#BUT IT IS DONE AND WE SMASH THE COUNTESS

[theintrovertbean]

The Night is Ours

Aka my poor attempt at writing smut.

WE ARE SMASHING THE COUNTESS TONIGHT BOIS!!!

Hello, hi, and welcome back. It is I, Esz, the biggest Nadi simp ever known to exist. This time, I bring you some sexy stuff. I actually haven't written smut in three years, and tbh, I did have to step out of my comfort zone to write this, so yeah, please, be nice because, man, when I tell you that my bitch ass struggled 💀

It's kinda short, like your dad's pp, but this is what I was thinking about while listening to this song on repeat. It's straight af, I know, but we're going to ignore that. Listen to it while reading if you'd like, but I think that it eventually stops fitting the lil spicy story? Idk.

I should probably say that English isn't my first language (which is true) because that makes every spicy writing better. And it's also probably not your usual smut, but you'll see. I tried to be a bit poetic.

Nadia is afab and MC is as gender-neutral as they can be.

Enjoy, babes ;)

Minors DNI

The Night is Ours

The door closes. They waste no time, and their lips find each other without any hesitation, tender and loving. They have been thinking about the same thing: as soon as it is all over and when they are all alone, they will get lost in each other's arms. And that is what they do, their hands now freely roaming in an effort to feel as much of the other person as they can, to blindly memorize the feeling of every inch of their bodies.

"Hmm…" Nadia breaks the kiss with a small sound, her eyes red with lust. "You are irresistible, my dear. What am I going to do with you?"

"Everything," MC whispers, allowing themselves to run a finger along the Countess' bottom lip. "We are alone now; no one will interrupt us, my love. The night is ours."

She smiles with nothing but love and adoration dancing on her features. "And you are mine, MC. And I am yours." Then the Countess leans down again, capturing MC's mouth in another sensual kiss.

Their attention focuses only on each other, the love, and the passion they share. They are lost in their maze of love, in the feeling of first their hearts and soon their bodies becoming one.

Hands brush against skin as they reach under layers of fabric, lazily shedding them and allowing them to fall on the ground like leaves of silk. There is no rush, and they both let themselves succumb to a slow pace.

The magician's eyes fall on Nadia's body. They have seen her naked before in the baths and while she dressed, and yet never so bare and vulnerable before. She is always so confident in her appearance, as she should be, for she is the most beautiful woman to ever live, but she can't help the blush that appears on her cheeks under MC's gaze.

She is the woman, a goddess meant to be loved and worshipped. Her body must be appreciated, showered by not only MC's eyes but their lips too. Every caress, every faint touch of hers sends a shiver running down MC's spine.

And MC. Precious, dear MC. A work of art, the embodiment of beauty and perfection. A magical creature in both looks and nature. It is no wonder that the Countess is mad with desire.

Minds clouded by lust, they fall on the bed without ever taking their hands off each other, not even for a moment. They both moan, breaths heavy, their need reaching its final peak.

She descends on them first, leaving trails of kisses on MC's body. Her lips burn their skin like fire, but without the pain, for tonight is only about love and pleasure. Nadia explores them thoroughly, and her mouth lingers for a moment more when she finds a spot that earns a particularly good reaction from them. She allows herself to wander, to explore the map that their body is with a hunger for the grandest of treasures.

"Countess..." The magician exhales when Nadia finally rewards them with a single, gentle kiss between their thighs, but she immediately withdraws. She looks at them expectantly, and MC quickly corrects themselves. "N-Nadia..." They stutter, unable to control themselves any longer, but she knows that. The past few days have been a constant torture, nearly getting caught on multiple occasions, always having to stop for whatever reason, and while she loves to tease them, now it is not the time.

Her eyes stare into their soul like a snake, penetrating their mind, body, and soul with sweet, maddening poison while her mouth pleasures them. Nadia is like poison. Delicious and addictive, setting MC's veins on fire whenever she makes a sound, low hums, or even moans that vibrate through their core and rush through MC's entire being, spreading inside them.

She sucks and licks at all the right places, her work intense and purely focused on reliving MC of days of torment. Some of her memories might be lost, but Nadia knows what she is doing, and now, with the magician squirming under her, she makes good use of her talents.

And when MC finally reaches their climax, they can feel her smirk against their flesh; she is pleased with herself. She takes the same route while kissing up their body, with MC still a trembling mess beneath her.

When her mouth reaches their face, she kisses MC again but soon finds herself on her back with the magician straddling her waist. Her eyes widen in surprise, and then she smiles, feeling a sense of pride in her chest. Her MC is not only smart, adorable, and gorgeous but also exceptionally capable. More than worthy of a Countess' affections.

MC's lips brush against Nadia's skin, their hot breath making her shudder, and her hand reaches for their back. When they reach her breast, she inhales sharply, then Nadia whines when their tongue makes contact with her nipple. She tries to grab onto something, her nails digging into MC's back. Her royal composure falls apart, and she is now at MC's mercy, craving every touch they have to offer.

Then they move, going lower until they are on their knees, where they belong, at the feet of the goddess they are so determined to worship tonight, and they find her slick and wanting with desire for them.

The first touch of their mouth makes her whimper, and then she bites her bottom lip, attempting to silence herself quite unsuccessfully. And as MC continues, they feel ecstatic, completely lost in Nadia and desperate to please her, their hunger almost driving them crazy.

Her scent, her taste, the feeling of her, and her, her, just her. Nadia is not only a person but also a feeling. She feels like experiencing love for the first time. She is a sensation in MC's chest that almost makes them cry happy tears. She feels strong, almost overwhelmingly so. She is joy, almost more than MC can bear. She is the sudden realization when all logic is gone, and then it suddenly hits that this...this is what love feels like.

MC gently grabs onto her thigh, gripping and caressing her flesh there and slowly moving upward. Two fingers are now entering her, and her back arches off the bed. She cries out, her voice making the magician groan into her. Her eyes are closed, but her mouth is open as the most delicious of moans escape her lips. With one hand, she's gripping the sheets, and with the other, she's holding MC's head, fingers tangled in their hair, beckoning them to give her more and guiding them towards her sweetest of spots.

