, and she had her brother now to entertain her. He’d no intention of staying over with said brother sleeping on the sofa. He was painfully aware that Miranda had no desire to retain him in a role that would require certain sacrifices of him; such as enduring the company of her family members. Why put himself out? It wasn’t that he disliked her parents or her brother per se—indeed he barely knew them—but the entire comedy offended his sense of justice. If Miranda wanted him to dance the part of the dutiful boyfriend (what a moronic term that was too!) she could bloody well act as though she wanted him around.

Mind made up, he returned to the main room and announced, “I shall take my leave of you. Miranda, if you have any further troubles you will have to avail yourself of a Healer’s care. Good night.”

“Don’t go yet,” she coaxed. “We haven’t even had a chance to get the card table out.”

“I suspect you can play well enough without me.”

“Come on, professor,” Finn put in. “Isn’t it Christmas break or something?”

“Unfortunately, holidays for the students are not necessarily holidays for the teachers.”

“Finn, go in the bedroom for a minute, would you?” Miranda ordered.

“Why? Can’t you smooch lover-boy with me here?” he retorted, but he was already on his way out of the room.

“Did he call you?” she asked quietly, struggling to pull herself up from the sofa until Severus relented and came to sit beside her, if only to save the strain on her wounded core.

“No. Do not trouble yourself about that,” he replied.

“Did Finn say something stupid before I got here?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He was. “No.”

“I think you’re lying.”

He traced a long finger over her cheek, wondering darkly when her face had supplanted Lily’s in his mind as the measure of female beauty. “Leave it.”

She closed her piercing eyes and gave a frustrated sigh. “Fine. I should know by now that if you don’t want to talk about something, you’re not going to talk about it.”

“I am pleased to hear you’ve come to such a sensible realization. It should save us many tedious hours of argument.”

She caught hold of his hand and kissed his palm, her lips surprisingly fierce. “The Lees want Finn and me to join them on Sunday for a little excursion to Wales. Will you come?”

Her eyes were bright and hopeful now, and Merlin help him, he did want to come. He wanted to hold her hand like a bloody idiot, and spend time with her friends and family, and pretend that he was liked and respected by descent people. But he knew it was a lie; and he was too tired to tell it to himself tonight.

“I doubt I will have time.”

He went to the door to gather his cloak, and she asked without rising from the sofa, “Are you going to avoid me the whole time Finn is here?”

He couldn’t answer that question, and he didn’t bother to try. “Good night, Miranda.”

“Good night, Severus.”

The temperature had dropped significantly, and the frigid air stung his nose as he went out into the night. He had succeeded in wrenching the tatters of his dignity from Miranda’s capricious hands, and he wrapped them around his heart the best he could.

They were a feeble shield against the cold.

*****

Borgin and Burkes was quiet at five minutes to close on Saturday evening, but that didn’t bother the girl inside. Cassie was used to the singular merchandise, and dusting cobwebs off the cursed hands and shrunken skulls was as normal to her as scattering fairy clocks in the summertime. Indeed, she felt rather proud that her Uncle Orestes trusted her enough to leave her in charge of the business while he nipped down into the brighter arms of Diagon Alley for a last minute errand. The shop itself was well pleased to sit undisturbed this evening. Better to wait for the rightsort of customer than sully one’s skirts with dust from the wrong one.

The bell above the door clanged a mournful groan, and Cassie looked up from her sweeping to see Draco Malfoy swaggering inside. A blast of cold wind whipped through the front of the shop, ruffling the pages of the massive tome of inventory sitting open on the counter. He gave the door a swift kick, slamming it shut, and she scurried behind the counter to deal with the book. Her uncle would have her hide if he thought she’d left it out for other customers to browse. Borgin and Burkes prided itself on discretion, and she wasn’t about to be the weak link that tarnished that reputation.

“Hello, Draco. Are you having a nice Holiday?” she asked, tapping one of the floorboards with the toe of a polished Mary Jane. It opened with a creak, and she scooped up the book to replace it to its home beneath the floor.

Draco was in no mood for pleasantries. “Where’s that uncle of yours, Cassandra?”

“He stepped out to Mr Ollivander’s. He’ll be back any minute, though. We’re about to close and he’ll want to count down the till.”

“Business is booming I take it?” he sneered.

It wasn’t, not since the Ministry started leaning on all their regular customers. “It’s been fine, thank you for asking.”

She finally wrestled the book into place and pushed the board down tight over it. Wiping her grimy hands on her shop apron, she gave her classmate a friendly smile. No sense in riling tempers that were already short-fused.

“Is there anything I can get for you while you wait? Tea? Cocoa?”

“What? No,” he said distractedly. He was pacing near the front windows, peering out into the street that had been full dark for hours thanks to long winter nights. Suddenly he drew away from the windows and added with great agitation, “Actually, yes. You can go to the back of the shop and stay there.”

She felt her brow furrow and her hands turn cold. “I don’t think Uncle Orestes would like it if I left a customer unattended.”

“I’m not going to steal from your bloody uncle,” he snapped. “Bring me out that box of poison rings from the Carolingian era. Father needs a Christmas present.”

“Christmas was three days ago.”

“Yes, and we don’t celebrate it. Just do as I say!”

She almost obeyed him, he looked so desperate. Her hands gripped the counter as some inexplicable instinct told her to run. Before she could take action, the door opened again, this time admitting a raw-faced man with unkempt gray whiskers, rough clothing, and eerily sharp teeth. Draco’s face went a few shades paler than normal, and Cassie’s heart started beating as fast as a startled robin’s.

“Where’s Borgin?” the man growled.

Draco shrank and she caught the fear in his eyes before he puffed himself back up and faced the newcomer with a decent approximation of careless courage.

“Out,” Draco said, sounding bored as ever. “Maybe we don’t need to waste our time here.”

The rough-looking man swatted Draco to the side like he were swatting a fly, and Cassie resisted the urge to shrink against the wall as she slid her wand into her hand and hid it in the folds of her robes. As Draco recovered his balance, the older man scented her, and a nasty smile stretched across his mottled features. It did nothing to improve them.

“What have we here?” he said, ambling towards Cassie, who did her best to keep the counter between them.

“She’s nobody,” Draco muttered.

Nobody did her best to keep her voice respectful and even. Show no fear, show now challenge. “I’m Cassandra Borgin, sir, Mr Borgin’s niece. He just popped over to Mr Ollivander’s, and he’ll be back very soon, I’m sure.”

“Cassandra Borgin,” the man leered. “What a pretty little name for a pretty little girl. Friend of yours, Draco?”

“We’re here for her uncle, Grayback,” Draco said, his hands fisted at his sides.

“We’re here for what I say we’re here for.”