The slightly increasing tremble in her thighs is only an encouragement, and they keep going. Her breaths have turned into short pants, and she can no longer focus on anything but her MC and the divine, wicked combination of their mouth and fingers working towards her orgasm. She comes with a loud moan, her legs squeezing the magician's head between them.

Then MC climbs back onto the bed, settling next to their Countess, and despite the darkness, they can see that she is smiling, happy and content, their heart melting at the sight.

Soon, their lips find each other again because the night is still young and far from over. They still have time to further explore their love for each other.

That night, even the moon is shining only for the Countess and her Magician.

[angelasscribbles]

Savage Love Chapter Chapter 8: Masquerade

Series: Savage Love

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Riley x Liam, Riley x Drake

Rating: R

Warnings: Mature themes

Word Count: 5,189

Summary: It's the opening night of the social season. Leo is crown prince and agent Riley Brooks is hot on the trail of the Via Imperii, but will she be able to choose between the crown prince's dashing younger brother and the captain of the king's guard, that both set her body, and her heart, afire?

A/N: I've made Drake a captain in the King's Guard in almost every series I've written. But in every other series he has been undercover, or a member of the covert division of the guard. In this fic, that's not the case, everyone is aware of his position.

My other stuff: Master List.

I walked into the ballroom on Maxwell’s arm and watched every head turn as we were announced. Murmurs of excitement rippled through the room as a member of a foreign royal house was announced. I wasn’t the only one. There were several princesses from other countries in attendance, as well as the usual assortment of Cordonian duchesses, countesses, and so on. But I was an unexpected one, so it caused a bit of a stir as everyone clamored for a sight of the new girl.

It was exactly what I wanted. Any members of the Via Imperii had to be impressed by me. I would of course investigate every lead no matter what, but getting them to come to me would be even better. I had several suspects in mind already, either in their own right or because their parents were suspects.

Penelope Ebrim. Hana Lee. Madeleine Amaranth. Olivia Nevrakis. Then there were other suspects that weren’t suitors but were present at court, members of the aristocracy like Neville Vancouer and Tariq Lambros.

I waited my turn in line to greet the prince. Maxwell had done his part by spreading the story of the connection Leo and I had allegedly forged in Monterriso. I stepped up and offered him my hand. He dropped a kiss on the back of it and feigned confused intrigue. I removed my mask and anyone watching would have been convinced of his surprised delight. He was really good at this, if he ever decided ruling wasn’t for him, he could have a career in espionage.

I plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as I sashayed away from him and surveyed the room. I spotted Hana with a group of ladies that I quickly identified from their dossiers. Penelope Ebrim, Kiara Theron, and Madeleine Amaranth. Well, that’s two suspects I had yet to meet in one place chatting with another I’d already befriended. Perfect opening. I crossed the room quickly to join the group.

“Hana, darling! There you are! Don’t you look divine tonight? Seriously, smashing! I don’t believe I’ve met your companions.” I turned toward them expectantly. Yes, I had interrupted. No, I didn’t apologize. The trick was to act like you owned whatever room you were in. It’s how one commanded respect in these circles.

Madeleine arched an eyebrow at Hana as she extended her hand to me, “I’m Lady Madeleine Amaranth, so very pleased to meet you. I had no idea that Lady Hana ran in such illustrious circles.” Oh, an ass kisser. Good to know, that could be exploited, but also, she couldn’t be trusted. Ass kissers were always out for themselves and would desert you the minute they found a more illustrious ass to kiss.

“Oh! Ah…we, um, I mean-“ Hana blushed furiously as she stumbled over her words.

“Oh yes, Hana and I go way back.” All the way back to yesterday but this pretentious bitch didn’t need to know that.

Hana recovered her composure and gave me a grateful smile as she introduced her other two companions, “This is Lady Kiara and Lady Penelope. Penelope makes clothes for poodles!”

“Oh, it’s just a hobby, for now anyway, but….” She rambled on for the next ten minutes about poodles and poodle accessories. She missed every social cue from the rest of the group that no one was interested.

Finally Madeleine had enough, “Oh for God’s sakes Penelope! Shut up! No one cares!”

“Oh, ah…I’m so sorry!” Penelope Ebrim was either too far too naïve and, well, for lack of a better word, dimwitted to be part of the Via Imperi or she put on the best act I had ever seen in my career.

“It’s quite alright, darling. I see that you’re very passionate. Now, Lady Kiara, was that French I heard you speaking earlier?” Cue the most boring conversation you can image about her mastery of seven languages. I speak eight, but who’s counting? I also don’t go around making it my entire personality.

I wanted to put her on my suspect list just because I didn’t like her. She was pretentious and ambitious, but those things alone didn’t make her a suspect.

Madeleine, on the other hand, she fit the bill. Both her parents were suspected members and she seemed to think she was above everyone else just by the position she was afforded at birth. That fit the Via Imperii philosophy, that the rich and powerful were better, and worthier, than everyone else.

She complained endlessly about the ‘help’ as she called them, took every opportunity to name drop and humble brag about her money, connections and latest vacation. It really was tedious, but I encouraged it because I needed her to believe I was like minded, just in case she was my way into the Via Imperii.

When Madeleine was whisked off to dance, I extracted myself from the conversation with the rest of the ladies and turned to scan the room as I walked, looking for another target. I almost ran right into Drake.

“Whoa, there, Brooks.” His arms came out to steady me. I looked up at him and felt the air rush out of my body. Fuck he looked good. I had not been prepared for him to look that damn good.

He was in full Cordonian military dress uniform. My eyes raked over his body taking in the long, deep blue frock coat with silver embroidery and silver buttons. Blue and silver, the Cordonian national colors, of course. A silver piece of braided cord, known as an aiguillette adorned one shoulder, while an impressive display of medals graced his chest on the other side. He wore a matching blue peaked cap with the Rys family crest, a lion posed in a fighting stance, on the front.

“Everything ok?” He asked in amusement.

My eyes snapped up to him as I smoothed my face back into haughty heiress mode, “Everything is fine, Captain. Dance with me?”

“You sure? Shouldn’t you be dancing with Leo or a suspect or something?” He was still giving me that amused look. He was too damn pleased with himself.

“I’m sure.” I told him, “This room is filled with men who are intimidated by women of higher rank than them, especially attractive ones.”

He arched an eyebrow at me, “I see, and dancing with a lowly guardsman will make you seem more approachable?”

“Something like that.” I said as he took my hand and led me out onto the dance floor.

“Happy to help.” He smiled down at me as he pulled my body flush against his and led me through the Cordonian Waltz.

“Yes, I can feel that Captain.” I smirked up at him.

He chuckled, “I’m not trying to hide it. You already know the effect you have on me.”

“I do.” I affirmed, “And I like it.”

“Good to know.” He said as he dipped me.

“You’re a good dancer.” I told him.

“Shhhh.” He grinned down at me, “Don’t ruin my reputation. I don’t want people to remember that I can dance.”

“What?” I laughed.

“I don’t generally dance.” He informed me.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, “I just don’t like it, I’m usually on duty anyway, so many reasons…”

“Well thank you for making an exception for me.”

“Making exceptions for you seems to be becoming a habit for me.”

“What do you mean? What exceptions have you made for me?” I asked curiously.

“Getting involved with someone I have a professional relationship with, competing with Liam for a woman, dancing…I mean, that’s three and I’ve barley known you for a week.”

“Hm. So, are you going to tell me what we’re doing tomorrow?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there, Brooks.”

“Alright. Be a tease then.”

His eyes swept down my body, “You’ll know when I’m teasing you.”

I shivered in response to the desire in his eyes, wondering if he’d find an excuse to come by my room again tonight.

When the song ended, I thanked him for the dance and before I’d taken three steps, one of my targets for the night presented himself to me.

“We haven’t been properly introduced, but if you would allow me the pleasure of a dance, I’d like to correct that.”

I gave a dimpled smile and fluttered my eyelashes, “Why certainly, Lord…?”

“Vancouer. Future Earl of Cormery Isle. But you can call me Neville.”

“Nice to meet you, Neville. I’m Lady Riley Brooks of Monterisso, but you can call me Riley.”

“How did you know I was a lord?” He asked as we spun around the dancefloor.

“Oh, it’s in your bearing. Very regal. I can always tell.”

His chest puffed up as a smile spread across his face, “Ah, a lady of discernment. So refreshing. It’s true, isn’t it? Breeding shows itself.”

“Oh yes,” I replied, “Proper breeding.”

“Exactly! I’m always telling people…” He trailed off as he regarded me thoughtfully, “I noticed you dancing with Drake Walker. You do realize he’s not one of us, right?”

“Yes.” I demurred, “I was simply being polite. He is friends with the younger prince, is he not?”

“Yes. Prince Liam has been tainted by the commoner’s influence, I’m afraid. But I am hopeful that his brother will understand the importance of keeping the nobility happy and appeased and his reign will be a prosperous one for all of us.”

If he wasn’t Via Imperii I’d eat my shoes. He had the philosophy down. Elevate and enrich the already elevated and enriched even more. Nobility was in the blood, it made him better than others and more entitled.

He was also vain and susceptible to flattery. He wasn’t bad looking, but he was arrogant, immature and selfish. I’d wager my parents estate that he didn’t have many women lining up to date him. He should be easy enough to manipulate. If he was a member of the Via Imperii, he was my way in.

While I bristled internally at the slight to both Drake and Liam, on the outside, I kept my charming but aloof and arrogant heiress smile pasted on my face. Drake Walker and Liam Rys were both ten times the man Neville Vancouer could ever hope to be. But being undercover was all about swallowing your true thoughts and feelings. And I was good at it. I’d never have been able to take Rico, or any of the others like him, down if I wasn’t.

Instead, I fed his ego and rubbed up against him just slightly enough that he wouldn’t be able to tell if it was on purpose or not. Yes, I use my feminine wiles to advance my cases. I use what the good lord gave me because my body, my ability to flirt and charm, are tools like any other. No, I don’t give my body up to men that I don’t want to. But I sure make them think I might, and the pursuit of sex can be an incredible motivator. Men get stupid when their brains are clouded with lust. And stupid bad guys are my bread and butter.

I had him eating out of my hand by the end of the dance. “Thank you so much for the dance, Neville. I hope to talk to you again soon, but I promised the prince I’d save him a dance.”

“Oh, you will definitely see me again. I’ve decided to stay for the social season.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he replied as he kissed my hand, “Now that there is finally something worth hanging around for.”

I tittered at him shyly as I withdrew my hand and sashayed away, casting a coy look back over my shoulder. Always leave them wanting more, make them work for it. Make them sloppy and careless so they let secrets slip.

I found Leo and grabbed him, “Dance with me!” I whispered.

“Ok but slow down there double oh seven!” He laughed as we stumbled onto the dance floor, “What’s the rush?”

“I told a suspect that I promised you a dance. I know he’s still watching me. Can’t look like a liar, can I?”

“No, I guess you can’t.” He smiled down at me with humor twinkling in his ocean blue eyes, “Just as long as you know I have no interest in joining your man harem.”

I snorted out a laugh, “Oh God, Leo, you’re so bad!” I smacked him on the shoulder. “And don’t worry, you’re not my type.”

“Really?” He was laughing but managed to a throw a note of mock hurt into it.

“Really.” I smirked up at him, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I have a thing for brunettes, with brown eyes.”

“Oh, I noticed alright! You’ve got those two wound up tighter than I’ve ever seen either of them, and believe me, that’s saying something!”

I tipped my head up to look at him curiously, “You know, I feel like most men would be lecturing me about not hurting their baby brother, but you seem amused…”

His head tipped up to laugh, “Liam’s a big boy, but, since you mentioned it…”

“Oh, no.” I groaned, “Not the ‘what are your intentions’ talk, please!”

“No, no. You may not be aware, but I’m no stranger to casual, or multiple at the same time, flings.”

I gasped in feigned shock, “Really?”

“Ha ha. I know you read my file. But what I am saying is that Liam isn’t like me, or you. He doesn’t really do casual. So yeah, I guess I am saying try not to hurt him, ok? He’s a really good person. Way better than me.”

I let myself consider that seriously. “I think you’re a pretty good person, Leo, just for the record. And I don’t plan to hurt Liam, or anyone else. I’ve been up front about my intentions, or lack thereof. I’m only here for a few months, I’m not looking for anything permanent. I notice you didn’t warn me not to hurt Drake.”

“Drake is a little more worldly than Liam.”