“I’m in the same year as Draco,” Cassie offered. Keep him talking. If he was talking, he wasn’t biting. “In Slytherin of course. What house were you in, Mr Grayback?” The man let out a snarl of laughter, and when he didn’t answer, she continued to babble. “Draco’s the Head Slytherin in our year too. It’s a privilege to learn with him. He’s so advanced.”

“Shut up, girl, you talk too much.”

“So sorry, sir.”

The bell rang a third time, and Cassie’s spindly uncle entered, stamping snow from his boots.

“Mr Grayback! Good evening,” he said, flipping the sign from open to closed and lowering the curtains with several quick wand flicks. “Cassie, I think some tea wouldn’t go amiss just now. Be a good girl and go and get the tray.”

“Yes, Uncle Orestes. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said, edging towards the door to the back of the shop and safety.

“Cassie is going to stay right where she is,” Grayback countered, “or she’ll be short one uncle.”

She froze on the threshold, and in a blur of movement, Grayback was beside her, wrapping her braids around his thick hand and pulling them until she was looking up at the ceiling. His breath was hot on her face and it stank of putrid meat.

“Such a pretty little girl. Older than I like, but still young enough,” Grayback cooed. “Don’t mind us, Draco, tell the man why we’re here.”

There was a hairline crack running the length of the moulded ceiling, and a pair of spiders were darting in and out of the rupture. Cassie watched them, and counted her breaths, doing her best not to make matters worse by falling apart. She was glad she’d had all those hours of detention, learning not to show her fear to Professor Snape to prepare her for this moment. Although, if she survived this moment, she doubted she would ever be afraid of her Head of House again.

“I take it you have encountered some difficulty in repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, Mr Malfoy?” Borgin asked calmly when the boy did not speak.

“Yes,” Draco replied harshly. “I’ve done everything you told me to do, and it still doesn’t work.”

“I am terrible sorry to hear that. I’m afraid that, as I cannot see the object, it makes it very difficult for me to advise you. However, I have been frantically researching the matter, and I expect to have further recommendations for you to try when term commences.”

“Perfect. Then I won’t be able to consult you when your new recommendations don’t work either.”

“Borgin, why do I get the feeling that you don’t want Draco to succeed?” Grayback put in.

“Of course I want Mr Malfoy to succeed,” Borgin protested. “In fact, I was just about to suggest that Cassandra here would be the perfect addition to the operation. She already has years of experience handling dark artifacts. I will instruct her here, and she will help you at school.”

“Or maybe I’ll take a little bite out of her and teach you a lesson about keeping your word,” Grayback offered.

Cassie was amazed at how steady her uncle was under fire.

“If you leave her in one piece, Mr Malfoy will have the further advantage of my on-going help. Cassandra and I can code messages back and forth in our usual correspondence.”

“That might work,” Draco agreed.

Grayback grazed Cassie’s neck with a pointed incisor, and though it did not break the skin, she could not keep from shuddering.

“We’ll let you try,” Grayback said at last. “But if you fail, the girl is mine.”

“I understand,” Borgin replied.

Grayback gave her neck a final squeeze and let go so suddenly that she fell to her knees. She kept her eyes on the floor and did not bother to get up. Her legs were shaking too badly now, and she could no longer check her frightened tears.

“Come on, Draco,” Grayback barked.

Draco wavered for an instant before following the werewolf out into the night. As soon as the door was shut after their unwanted guests, Borgin threw the lock and brought down the night wards. The relative safety caused Cassie to cry harder, and her uncle got down on the floor beside her to gather her into his arms.

“Well done, my girl,” he said, rocking her like she were a little child rather than a nearly-grown woman.

“Thank you,” she hiccuped. “I’m s..s..sorry. I can’t seem to stop crying.”

“You don’t have to stop just yet. In a minute well go in the back and get a cup of cocoa and some of Aunt Electra’s tea cakes. No need to frighten your Mum with all this.”

“Uncle Orestes, do you think we’ll be able to fix it?”

He gave her a sad smile. “Given enough time, we can fix anything, don’t worry about that.”

The next logical question was: would Fenrir Grayback give them the time they needed?

Cassie was not brave enough to ask that question tonight.

*****

libera nos a malo masterpost+

unstoppable force/immovable object masterpost+

<< chapter three+

chapter five+ >>

#ocappreciation #severus snape #pro snape #snape #snape x oc #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #severus snape fanfiction #severus snape fanfic #second wizarding war #ilvermorny #romance #adventure #espionage

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fangirlinglikeabus · 7 years ago

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Your Hand Feels So Grand In Mine - Chapter 1

Summary: On the day of her eighteenth birthday, Fanny is shocked to find the name of a woman on her wrist. At first, she ignores it, but things get a bit more complicated when Mary Crawford herself shows up at Mansfield Park. A soulmate AU feat. racebending. Warnings for internalised homophobia, canon typical mistreatment of Fanny.

can also be found on fanfiction.net and ao3

Don't take my arm too much

Don't keep your hand in mine

Your hand feels so grand in mine

People will say we're in love

- ‘People Will Say We’re In Love’, from Oklahoma!

It was commonly known, at the time, that upon the event of someone reaching their eighteenth birthday, two - or more, in some, rarely talked about, cases - signatures appeared on their wrists. One had the name of their soulmate, the person best suited for them in life, romantically or otherwise (again, these latter people were never talked about, except for when the name was of someone of the same gender. It truly is amazing, the number of truths thought inconvenient until they suddenly become useful). The other had the name of the person they would, or had already, convinced themselves was their soulmate, whether consciously or no. Of course, as is the way of these things, no one ever knew which was which, except by their own inference, or, if they were lucky, events which exposed one or the other. Many young people, eager to meet their soulmate, married quickly, only to discover that there had been a mistake; that their new spouse was not, in fact, the right of the persons on their wrists. This rarely impeded marriages for long; a soulmate may be a person's perfect match, but many imperfect ones are often made with some success. It is a simple fact that a marriage will work if it is formed with love and respect. Even marriages where those values were absent could often function if the two members showed enough skill at avoiding one other.

Henry Crawford was somewhat of an outlier. On his eighteenth birthday, only one name formed, on his left wrist; Henry had never set much store by soulmates, or really, truly falling in love outside of an idle flirtation, and so, accordingly, he had never and would never become so deeply in love that he could possibly believe that person and him to be destined. Unless, of course, the object of his love was, truly, the one most suited to him in all the world. Even then, the name was faded, barely legible unless you chose to look closely, which Henry didn't. His sister Mary, on the other hand…well, Mary looked very carefully indeed at things which could further her own self-interest, and considered her brother's soulmate to fall squarely into that category. She spent two years carefully studying the words on her brother's wrist, memorising the script, the name.