I laughed again, I found myself doing that a lot with Leo. I liked him. We could be friends. His sense of humor was irreverent, like mine. “You mean he’s more of a man whore like you.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” He said as he spun me.

“One more thing.” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Olivia.”

“What about her?” At the mention of her name, his eyes swept the room, looking for her.

My eyes followed his. Olivia was glaring at us from across the room. Oh, boy. “Can I trust her?”

“Yes.” He said without hesitation.

“You know she’s on the suspect list?”

“I’m aware, but there’s no way. I’ve known her since she was four. She’s been my best friend since I was eight. We’re more than royalty to her, more than people who took her in. We’re family. Olivia is nothing if not loyal. She’s fierce and protective of those she loves. She stands up for what’s right, there’s no way she’s a traitor. And she doesn’t buy into the nobility as better than others bullshit either. She cares about her people.” The passion in his voice when he spoke about her struck me. Drake and Liam were both right, Leo was in love.

I nodded, “That’s three votes of confidence.”

He looked at me questioningly.

“Liam and Drake said the same thing, roughly. Minus the being in love with her part.”

“What?” He startled, “I never said-“

“Didn’t have to.” I told him, “It’s in the way you talk about her. Does she know?”

“She knows.” He tried to smile but there was sadness in his eyes.

“Hey, sorry. I know you might not be free to follow your heart at the end of all this.”

His jaw tightened and I felt bad for bringing it up, “I’ll find a way.” He said it so quietly I almost missed it. I believed him.

“Listen, I’ll help you in any way I can, ok?”

He looked back at me in surprise, “Thank you, Riley. I’ll keep that in mind.”

When the dance ended, he bowed to me, brushed a kiss across the back of my hand and flashed that charming, boyish smile before trotting off to sweep another suitor onto the floor.

I turned around and almost ran smack into Olivia. She eyed me up and down and not in a fun, sexy way. I got the feeling she would gut me without a second thought if she needed to.

She extended a hand, “I don’t believe we’ve met yet. I’m-“

I summoned up all my enthusiasm and grabbed her hand as I gushed, “Olivia Nevrakis, I know! Riley Brooks, nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, which she quickly covered with a haughty expression, “Of course you know who I am. Everyone does.” She sniffed as she patted her hair.

“Oh yes, I was just dancing with Leo, and he couldn’t stop talking about you.” It was sort of true.

Again, surprise shot across her face before she clamped it down. She wasn’t closed off enough to be hiding membership in a secret society. Every emotion she felt flashed across her face. She reigned them in quickly, she might fool the average vapid noble at court, but not me.

Olivia was a palace insider; I could use her insight about the other suitors. About everyone at court, actually. But I’d never gain her trust as long as she saw me as competition.

I pulled Olivia to the side. “Listen. Can I tell you something? But you have to keep it a secret.”

“Why the hell should I keep your secrets?” She sneered at me.

“Because they concern Leo.”

That got her attention. “Whatever it is you think you have with him-“

“There’s nothing between Leo and I.” I said dismissively.

“What?” She looked at me in confusion, “But Max said that-“

I rolled my eyes, “Max got it wrong. Yes, I met Leo in Monterisso, and yes, we got along quite well, but it wasn’t romantic. When the idea of me coming here was presented to my parents, they insisted I come. Good opportunity, public relations, build diplomatic relations with Cordonia blah blah blah. You know how it is.”

“Why on earth would I believe any of that?” Her gaze was one of studied indifference, but underneath, she wanted to believe me.

I leaned in so no one else could hear, “I’m actually interested in someone else.”

She snorted, “Like who?”

I scanned the ballroom and my eyes fell of Liam. “His brother.”

“Really?” She gave me a skeptical look.

“What? Is that so hard to believe? I mean look at him, he’s hot as hell and he’s smart and funny and kind and caring and-“ Damn, I was selling this too well. You’d almost think I did have feelings for him.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved a hand dismissively, “That doesn’t mean-“

She wasn’t going to believe it just because I said it, I could tell that about her. But this was something I could easily sell, because it was at least partially true.

“He likes me too. Watch.” I pointed to where Liam was standing chatting with a group of nobles, and she turned skeptically in his direction.

I waited until he looked up and caught my eye. I knew he would, he’d been shooting glances in my direction all night. I gave him a sultry smile and a little wave. He did that thing where his whole face lights up and he waved back.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Olivia breathed out as Liam headed our direction but got waylaid by another group of attention seekers.

“Told you.” I smirked at her in satisfaction.

She turned to give me an appraising look, “Ok, fine. I’ll concede that he seems smitten with you and vice versa. But why on earth would you confide that to me?”

“Because I’d like us to be friends. Liam is important to me and you’re important to Leo. Liam told me so. Who knows? We could be sister in laws someday.” I gave her a smile full of innocence and sincerity.

“Liam said that? About me and Leo?” She gave me a sharp look, but I caught the flash of hope underneath it.

I nodded earnestly, “Oh yes!” He had but even if he hadn’t, Drake had and that was good enough intel for me.

She gave me a long searching look then seemed to come to a decision when she nodded at me and said, “You seem to be slightly more tolerable than these other harpies.”

“So does that mean we’re friends?” I asked hopefully.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She drained her glass of champagne, “But you could prove useful.”

Liam had finally managed to extricate himself and made it over to us, “Lady Riley, Lady Olivia, you both look lovely this evening.” He greeted us both, but his eyes stayed locked on me.

“This is cute.” Olivia gestured between us, “But you might want to reign in it a little, you’re supposed to be here for Leo.”

I arched an eyebrow at her, “Are you complaining that I’m not chasing after Leo?”

A smile quirked at the corners of her mouth, but she repressed it. “Nope. Just reminding you of proper decorum, that’s all. This has been interesting; I’ll see you around.” She waved over her shoulder as she sauntered away.

“I’ve been stuck networking all night, forced to watch you dance with everyone but me.” Liam gave me a playful pout, “Please, rescue me before I have to dance with another diplomat’s wife!”

“Certainly. I’d love to dance with you, Liam.” He turned out to be an excellent dancer. Maybe the best dance partner I’ve ever had. “Wow. You missed your true calling. Professional ballroom dancer.”

He laughed softly, “I don’t think that’s a real position.”

“Oh, it is!” I assured him, “And you could definitely do it!”

“My dance instructor would be happy to hear that.” He grinned down at me. His grin was so damn adorable. How was it possible to be boyishly adorable and skin meltingly hot at the same time? Seemed unlikely, but there he was, doing it.

“I think you just have natural talent.” I told him.

“You have natural talent.” He said suggestively as he dipped me.

I laughed, “You did seem to enjoy yourself.”

“I always do when I’m with you.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“We better change the subject before I lose all self-control and kiss you right here in front of everyone. How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s going well actually. I think I may have found an in.” I told him as I spun out and back in.

“Oh. Already?” He sounded disappointed. Ah. He didn’t want the case wrapped up too soon.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m expecting an invitation tomorrow. How about you? How’s your night been going?”

“Oh, this ball was dull as dishwater until now. The best part of my day was clearly dinner.”

“Yes, that pasta dish particularly was delicious.”

A surprised laugh burst out of him, “Yes, the food. That’s what I was referring to.”

“What else would you be referring to?” I asked teasingly.

His arms tightened around me as his pupils dilated a little. He was so easy to tease, it was fun. I could make this into a whole hobby.

“You’re dangerous.” He breathed out.

“Hope so,” I quipped, “it’s literally my job to be.”

That drew another laugh out of him, “Not quite what I meant.”

He groaned when the music ended, “I don’t want to let go.”

To be honest, I kind of didn’t want him to. Being in his arms wasn’t a bad feeling by any means. Alas, I had bad guys to catch.

Liam’s eyes never left mine as his lips lingered on the back of my hand while he held onto it a few beats longer than decorum required. The back of my hand had been kissed a lot already but that was the first one that set my skin on fire. I shivered imperceptibly and gave him a genuine smile, one I reserved for people I actually like.

I danced with several more people and circulated around the room making friends with other suitors. I worked the room professionally, taking copious notes in my head, paying attention to who talked to who. Dropping subtle comments that a member of the Via Imperi would pick up on, making myself look like a good recruit, someone already rich and powerful who believed it should stay that way, that only aristocratic interests mattered.

Late into the night I made my way out onto a terrace to find Hana standing at the baluster. “Hana?”

She jumped a little as she turned to face me, “Oh Riley! Hi! What are you doing out here?”

“Same as you probably, taking a break from all that dancing!” I answered as I took up a position next to her, gazing out over the grounds.

“Yeah, the dancing.” She sounded defeated.

“Hey, Hana.” I turned to face her, “What’s wrong?”

“I-“ She wiped a tear away, “Nothing, I shouldn’t-“

“It’s ok.” I told her, “I can tell you don’t really want to be here. I know you just met me, but if you ever want to talk, I promise I’ll listen and whatever you tell me, will stay with me.”

Her face lit up with a smile, “Oh, that’s….thank you, Riley. I appreciate it more than you know.”

“Now I’ve got to get off my feet.” I slid into a seat to rest. Pulling my shoes off, I sighed. “That’s better!” I said wiggling my toes.

Hana dried her face as she giggled, then she joined me at the table and pulled her own shoes off, “This is so freeing! I’ve never seen anyone take their shoes off at one of these formal balls before!” She said in scandalized tone.

I laughed and shook my head, “Hana, I can see I’m going to have to loosen you up. You have to learn to live a little.”

“I think I’d like that.” She replied with real warmth in her voice.

“Me too.” I told her and I actually meant it. Sure, she was a person of interest because of her mother, but she was sweet and genuine and definitely needed someone watching her back amongst the vultures at court. There was no way she was a member of the Via Imperi herself. But her parents couldn’t be ruled out.

“Can I tell you a secret, Riley?”

“Sure Hana.” I responded as I started rubbing the bottoms of my feet.

“I like girls, not boys.”

I laughed, “I know.”

“You do?” She said, surprised, “How?”

“Oh, I can always tell. I like girls and boys.” I told her.

Hana blushed furiously. “Have you been with a lot of women?”

“A few. You?”

“A few.” She giggled.

“Do your parents know?”

“No.” She shook her head sadly, “They want me to make a proper match and marry for position and to advance the family.”

I clamped down my anger, “That’s a crock of shit, Hana. You deserve to be happy.”

She nodded but didn’t quite meet my eyes. I’d seen it before. It wasn’t so much homophobia among the elite as it was their adherence to ‘the order of things’, including marrying daughters off for alliances and to advance social positions like this was still the fucking Middle Ages or something. Even in democracies, you still saw it with the wealthiest families. It’s barbaric is what it is.

“Riley, there you are!” I looked up to find Liam beaming down at me, “I was looking for you. And hello to you too, Lady Hana.”

“Hello Prince Liam.”

“Please, just call me Liam.” He told her as he pulled a chair up next to me and took my foot out of my lap into his own, taking over the job of massaging it. “Here, let me help you with that.”

I lifted my eyes to Hana’s. She quirked an eyebrow at me in amusement. I shrugged.

“Mmm, that feels good, Liam. I was wrong, you didn’t miss your calling as a ballroom dancer. You missed your calling as a professional masseur.”

He laughed softly as he pulled my other foot into his lap, “I’m a man of many talents.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” I teased.

“The ball is winding down, they’re about to start shooing people out. I was wondering if you might want to-“

“Brooks! There you are! Do you wanna-“ Drake stepped out onto the terrace, freezing when he noticed Liam.

“Hey Captain. Come on over, pull up a chair.” I told him as I pulled my feet out of Liam’s lap and sat up straight. I shot another look at Hana who had both hands over her mouth repressing giggles. I shook my head and widened my eyes.

“Yeah, I…I should probably just-“

“It’s ok, Walker, don’t make it weird. I’ll see you tomorrow, right? Liam, thank you for the foot rub and for dinner earlier. I’m exhausted and all I want to do right now is take a hot shower and fall into bed.”

There was no way in hell I could choose between them with both of them right there looking at me. I was drawn to each of them in very different ways and there was nothing in me that was willing to hurt either one. Picking one to take back to my room right in front of the other would do that, I had no doubt. My inability to choose dooming me to a night alone.

“Yeah, I get it.” Drake said, offering me his hand to pull me out of my chair.