So her own eighteenth birthday came as quite a shock. On her right wrist was Mary Crawford, scrawled carelessly in large, elegant letters (she laughed silently, and knew this to be the false name - she may very well convince herself, or have convinced herself in the past, that she was the only person good for her, but it was unlikely to be true. It faded, but remained visible, etched onto her dark brown skin). On her left was a familiar, small script - almost as if its owner feared irritating someone by taking up too much paper. It was much bolder than it was on her brother, but still…she had looked at it for long enough in that state to recognise it on sight.

Fanny Price.

Mary stared at her wrist absently for a moment, thought briefly what a shame it was that she and Henry were predestined to be rivals, then resolved to start wearing longer sleeves. After all, no matter how little she cared about the issue of having a female soulmate herself, it wouldn't do to scandalise society quite that much. A fortune of twenty thousand pounds can do many things, but it is not so strong an incentive that people would forget such a thing, and welcome such a person into their homes.

Far away and several years later, Fanny Price started crying.

Written on one of her wrists, in the perfectly formed writing which was so familiar to her, was the name Edmund Bertram.

That was enough of a problem - the necessity of hiding it from the Bertrams did not exactly please her - but it was not the reason for her tears.

The other wrist said Mary Crawford.

Steps on the stairs! Fanny quickly pulled the sleeves of her nightdress down to hide the words, in case whoever it was chose to enter the room suddenly.

A knock on the door. A quiet, "Fanny?" Of course; who else but Edmund would have wasted their time on her? She called for him to wait, and quickly got dressed, making sure to wear a thick dress, even though the July sun was already shining through the windows. One which was most likely to hide her secret.

Edmund was standing there, neatly dressed (of course he was; Edmund made it a careful habit to be awake and ready for the day - and above all, tidy - before anyone else) and wearing a concerned expression on his handsome, pale face. Fanny's heart swelled, but as it did so, her left wrist (the one which she was so aware had his name on it) began to itch, and so she forced the feeling down and smiled at him, trying to ignore, as she did so, the few tears still making their way down her face.

"Well, ah," Edmund looked embarrassed, "I was curious as to whether you would be prepared to show your soulmates to any of your family? Of course, you are not obligated to...to show your aunts, or your other cousins, but perhaps..?"

The implication of his question hung in the air between them. Perhaps you would show me?

Here, Fanny had a problem. She truly loved her cousin (the name had forced her to acknowledge that as fact), but she felt, just as truly, that she could not show him either wrist.

"I-I would really rather not, cousin Edmund," she made herself say, and tried not to notice the disappointment in his expression, or the voice in her head that sounded like Mrs Norris - always Mrs Norris! - telling her that she was selfish, that Edmund deserved to know, and that she was being ungrateful. Alas, she was not successful - the simple refusal of her cousin's request had wracked poor Fanny so much that she began to cry again. Panic crossed Edmund's face, just for a moment, before a more soothing expression took its place.

"Fanny, I should apologise. It was wrong for me to ask something so personal of you, especially when I haven't even showed you either of my names. Come, compose yourself, and once you feel prepared, I shall escort you down to breakfast."

Soon enough, the door opened on Edmund again, and Fanny, the fresh tears still drying on her face and her eyes turned slightly pink from crying, took his arm. He served as a calming presence, even without speaking, and Fanny soon felt as close to her normal self as she could, with the knowledge that the name of a woman sat on her right wrist.

The calm was soon gone away again, for the rest of the Bertram family - apart from, mercifully, her uncle, who, along with her cousin Tom, was in Antigua for the moment - despite their usual dismissiveness of Fanny, were suddenly crowding her, demanding she give up her secret. No matter how much she quietly refused, they continued to pester until the poor girl was quite in tears again. Edmund made an attempt to stop them, perhaps slightly tempered by his own curiosity, but it came to no avail. Maria and Julia chose a simple method, asking the same question over, and when there was a failure to answer that, making angry demands. Tom, if he had been there, would have no doubt joined them; there was something to be grateful about in his absence. Lady Bertram, when finally appealed to by her children, seemed barely to understand what was going on, so distracted she had been, but as soon as her children gave a (strongly biased, of course) account, she made an offer of whatever presents Fanny would like if she would only show them, and really, whatever the names were, they could not be so very bad. Throughout all this, Fanny stayed silent, only made increasingly miserable by the questioning. It was amazing how much noise so few people could make, and she was almost tempted to give in. But fear - a greater fear than the consequences of her refusal - held her back.

"If you do not tell us," Maria said, more petulantly than could be thought possible for a young woman of twenty-one, "then when our father comes home, we shall have to tell him that you have been keeping secrets from us, and then he will force you to tell us."

Fanny was terrified of her uncle; Maria knew this, and spoke hoping - correctly, it seemed - that on weighing her uncle seeing her wrists against the rest of the family doing the same, the latter was the lesser fear. Fanny, with shaking hands, began to roll up her sleeves.

The Bertrams craned to see the names. Edmund started, slightly, on seeing his own written in bold black.

For one brief, horrible moment, everyone seemed to freeze - even Lady Bertram, who usually showed so little interest in anything not related to herself or her beloved Pug.

"Oh, how boring," Maria complained. "They are only platonic soulmates."

Julia frowned at her sister. "Are you certain, Maria? How can you be sure?"

She scoffed. "Is it not obvious? Why, with one of the names female, and the other that of our very own brother, how could there possibly be any hint of romance?"

And then the Bertrams' fleeting interest with their poorer cousin was gone, and as breakfast was served it seemed the entire issue was forgotten, the only indication to the contrary being the way Julia's eyes rested on Fanny for longer than usual, a flicker of curiosity igniting them. But for Fanny, whose mind was always ready to be filled with worry, and who, after all, was now fully, uncomfortably aware that her interest in Edmund was romantic, it sat there in her mind, as the days moved by ever so slowly. Minor, day to day worries, usually at the forefront of her mind, quickly vanished, but Mary Crawford, sitting as it did on her wrist, remained. Fanny grew pale; she spoke to no-one, not even her beloved Edmund. If the Bertrams had deigned to pay attention to her, they would have no doubt of the cause. As it was, the world moved much as it usually did, with only the insignificance of the change in Fanny's mood to affect it. And, inevitably, given some time, and the lack of suspicion shown by the family, she calmed. Edmund's name was a worry, of course, but one which she could force herself to ignore; though it caused her pain, it was a bearable pain, within the realm of acceptable human experience. And as for the other name, well, she wasn't leaving her home, and what was the likelihood that this Mary Crawford would come to her?

"A parsonage?" Mary asked incredulously. "In the countryside?"

"I am afraid so," Henry said, his words laced with faux-solemnity. "I am sure I do not know how we will cope! The savagery of it all! Although, of course, you would not have a problem at all if you had simply…gotten along with our uncle. Is it really so hard for you to like him, Mary?"

"Well I suppose it shall be nice to see our sister after such a long time away from each other," Mary continued, rather pointedly ignoring her brother. They had had similar conversations all throughout the time they had lived with Admiral Crawford. Nothing would come of it if she chose to argue; she could not convince him of the man's wickedness any more than he could convince her of his virtue. "At the very least, there will no doubt be some rich eldest son nearby, to flirt with."

"Unfortunately not," Henry said, pouring himself a glass of port from the decanter sat on the table. "An associate of mine has informed me - after I enquired, knowing your partiality to such men - that the gentleman in question has gone off to Antigua with his father. A shame, but I am sure you will cope; I hear his brother is a respectable young man."

Mary sighed. "I hold no stock by "respectable young men", Henry. Second sons yield no interest for me."

"Not even the second son of a baronet, as I am told is the case here? Ah, well. I suppose you shall simply have to waste away, without an eldest son to enjoy."

"You seem to think me to be so exceedingly shallow that my sole focus is men. I shall tell you now, Henry, that it is entirely untrue. Why, I am tempted to enjoy myself despite his absence, just to spite you!"

"Mary," Henry said, taking a large swig of his drink, "please believe me when I tell you that nothing would make me happier. Now, shall you write to our sister, or shall I?"

"Mrs Grant informs us that her brother and sister, children of her mother's second marriage, will be joining her and Mr Grant in the parsonage," Edmund said, with an uncharacteristic nervousness underlying his words.

"I am sure they will be people of a most agreeable sort," Fanny said quietly. "But, cousin, since I am certain to be far too busy to join you in entertaining our guests-"

"They are two young people by the names of Henry and Mary Crawford," Edmund said quickly. "Perhaps Mrs Norris and my mother would permit you to join the rest of us, rather than running chores? They have been invited to dine with us, anyway, so you will not miss them entirely."

Fanny said nothing; all of a sudden, she was very pale, and her hands shook slightly where they rested on the table.

"Miss Crawford is one of the names on your wrists. Perhaps it would be best if you became acquainted with the woman who could potentially become your closest friend."

"If you…" Fanny's throat was suddenly dry. She gulped. "If you think it to be best, Edmund."

"Fanny, of course I think it to be best," Edmund said gently. "But this is for your benefit, not mine. Sometimes I feel as if, well, as if you have no friends outside of myself - indeed, you have perhaps had no opportunity make friends, as sheltered as you are here, and…perhaps you would enjoy the benefit of Miss Crawford's company."

Enjoying the pleasure of Miss Crawford's company was exactly what terrified Fanny, of course. But Edmund was not to know that, nor would she wish him to know. Besides, she could not wholly avoid her if they were coming to dine - even in her nervousness she was able to admit that to starve herself would be a silly thing to do, solely to avoid a person. And it was Edmund requesting this of her; his younger cousin had never been known to refuse anything he suggested. And so it was that she found herself sitting with the rest of the family, not so patiently waiting for the arrival of Mr and Miss Crawford, along with their half sister and her husband.

"Oh, do stop fidgeting, Fanny!" Mrs Norris snapped. Fanny flinched.

"Yes, Fanny, do stop fidgeting," Lady Bertram echoed absentmindedly. "We must give these young people a good first impression of life here."

"I hardly think that the Crawfords will be so absorbed with ideas of propriety as to care about one of our number moving as slightly as Fanny has done," Edmund said calmly.

The clock ticked by.

"Oh, when shall they arrive?" Maria exclaimed loudly. She stood up and began to pace about the room. "It is not polite to be late for a dinner engagement."

After an age, one of the servants stepped into the room to announce "Dr and Mrs Grant, Mr and Miss Crawford."

Mrs Grant came in first, greeting them all, thanking them for their hospitality, and apologising profusely for their lateness.

"We would have arrived here this half an hour gone, except Mary, I am afraid, took so long getting ready-"

Mary cut her off. "I find it infinitely preferable to be late, and well dressed, than on time, nay, even early, and an embarrassment to rich young women everywhere." She smiled, and in her expression was something which tempted even the most hard hearted to forgive any transgression.

Edmund cleared his throat and stood up. "Miss Crawford. Mr Crawford," he said, bowing to both of them in turn. "A pleasure to meet you both. I am Edmund Bertram. May I present my mother Lady Bertram, my aunt Mrs Norris, my sisters Miss Maria Bertram and Miss Julia Bertram, and, of course, our cousin Miss Fanny Price."

Mary glanced at Henry, to see if she could glean any expression from his countenance. Nothing. She smiled again, more subdued this time. "It is a pleasure to meet you all." Her eyes rested on Fanny.

Something about the way Mary was looking at her unnerved Fanny. She shifted uncomfortably.

"Fanny!" Mrs Norris snapped again. She smiled apologetically at their guests. "You must excuse Miss Price; she is but a poor dependant, tragically uneducated until we brought her here, eight years ago. Please," she gestured to the chairs, "will not you sit? There is some time yet until the food will be prepared."

Mary graciously seated herself, as did her brother. All the while, her eyes remained fixed on Fanny, who was doing her best to avoid staring back.

Throughout the conversation, throughout dinner and the time after it, neither spoke to the other, but every so often, Fanny would give into temptation and stare back. There was something compelling in Mary's eyes. They seemed to sparkle at some amusement unknown to any but herself, and, perhaps, someone else too, if only they would draw closer.

Fanny looked away, blushing.

"Are you quite pleased, Henry?" Mary asked on their way back to the parsonage. They walked far ahead of Doctor and Mrs Grant; the two of them walked far slower due to the good doctor's unfortunate affliction of gout, and in fact wouldn't have walked at all if it hadn't been suggested in some quarter due to the pleasantness of the evening.

"Oh, yes, quite pleased," Henry affirmed. "With Maria and Julia both. In fact, I found the company so pleasing that I have been considering extending my visit."

"Oh?" Mary raised an eyebrow. "And what about dear Miss Fanny Price?"

He laughed. "You noticed that, did you?"

"You seem to think," she shot back, "that I am somehow oblivious of all about you. I cannot think why that is, since I usually find myself knowing you better than you know yourself."

"I suppose that I have never put much effort into hiding it," Henry said flippantly. He was silent for a moment. "I have decided," he said eventually, "that I should rather like to have some fun with Miss Price. She seems awfully boring. And who better to make her more…interesting than Mr Henry Crawford? I am sure a girl of her standing will fall at least slightly in love with someone who shows that she is his "soulmate"." He laughed.