“Thank you.” I whispered as I leaned in and brushed a kiss across his cheek. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Then I turned and brushed a quick kiss across Liam’s cheek as well, whispering to him, “Another time?”

He grabbed my hands in his and trailed those fire inducing kisses along the backs of them both. “Count on it.”

The four of us walked back through the ballroom together, then along the hall until we parted ways, Drake and Liam heading for the wing that housed the royal family, Hana and I toward the wing that housed the suitors.

“Well, you’re popular.” Hana giggled.

“Yeah.” I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips, “I like them both. It might be a problem.”

“What about Leo?” She looked at me quizzically.

I shrugged, “You know there are like thirty women here and he can only pick one, right?”

“Right….”

“So why limit our own options?”

A scandalized giggle squeaked out of her. “Riley! You’re the most outrageous person I’ve ever met! And I love it!”

“Thanks. And Hana?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said about a shower and falling into bed, but you’re welcome to join me if you like.”

She grinned shyly and nodded her head.

[spinningwebsandtales]

Greetings, Countess. I received intel from a reliable source that you were inclined to begin crafting Bad Batch imagines. May I request a Tech x Fem!Reader fluff imagine? Whatever you desire to do, I trust your intuition. 😉

Your intel would be correct! And I love your request!! I actually already had one thought out but this was the push I needed to really get it wrote out and I'm pretty excited about this one. So hopefully this will fulfill your desire for some really fluffy Tech! Thank you again for the awesome request and happy reading!! ~ Countess

Imagine Helping Tech While He Works

Tech X FemReader

Warnings: None

Tech was the type of man who didn't like people to interrupt him as he worked, especially if it was something delicate and tedious. But you had come to realize that he didn't mind you sticking around. At first it had been a dare from Wrecker to see how his intelligent brother reacted with someone bugging him as he worked. You both were surprised when Tech went about his business, seemingly comfortable with your presence over his armored shoulder. Moments later you were handing him tools and asking questions, which he eagerly answered. Now it was normal to help him and he even taught you a few tricks on how to fix various things. The funnest one was how to hot wire a speeder (you both kept that one a secret from Hunter though). Now as Tech worked you found watching him work so intensely soothing.

"Can you hand me that," he asked pointing to the tool by your hand.

"Sure," you replied handing the object over. "What you fixin' now Mr. Fix It?"

"Wrecker broke his comm again. He said it did it by itself but we both know he smashed it."

"Oh yeah he did. Poor little thing never stood a chance."

Tech snorted lips quirking into a small smile before he soldered a couple wires together.

"Can I help," you asked.

"It's very tedious work," Tech warned, finally looking from his work towards you. You sucked in a slight breath at his bright gaze.

"I'm sure I can handle it. I have you here to show me. Besides if I know how you wouldn't have to fix it every single time."

Tech nodded abandoning his seat for you to take, "You make a sound argument I yield."

Rising from your own you took the seat that Tech had preoccupied seconds before.

"Now take this and solder this wire to here."

You understood what needed to be done but Tech wasn't lying about it being tedious. Not being used to such work left your hand shaking more than you wanted it to. You willed your hand steady though it wouldn't listen. Tech gently clasped his gloved one over yours steadying your digits before rising from the chair to lean over you.

"Like this." He breathed against your ear causing you to shiver as he guided you with a well trained hand. You watched the comm come back together with both of you working but you found your mind wondering to the close proximity of the man you admired. How gently his battle worn hands guided yours. You didn't know what his skin felt like underneath all that garb he wore. Was his skin soft? Was it scarred? What long healed wounds hid underneath that chest plate. He was a mystery, one you wanted to solve. Tech finally noticed you staring, his grip becoming unsure.

"Is something the matter," he now was nervous no longer confident.

"No just admiring the view," you spoke nonchalantly.

"What view? We're in space it's nothing but darkness and stars."

"Yeah but I was thinking of the good company. But I'll let you finish you guys will want to eat soon anyway." You relinquished control of the workbench seat back to Tech. He sat back down watching you walk through the door before turning back to his work with his heart pounding against his armored chest.

[slippinmickeys]

The Earl (12/13)

If you’d like to read on AO3, you may do so here. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Scully looked about the cottage around her with a critical eye. With what she had on hand, there had to be something she could do or use to escape this place.

The windows were a non-starter; they were too small to fit through. It would have to be the door. It was locked from the outside -- the door itself, ancient and made of oak; she could pound at it for days and never get through. She briefly considered using leverage to perhaps lift it off its hinges, but it was set tightly and even if she could put together some kind of lever and fulcrum, it had nowhere to go. The lock itself was also old, made of iron. Even with the strength of a blacksmith she wouldn’t be able to smash it, either.

A blacksmith, she thought. A smith doesn’t make things with strength only -- he heats the metal to make it malleable enough to work with. Perhaps if she could heat the iron of the lock -- it was an old, simple one, with few pins -- just enough to soften it, a swift, strong kick could break the mechanism…

She had firewood enough for a blaze, but no coal, the fuel of the smith. Wood would not burn hot enough, nor steady or strong enough to do what she needed it to do. On top of that, she had no way of directing the heat.

She wandered into the scullery of the kitchen, assessing its contents.

The lye could be helpful, she thought. Concentrated lye mixed with water would make a fairly corrosive solution, but even if she applied it to the door or lock, it would take far more time than she had to damage or weaken either enough to break through them. The kerosene was a thought, but would burn out quickly and she had no desire to breathe either smoke or fumes -- particularly since she couldn’t open the windows for fresh air.

She paced the cottage, thinking, eventually grabbing an apple from the table and shining it on the grungy front of her frock. She took a bite, chewing contemplatively.

She had the items in the kitchen. She had a few books, the clothes she wore. The bed, two chairs from the main sitting room and a small, sturdy side table that sat between them, upon which she’d deposited the many hair pins that had fallen out of her coiffure when Spender hacked it off. She fingered one in her hand.

Aluminum, she thought. Something was pinging in the back of her mind. Aluminum would react with lye if water were added -- the reaction of which would rapidly create an evolution of hydrogen gas. It would be highly exothermic and the hydrogen itself would ignite and burn at an extremely high temperature. It probably wouldn’t burn long, but if she were able to build up enough pressure and direct the reaction exactly where she wanted it…

She rushed into the scullery and pulled up the large glass vinegar bottle, setting it on the ancient kitchen table. The bottle was sturdy and large, with a long narrow neck and thick cork that fit tightly enough in the opening that she struggled to get it off. It could work, she thought.