Mary said nothing. Henry was foolish to think he would be safe from love forever, especially if he chose to flirt so blatantly with his soulmate.

Now, what about her own connection to Fanny Price? Mary rubbed absentmindedly at her left wrist. It could, she supposed, be rather diverting to fall in love.

"I am disappointed in you, Fanny," Edmund said solemnly, as they sat, secluded, in the old East Room Fanny had made her own. "I would have thought you to be more keen to befriend Mary Crawford."

"I am afraid that I am much too shy for that," Fanny said quietly.

"Well, in that case, I shall organise it so that the two of you spend some time together," Edmund declared. "It was no doubt the amount of people in the room that made it difficult for you." Fanny found that she couldn't disagree. A part of her still hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with Mary, that she didn't even have the capacity to love a woman in that way. But she couldn't bring herself to believe it, not quite, when the way Mary had looked at her still rested on her mind.

#mansfield park #fanny price #mary crawford #fanfiction #femslash #writing fanfiction like a bus #your hand feels so grand in mine #(to collect the entire thing)#*screams*#GOD i will literally kill someone if tumblr decides to fuck the posting of this up #also...why doesn't it keep formatting when you paste like i literally had to go back thru this chapter and italicise everything again

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orlandri-tl · 8 years ago

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[Sukamoka Vol. 1] Chapter 1: Chasing After That Back

His brother-in-law opposed it until the very end.

However, his parents and grandparents were all too eager, and so his brother-in-law had to give in. “Refuse immediately if you don’t want this,” he said, and then stepped back with regret. That was because it was to be a marriage of convenience.

The boy was ten years old; his partner rumored to be seven. He was led to a deep green park, rented by both families. Somewhere in the park would be his partner, a girl. He would, as if guided by fate, encounter her, and their relationship would begin. It would deepen as they grew closer to each other, and eventually a most natural marriage would come about.

How stupid.

Going to such great lengths to set up this charade, calling it a work of fate – a work of farce, more like! Every part of the script, from beginning to ending, was unnatural.

He’d heard that the setup was created by some famous matchmaker, who’d already arranged about a hundred marriages in his career. For his part, the boy was already fed up with the matter. Two hundred men and women were brought together by this incomprehensible method? Allow me to express my sincerest condolences. Please wish me luck, for it is my turn to undergo the trial.

Those thoughts running through his head, the boy stepped off his carriage and entered the park.

Within the park grounds was a small lake, a sidewalk running around it. He also noticed a flower field, along with a dense grove that gave just enough convenient cover from peeping eyes. Nausea churned inside him. What transparent attempts to create a romantic atmosphere.

“...Let’s just get this over with.”

The boy felt sorry for his brother-in-law who’d gone through the trouble of transporting him here, but in truth he felt quite indifferent about the matter. He came from a family where boys his age were tools for these kinds of marriages. From the very beginning, he’d understood that love and romance were fleeting dreams.

Then there was the other matter to consider – the age of his fiancee. Seriously, seven years old? Three years younger than me?

“They’re both children, so it’s not a problem,” the one who’d proposed this marriage had said. That person probably didn’t understand a thing. It was a typical mistake for grown-ups to make, being so oblivious of the enormous gap in three years’ worth of life experience for children. They were children once, too – how can grown-ups forget about such elementary things?

...Well, it doesn’t matter. Where is this seven-year-old, anyway? I’ll just check all the romantic spots one by one.

Flower field? Nope.

Gazebo on the hilltop? No sign of her.

Windswept sidewalk around the lake? He walked around the lake as much as he could, but still couldn’t spot her.

If that’s the case, then…

She was only seven years old, after all. Just a kid. What if she didn’t understand the meaning of this melodramatic farce? Could she be thinking they were playing a game of hide-and-seek?

If that was the case, then the situation suddenly became troublesome. Perhaps in order to heighten the illusion of having stumbled into an once-in-a-lifetime experience, he hadn’t been informed of his partner’s appearance.

Maybe I should check the other places again?

“What a pain…” As he turned around, annoyed, his eyes met with those of a little girl not too far away from him.

“Ah...”

“Oh…”

Thinking about it, it made sense. On one hand, a boy who’d already submitted to the bothersome world of adults; on the other, a girl three years younger. Their views on the situation would naturally not be the same. Of course the girl, forced to marry an unknown man, would be wary about her soon-to-be partner.

And of course she would try to delay their fateful encounter as long as possible, in the meanwhile trying to observe her partner even if only a little, to get a better idea of him.

The girl let out a soft scream, turned on her heels, and made to flee… but instead stepped on the hem of her long, expensive-looking dress and came crashing down magnificently. The dress, heavily decorated with light-blue lace, was instantly stained with dirt.

To her credit, she tried her best. She was able to hold back her tears for a few seconds, but then it all came pouring out in a wail.

The boy went to her side, holding a handkerchief wet with lakewater, and wiped the dirt from her face and dress as much as possible.

Her expression remained scrunched up and her mood dark, however, so – reluctant though he was – the boy threw himself onto the ground too and rolled around until his own suit was as stained as hers had been. This turn of events seemed to have been quite a surprise for the girl, who stared at him blankly before bursting into joyful laughter.

“Well?” he asked. “Now even if they get angry at us, we’ll be scolded together.”

“Yeah!” she replied happily. There was a rustling sound, and then from under her dress a hairy black tail popped out.

The girl had animal features.

As she took off her dirty gloves and started brushing off her dress, it became obvious. Although she was born into a family of markless, she must’ve had beast blood somewhere in her lineage that’d manifested in her generation.

Fur, covering both her hands and feet. A black tail. Small kitten-like ears hidden under her hat. Taking a closer look at her, the boy saw that her irises were catlike too, and six thin whiskers protruded from her cheeks.

“Good-fer-nothing, meself.” She spoke with a slight accent too – perhaps because of her different throat. “Good match fer you, they sey.”

“A-ah, I see.”

She probably belonged to a typically proud family, who would have viewed a beast-like child as a disgrace. Now he finally understood why their marriage had been pushed so strongly. Her family could rid themselves of what they saw as trouble while strengthening their ties with another respectable family. It must have seemed like a masterful plan to them.

“Are you a normal markless?” she asked.

“Well, more or less. But I’d rather not call my marklessness normal, you see.”

“Eh? But if yer markless, then yer like all’o the rest. Yer living a normal life, right?”

“That would be a… di-ver-gence… of opinions, I guess. There are many people in this world who differ greatly from your mother and father.”

“I… don’t get it. Can’tcha say it better?”

“You’re just seven, after all. I’m ten, so you wouldn’t understand compared to me.”

“Not fair! I’ll become ten too, very soon!”

“And I’ll be thirteen. I’ll study more and know more than you.”

“U-urk!”

The sight of her childishly puffing up her cheeks was rather cute. Of course, she was still far too young for a serious marriage. But he had to admit it – she was pretty.

They’d had a sort of dramatic encounter, and the distance between them certainly had narrowed. All that was left was for the flow of events to naturally lead into marriage.

This can’t possibly have been calculated by those organizers, but to think that the outcome might still end up being the same… The idea irritated him.

“Um…” The girl, looking apologetic, was pulling on the muddy sleeve of his suit. Did I let my irritation show? “I… haffa go home now.”

“Oh, really?” He glanced at the big clock erected near the lake. Indeed, a long time had already passed since the beginning of their meeting. No more than ten minutes left. “Well, it was fun,” he said, stretching.

By playing along with the farce to this point, he had probably more or less fulfilled the expectations of his family already. His grandfather had demanded him to “Accomplish this even if you must use your Eyes!” However, he personally couldn’t bring himself to do it – or rather, there was no need for it.

So then, let’s divert from the plan. Let’s not transform this little girl and myself into tools for our families. I won’t let things go the way they want.

“You know, it might be good for you to find a way to escape from your house after you grow up,” he said. “Definitely better than remaining locked up at home like are now.”

She tugged at his sleeve.

“What?”

“Is this goodbye?”

He didn’t answer.

“I wanna talk to you more.”

If she says it like that...

“I don’t have anything to talk about.”

The grip of the small hand on his sleeve grew tighter. The girl probably had never been allowed to have this kind of free conversation with anybody before now. If she had talked to somebody and learned of the world, she’d stop feeling ashamed of not being a markless. That wouldn’t sit well with her family, and doubtless was why she had been raised so sheltered.

If he shook her hand off now, it’d be over. He would return to his regular life as before. And she would return to her regular life, just as before.

“Please…”

She’d probably mustered all the little courage she had. Her breathing grew rough as she pleaded. “Can we meet again once more?”

It can’t be helped. How can I refuse if she says it like that?

I suppose I have no choice but to applaud the ability of a certain person who brought together almost a hundred pairs.

“Okay, okay. I’ll agree to meet with you again, you hear? So stop making such a teary face,” he said, waving his hand and admitting his defeat. “But I’ll warn you – this relationship may continue for a long time, so be prepared for that, you understand?”

“Long… something like three yers?”

“People wouldn’t talk about marriage like this if three years was enough…”

He tried to imagine the girl three years from now. How would she look after she’d grown up a little more? And even further – how would she look when she was a woman?

To his horror, he realized he was actually anticipating such a future.

“If we can meet lots more, that would be so nice!”

“I see, I see… as long as you’re happy, I’m glad.”

Although he said it flippantly, those words had reflected his true emotions hidden deep inside his heart.

But the girl, probably completely ignorant to the intricate nuance of his statement, took his words literally. “Yes!”

He had to turn away to hide his expression from the radiant, dazzling smile that surfaced on her face.

His parents were delighted, as were his grandparents.

Only his brother-in-law wore a complicated look on his face. But after he explained that “She was just an ordinary, good, girl, so I became friends with her,” his brother-in-law had replied “I see,” nodding doubtfully.

After this, the boy and the girl occasionally received a chance to meet with each other.

Every time they met, the girl would press him for new stories. In order to meet her expectations, he was forced into increasingly diligent studies.

Of course, that didn’t bother him – though the actions of her family created more than enough irritation regardless.

That aside, those were fun and happy days.

So much that, from the bottom of his heart, he wished that those bright days could continue forever and ever.

#sukasuka #sukamoka #fan translation #shuumatsu nani shitemasu ka isogashii desu ka sukutte moratte ii desu ka #shuumatsu nani shitemasu ka mou ichido dake aemasu ka

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skylight20sworldblr-blog · 6 years ago

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This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows

Sunday morning tv historically is low-hanging fruit for TV bosses.They know there’s a entire nation inevitably switching on; a 3rd hungover from the night time earlier than, a 3rd who have been up since 6am with youngsters and may’t cope with The Go Jetters anymore and third who simply need one thing on in the background whereas they scroll by means of their socials.

No one requires Query Time, just a few fodder to get you thru to lunch, which may solely clarify the reputation of the long-running Sunday Brunch on Channel four. Set in a chat present format over three hours (9.30 to 12.30), it’s interspersed with cooking segments and highlights of the week’s coming TV and music releases, all presided over by Tim Lovejoy and Simon Rimmer. It’s good, it’s advantageous, it’s Sunday morning TV.

Learn extra

Viewers surprised by ladies stockpiling meals for Brexit on This Morning

However earlier this month, ITV behemoth This Morning introduced that it too can be throwing its hat in the circle to seize some of that captive viewers again for his or her channel. And on Sunday 20 January – introduced by Eamonn Holmes and Ruth Langsford – so started the first episode of This Morning on Sunday, on air for an hour at 10.30 to 11.30.

This weekend, Sunday Brunch boasted friends Rylan Clark-Neal (himself a This Morning presenter), Laurence Fox, Abigail Lawrie and Jason ‘Foxy’ Fox. Fleur East – recent from the jungle in I’m A Celeb – carried out.

This Morning on Sunday had: properly, Holmes and Langsford. Oh, and chef John Torode. Look, perhaps everybody was simply busy?

So how did the two shows play out and who gained the battle of the weekend? Right here’s what occurred, minute by minute:

The review

10.00 Sunday Brunch (SB): Half an hour earlier than This Morning begins, a newly hirsute Lovejoy – twiddling his beard – and Rimmer grilled actress Lawrie about her position in gritty Sky thriller, Tin Star. As Lawrie mentioned the darkish themes from present, together with a violent episode together with her on-screen father, Lovejoy goes full Partridge, off on a tangent, and jumps in: “I hear there was a cougar on the set. How big was it? Also, how you know if a cougar is going to smell you and go ‘oh, this is an actor and not dinner?’”. Lawrie, to her credit score, manages to politely reply and get to the finish of the interview with out rolling her eyes.

Kevin Clifton’s tattoo

10.30 This Morning on Sunday (TMoS): The acquainted strains of This Morning start as the opening credit roll, with headlines flashing up on partitions promising us ‘Bros: what happened next?’ and ‘Kevin Clifton’s tattoo’. We’re in for a wild journey immediately!

10.31 TMoS: Holmes and Langsford – who is sticking firmly to the script by sporting a gray jumper with the phrase ‘Sunday’ on it – are shimmying on chairs to beige anthem, Maroon 5’s Sunday Morning. Holmes says: “Welcome to Sunday mornings and to This Morning on a Sunday, because you can’t get too much of a good thing.” This might later be proved as not the case.