Scully dragged the heavy end table from the living space over to the door. It was about one foot too low. She brought over several of the books and stacked them so that they leaned against the door. She brought over the bottle and set it on the table, then leaned it against the books, facing the narrow bottle opening at the lock. It was a bit too high. She took another bite of apple. Only one thing to be done.

She opened the top book and, apologizing -- out loud, to a book -- she tore about ten pages out. Then another ten. She tried lining up the bottle again. A few more centimeters should do it. She ripped out another thirty pages of the book, the thought alone making her sick to her stomach, and again lined up the bottle. Perfect. The neck and mouth of the bottle were positioned directly at the lock’s keyhole. Now she needed to secure it there.

Looking down at the bottom of the dirty, too-long hem of her borrowed frock -- which was filthy and torn in two places, she leaned down and grabbed onto it. And pulled. Once she got a finger through one of the tears, the rest was easy -- she yanked and ripped and was able to tear off the whole of the hem in one long, grimy strip. She put the strip of fabric over the top of the bottle and down under the table. If she pulled and knotted it well, it should secure the bottle in place. If it even worked, the pressure that built up inside the bottle would force its way out of the neck and mouth -- eventually blowing out the cork and acting as a kind of concentrated torch. If it burned for even ten to twenty seconds, it would do so at an incredible heat. The iron of the pins in the lock would soften, at least a little, and -- if she were lucky -- one or two swift and immediate kicks and the lock would fail.

If her knowledge of science was correct.

She remembered a dialogue she’d had with Mulder only a few weeks before when he lamented the lack of common sense and intelligence in their society at large:

“Yes, but you’ve had all the education English society offers it’s young gentlemen ,” she had said.

“Yes, where I was taught to suss out the inflections of our dear language,” he replied, looking at her levelly. “You were denied an education.”

“All young ladies are denied an education,” she crossed her arms over her chest.

“A practice I don’t intend to continue should we be blessed with daughters,��� he had mumbled, moving to her and nuzzling her neck to distract her from her anger.  

She’d had to educate herself, and she had done so. Now she needed to see if she was as smart as she hoped.

XxXxXxXxXxX

The house was in utter chaos. Through the night and into the next day, it had been searched high and low for the missing footman to no avail. He was the last person to have seen Duane Barry -- who had been about to tell them where Scully was being held -- alive, and he’d up and disappeared like a sneeze in the wind. No one had seen him coming or going, and the bed where the man had slept was perfectly made, the corners pulled tight. He had left no possessions to speak of -- nothing to direct anyone to where he might have gone.  

Mulder felt flayed. His chest laid bare and cracked open, his heart torn out, and all that was left was an aching chasm of gristle and bone and sinew.

Byers was in his study going over maps of the estate and surrounding areas with the land steward when Mulder wandered in. The two men were leaning over an older drawn map discussing the property lines and ownership of nearby estates -- they were all certain that Scully was being kept somewhere nearby. Mulder flopped onto a divan in the corner of the room doing his best not to give in completely to despair.  

Headly appeared in the study doorway.

“Lord Wexford,” he said, bowing deferentially. “Someone to see you, my lord.” He nodded his head toward the house’s main door.

Mulder excused himself from Byers and the steward and made his way toward the door, the dull sound of talking increasing in volume and urgency as he approached.

“I know this isn’t my house, but I say we don’t let the brigand in until he states his business!” Mr. Frohike all but shouted.

“Sir, all you need know of my business is that it is not yours,” a voice gruffed from the doorway. Mulder recognized the grumble and felt the faintest flame of hope reignite in his chest.

“Did I hear there’s a brigand at the door?” Mulder said loudly, causing the amassed people therein (Mr. Frohike, Mr. Langly, two footmen, and the two figures standing outside) to quiet instantly and turn toward his voice. “Walter,” he said, and the gathered retinue parted for him as the Red Sea did for Moses.

The taller figure in the doorway gave a half smile and reached forward to shake Mulder’s hand. “My lord.” He nodded at Mulder and looked to the other man who stood in the doorway, a long leather greatcoat hanging from wiry, muscular shoulders, his hair cropped close to his head. “My associate and I need to speak with you. Urgently.”

Mulder’s smile faded and, with an apologetic look to Frohike, gestured for the newcomers to follow him through the house and into Byers’ study, where the baronet was standing, looking fairly startled by the appearance of the newcomers. He quickly dismissed his steward.

When Frohike and Langly came into the study after them and stood on either side of their titled business associate with crossed arms and suspicious looks, Captain Walter Skinner, whose acquaintance with Mulder went back some way, looked at him warily.

“Lord Wexford, the information we came to share with you is on a manner of some… delicacy.”

“In reference to the matter I wrote to you of?” Mulder asked, referring to his inquiry of CBG Spender. Captain Skinner nodded. “They know all,” Mulder finished, nodding at Langly to close the door.

Skinner squared his jaw, digesting this, and then nodded toward his companion. “This is John Doggett, he is an associate of mine at Bow Street.”

“My lord,” Doggett said shortly.

“Rumor is sweeping through Town that the Countess of Wexford has been kidnapped for ransom,” Skinner said, looking at Mulder through small wire glasses.

“How I wish the rumors weren’t true,” Mulder said.

Skinner nodded, as though he had suspected as much. “When we heard, we knew we could not delay. We have information on this man, this CGB Spender.”

Heads raised and all eyes in the room sharpened.

“As I explained in my letter, ‘Spender’ is merely an alias.”

“Carl Gerhardt Bush, Jack Colquitt, Raul Bloodworth,” piped up Doggett, “the list is long. But the name we came across most recently drew our attention.”

Doggett looked to Skinner, who took over explanation:

“Does the name Alec Fitzsimmons mean anything to you?”

Mulder shook his head.

“Fitzsimmons runs an import business out of Lewisham. On the books, it’s nothing very interesting as far as what the man trades in-“  

“Off the books, however-“ Doggett cut in. Mulder looked to the former Captain.