Holmes and Langford (Photograph: ITV)

10.32 TMoS: Hey guys at house, what do you rise up to on Sunday? the Langsford-Holmes’ enquire. A painful try at banter ensues as the husband-and-wife duo attempt to burn one another about who does the least at residence at the weekends. “You get treated like a queen!” he tells Langsford, “I make an Ulster Fry!” “When you’re not reclining in your chair watching football!” she joshes again. Please, subsequent merchandise.

10.33 TMoS: Lastly, they announce, they’ll be discussing the difficulty that’s presently dividing the nation: Hen or beef roast? And may you will have Yorkshire puddings with each? Fortunately, they inform us, chef Torode shall be on the present to prepare dinner a particular dish. Ooh, what’s he making? A good, spicy Sri Lankan curry for this chilly climate? Perhaps a hearty Spanish paella or one thing? Beef. He’ll be making roast beef, potatoes and veg. This is actually the Brexit of chat shows.

Rylan Clarke-Neal will host a Saturday afternoon present on Radio 2

10.40 SB: Rylan Clark-Neal is on the couch, chatting about turning into the subsequent host of Grocery store Sweep (RIP Dale Winton) and his new present on BBC Radio 2. Clark-Neal’s truly fairly humorous, and of course, the video footage of Nicole Scherzinger telling him he’s by means of to the subsequent spherical of the X Issue is all the time going to be the spotlight of any present it options in. Chalk one up for the Sunday Brunch workforce. Particularly as Clark-Neal reveals he was out getting pissed with Caroline Flack til 7am, simply two hours earlier than the video was filmed.

10.41 TMoS: First correct phase of the present and it’s the cheery story of a Love Island contestant’s brother realising he had testicular most cancers. Wait! This is only a clip from final weeks present! Holly Willoughby and Phillip Schofield are interviewing him prefer it’s not even Sunday! We’ve been robbed. Change again over to SB.

From Partridge-esque to precise partridge

10.50 SB: They’ve received the full line-up of visitors munching on recreation. Lovejoy goes from Partridge-esque to precise partridge (breasts full of fig, because you ask), whereas Laurence Fox pipes up: “I can’t eat mallard as my son would kill me.”. He eats stuffed mallard.

10.53 TMoS: One other repeated interview. It’s Strictly‘s Kevin Clifton getting a tattoo saying ‘I love Glasgow’. Look, it’s too boring to get into right here.

10.55 TMoS: They’re providing money bungs to maintain watching now, with the announcement of their £100,00zero money prize. (Aspect notice: how do you get signed as much as be the superstar announcer of these? Sweetest job in showbiz: every week’s work in a Maldives resort to learn out a telephone quantity). Then, it’s a montage of Gino DeCampo’s greatest bits. This is the equal of your aunt posting a video of This Morning on Fb, captioning it: “Phil and Holly cracking up on the show today – gave me the giggles too! Xx”

11.00 SB: The SB lot breakout halftime martinis to have fun the world’s greatest martini being introduced in the UK this week. It’s not even noon! Lovejoy slurs “it’s going to become a new traddissshhun.” Assume the producers may need one thing to say about that. Nonetheless, cheers!

11.04 SB: Fox steps as much as make a vinegar-braised hen with Rimmer, which finally ends up wanting a lot nicer than it sounds.

11.05 TMoS: Good god, Alice Beer continues to be going on about methods to make your garments look like they’ve been to the dry cleaners once they haven’tZzzz. This was deemed value repeating from the week of content material? Don’t remind us that our laundry basket is at present overflowing. Allow us to have this one morning with out occupied with home tasks, FFS.

Nick Knowles (Photograph: Gareth Cattermole/Getty Pictures)

11.08 TMoS: One other interview from earlier in the week, Nick Knowles speaking about auctioning up his pants from I’m a Celeb for charity. Holmes tells Langsford she’s made a stunning cup of tea, and he simply can’t have a cup of tea with no biscuit. Eats a biscuit. Langsford then tries to open up the debate “milk in first or not?” to which even Holmes shuts down with “I couldn’t care less.” It’s hardly the black/blue or white/gold gown furore, is it?

11.15 SB: Fleur East is being interviewed and actually eager to stay to the script about why she and Simon Cowell and his label Syco parted methods: “We were just on separate paths”, she chirps brightly. Kudos to Lovejoy – he goes in with the query all of us need to know: “How much is it was to do with Simon Cowell?” She excellently deflects the query. On going chart-success for you now, Fleur.

11.17 TMoS: Lastly! A reside slot and never a repeat. However it’s simply Torode telling us how one can prepare dinner an enormous rack of three ribs of beef. Veganary? Pfffft, not on our watch, snowflakes. He explains the key to flavour in a roast is the juices in the tray afterwards. Exhausting to pay attention as Holmes could be seen at the edge of the display, lifting a Yorkshire pudding and making an attempt to surreptitiously eat a bit morsel – you’ve been clocked.

11.20 SB: They’ve pulled out the massive weapons with Jason “Foxy” Fox from SAS Who Dares Wins. Lovejoy and Rimmer are struggling to include how cool they assume he’s. Lovejoy strokes his personal beard once more with pleasure.

11.22 TMoS: “Have you seen the Bros documentary?” asks Langsford. Sure. Final yr, together with the relaxation of the nation. There’s an enormous construct as much as present the previous (repeat) interview of the Goss bros after that battle in the This Morning dressing room. “Look at that body language!” says Langsford. She and Holmes then talk about preventing with households and Langsford repeats 3 times that Holmes is “a sulker.” And on that pass-agg word, it’s throughout till subsequent week. Time to modify again to Sunday Brunch for relaxation of the morning, now.

Over on social media and viewers appeared to be in equal measures confused and irritated to seek out that This Morning was primarily repeats of segments from the earlier week’s shows.

One Twitter consumer stated: “What a disappointment! It’s just a show made up of repeats from the previous week’s show.”

Disgrace it’s simply clips from the week and never new content material. Bit of a cop out. *turns @SundayBrunchC4 on as an alternative* #thismorning #sundaybrunch

— Amy Lee (@Amykinsypoo) January 20, 2019

Thought it was Monday and I used to be late for bloody work once I turned on the telly to see @thismorning! What they enjoying at?! Don’t prefer it. Keep in your lane #thismorning

— Kimberley Walker (@KimberleyHW) January 20, 2019

WHAT a disappointment it’s only a present made up of repeats from the earlier week! Shall be watching #SundayBrunch from now on @thismorning #ThisMorning on Sunday

— Janbo25 (@JaniceGilfillan) January 20, 2019

Finally, it appeared to boil right down to the content material: do viewers need reheats of lukewarm footage from the week earlier than, or getting caught into breakfast cocktails with Rylan Clark-Neal whereas laughing at Lovejoy’s beard? The viewing figures will quickly tell us.

In the imply time, move one other slice of the stuffed mallard, will you?

The post This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows appeared first on List Technology.

#Culture #Sunday Brunch #Technology #Television #This Morning

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aethermystfan-blog · 6 years ago

Text

This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows

Learn extra

Viewers surprised by ladies stockpiling meals for Brexit on This Morning

This Morning on Sunday had: properly, Holmes and Langsford. Oh, and chef John Torode. Look, perhaps everybody was simply busy?

So how did the two shows play out and who gained the battle of the weekend? Right here’s what occurred, minute by minute:

The review

Kevin Clifton’s tattoo

Holmes and Langford (Photograph: ITV)

Rylan Clarke-Neal will host a Saturday afternoon present on Radio 2

From Partridge-esque to precise partridge

10.53 TMoS: One other repeated interview. It’s Strictly‘s Kevin Clifton getting a tattoo saying ‘I love Glasgow’. Look, it’s too boring to get into right here.

11.04 SB: Fox steps as much as make a vinegar-braised hen with Rimmer, which finally ends up wanting a lot nicer than it sounds.

Nick Knowles (Photograph: Gareth Cattermole/Getty Pictures)

Over on social media and viewers appeared to be in equal measures confused and irritated to seek out that This Morning was primarily repeats of segments from the earlier week’s shows.

One Twitter consumer stated: “What a disappointment! It’s just a show made up of repeats from the previous week’s show.”

Disgrace it’s simply clips from the week and never new content material. Bit of a cop out. *turns @SundayBrunchC4 on as an alternative* #thismorning #sundaybrunch

— Amy Lee (@Amykinsypoo) January 20, 2019

Thought it was Monday and I used to be late for bloody work once I turned on the telly to see @thismorning! What they enjoying at?! Don’t prefer it. Keep in your lane #thismorning

— Kimberley Walker (@KimberleyHW) January 20, 2019

WHAT a disappointment it’s only a present made up of repeats from the earlier week! Shall be watching #SundayBrunch from now on @thismorning #ThisMorning on Sunday

— Janbo25 (@JaniceGilfillan) January 20, 2019

In the imply time, move one other slice of the stuffed mallard, will you?

The post This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows appeared first on List Technology.

#Culture #Sunday Brunch #Technology #Television #This Morning

0 notes

jimeshbathija3896-blog · 6 years ago

Text

This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows

Learn extra

Viewers surprised by ladies stockpiling meals for Brexit on This Morning

This Morning on Sunday had: properly, Holmes and Langsford. Oh, and chef John Torode. Look, perhaps everybody was simply busy?

So how did the two shows play out and who gained the battle of the weekend? Right here’s what occurred, minute by minute:

The review

Kevin Clifton’s tattoo

Holmes and Langford (Photograph: ITV)

Rylan Clarke-Neal will host a Saturday afternoon present on Radio 2

From Partridge-esque to precise partridge

10.53 TMoS: One other repeated interview. It’s Strictly‘s Kevin Clifton getting a tattoo saying ‘I love Glasgow’. Look, it’s too boring to get into right here.

11.04 SB: Fox steps as much as make a vinegar-braised hen with Rimmer, which finally ends up wanting a lot nicer than it sounds.

Nick Knowles (Photograph: Gareth Cattermole/Getty Pictures)

Over on social media and viewers appeared to be in equal measures confused and irritated to seek out that This Morning was primarily repeats of segments from the earlier week’s shows.

One Twitter consumer stated: “What a disappointment! It’s just a show made up of repeats from the previous week’s show.”

Disgrace it’s simply clips from the week and never new content material. Bit of a cop out. *turns @SundayBrunchC4 on as an alternative* #thismorning #sundaybrunch

— Amy Lee (@Amykinsypoo) January 20, 2019

Thought it was Monday and I used to be late for bloody work once I turned on the telly to see @thismorning! What they enjoying at?! Don’t prefer it. Keep in your lane #thismorning

— Kimberley Walker (@KimberleyHW) January 20, 2019

WHAT a disappointment it’s only a present made up of repeats from the earlier week! Shall be watching #SundayBrunch from now on @thismorning #ThisMorning on Sunday

— Janbo25 (@JaniceGilfillan) January 20, 2019

In the imply time, move one other slice of the stuffed mallard, will you?

The post This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows appeared first on List Technology.

#Culture #Sunday Brunch #Technology #Television #This Morning

0 notes

superplhis-blog · 6 years ago

Text

This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows

Learn extra

Viewers surprised by ladies stockpiling meals for Brexit on This Morning

This Morning on Sunday had: properly, Holmes and Langsford. Oh, and chef John Torode. Look, perhaps everybody was simply busy?

So how did the two shows play out and who gained the battle of the weekend? Right here’s what occurred, minute by minute:

The review

Kevin Clifton’s tattoo

Holmes and Langford (Photograph: ITV)

Rylan Clarke-Neal will host a Saturday afternoon present on Radio 2

From Partridge-esque to precise partridge

10.53 TMoS: One other repeated interview. It’s Strictly‘s Kevin Clifton getting a tattoo saying ‘I love Glasgow’. Look, it’s too boring to get into right here.

11.04 SB: Fox steps as much as make a vinegar-braised hen with Rimmer, which finally ends up wanting a lot nicer than it sounds.

Nick Knowles (Photograph: Gareth Cattermole/Getty Pictures)

Over on social media and viewers appeared to be in equal measures confused and irritated to seek out that This Morning was primarily repeats of segments from the earlier week’s shows.

One Twitter consumer stated: “What a disappointment! It’s just a show made up of repeats from the previous week’s show.”

Disgrace it’s simply clips from the week and never new content material. Bit of a cop out. *turns @SundayBrunchC4 on as an alternative* #thismorning #sundaybrunch

— Amy Lee (@Amykinsypoo) January 20, 2019

Thought it was Monday and I used to be late for bloody work once I turned on the telly to see @thismorning! What they enjoying at?! Don’t prefer it. Keep in your lane #thismorning

— Kimberley Walker (@KimberleyHW) January 20, 2019

WHAT a disappointment it’s only a present made up of repeats from the earlier week! Shall be watching #SundayBrunch from now on @thismorning #ThisMorning on Sunday

— Janbo25 (@JaniceGilfillan) January 20, 2019

In the imply time, move one other slice of the stuffed mallard, will you?

The post This Morning on Sunday vs Sunday Brunch: who triumphed? A minute-by-minute review of the weekend shows appeared first on List Technology.

#Culture #Sunday Brunch #Technology #Television #This Morning

0 notes