“Munitions,” Skinner said, “we have reason to suspect he is running powder and munitions to Bonaparte.” Mulder saw Frohike raise his brows. “But that’s another matter,” he went on, “the import business itself was established some thirty years ago, but has recently taken on a silent partner. A partner by the name of CGB Spender,” Skinner went on. “And when we paid a visit to the offices of the Fitzsimmons Trading Company, a likeness of its founders was hanging on the wall.”

Skinner nodded to Doggett, who pulled a rolled up piece of canvas from inside his coat. He unfurled it and spread it out on Byers’ large desk, which was still covered in the maps and pages from Byers’ conversation with the Ashford Park land steward.

The painting showed several gentlemen, all but one in the picture standing. The seated gentleman was-

“Spender,” Mulder said, pointing his finger at the man’s face.

“Also goes by the name of Alec Fitzsimmons,” Skinner said. “The man is as crooked as they come. Likely trying to hide money from the Crown, using multiple aliases in multiple businesses. But you must again look at the portrait, sir.” He gestured to one of the standing gentlemen on the edge of the canvas. Mulder inhaled in surprise.

“My father,” he said. Though the man was younger than Mulder had ever seen him, it was unmistakably the Eighth Earl of Wexford.

“Did you know they had a connection, my lord?” Doggett asked.

“I do now,” Mulder said, and handed over the old envelope marked with an X.

Skinner and Doggett both read it and exchanged a look.

“So what of this man?” Mulder asked, impatience catching up with him.

“Alec Fitzsimmons owns a house on Wimpole Street,” Skinner said, “a large one, with an equally impressive entourage of household staff.”

“Did you recently hire anyone on at Wexford House in Town?” Doggett asked.

“That would be a question better put to my butler,” Mulder said.

“I did ask it of your butler, sir,” Doggett said, “And he told me one of your footmen fell ill very recently and he was forced to hire on someone new. A servant by the name of Alexander Krycek, who had come with excellent references and who traveled with you here to Ashford Park.”

Dread began to purl through Mulder’s chest.

“Before he was hired on at your London House,” Skinner began, “he had worked for the previous three years as head footman in the household of Alec Fitzsimmons.”

Mulder’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped.

“Is he currently below stairs?” Doggett asked, resting his hand upon the wooden handle of a pistol that hung from his belt.

“He is not,” Mulder answered, his voice like iced steel.

“We believe he poisoned your footman Samuel in order to secure the position and assist this Spender in abducting your wife.”

Mulder grabbed onto the edge of Byers’ mahogany desk and actually lifted one side of the leviathan, so fueled by rage that he had the strength of ten men. He slammed it back down.

“That is, ah-” Skinner started, looking at Mulder with trepidation, “not the only coincidence we found when we looked into your staff and the staff of Alec Fitzsimmons.”

Mulder felt his knees go weak under him.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully had filled the bottom of the glass bottle with lye and put in every hair pin she could find -- a considerable amount, given the length and thickness of her former tresses. All that needed to be done now was to pour in the water and quickly secure the cork. Once that was done, she would need to hurry behind the stone wall of the bedroom and hope that not only did her plan work, but that it didn’t backfire and blow her to smithereens in the process.  

In theory, the reaction should start as soon as water hit the two substances at the bottom of the bottle. Hydrogen would form quickly and the pressure would build even more so -- and if she resecured the cork tightly in order to trap that pressure, in almost no time at all, a fire of the hottest flame would be forcibly directed at the door’s lock.

She rolled some of the pages she’d torn out of the book into a kind of funnel and placed it in the top of the bottle which was secured tightly to the table below it. She picked up the pail of water with shaking hands. She poured.

She immediately heard the bubbling of the reaction. As soon as the bucket was empty, she dropped it and slammed the cork home, giving it one solid hit with her fist. Then she ran as fast as her legs would carry her into the bedroom and ducked down.

It happened even more swiftly than she thought it would. She heard the pop of the cork and then a low ominous hissing. She peeked around the wall. There were no flames that she could see (invisible flame! she thought, extraordinary! ), but there was a black shadow of charring creeping up the side of the oaken door and already the metal of the lock had an orangish glow.

Her stomach leapt into her throat. It had worked! As soon as the hissing sound ended, she ran at the door and slammed it  for all she was worth. The latch gave a little and she kicked it again. It flew open with a dull, muffled thud, and Scully stepped out into the blazing sunlight.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“I beg your pardon?” Mulder said, lowering himself into the nearest chair.

Skinner and his man Doggett shared a look.

“There is yet another member of your staff that once worked for Fitzsimmons.”

“Who is he?”

“Not he, sir,” Doggett said, “but she. The Countess’s lady’s maid, Prudence.”

“But… but Prudence has worked in our household for several years,” Mulder said, “before I even ascended to the Earldom.”

Skinner exchanged another look with Doggett and raised the envelope with the large, black X -- the accusation against Mulder’s father of an illegitimate child. “And now I believe we may know why,” he said.

Mulder felt the blood drain from his face, and he gestured weakly for Skinner to go on.

“When we spoke with your Housekeeper, we learned that Prudence was hired by the Eighth Earl himself. According to her, the girl had been raised at the country estate of Alec Fitzsimmons, an orphan that the Fitzsimmons estate took on as a charity case. She worked in the household as a child, and when she came of age, it was said she was promised a position at Henwick Priory -- one, should she perform her duties well, she would keep until she reached the age of five and forty, at which point there was set aside a small pension. An odd arrangement, which we could not figure out -- until we saw this.” Mulder looked to the envelope in his hand.

“I know my finances back to front,” Mulder said, “and I know nothing of this arrangement.”

“Mrs. Paxton said that the girl’s wages are paid, as any other maid’s would be, from the household account. The pension, however, is held in a private trust set up by your father.”

“Prudence is my sister,” he said breathlessly.

“I now believe so, yes,” said Skinner, his face set in a grim line. “And we should talk to her. This very minute.”

XxX

Prudence was summoned into Byers’ office and entered, eyes swinging around at the men assembled around her. She swallowed nervously and curtsied, looking to Mulder with apprehension.

“Is there word of the Countess, my lord?” she said hopefully.

“No,” Mulder answered, but did not -- could not -- go on. He was busy looking at her. He’d never noticed that her eyes were the same hazel-green as his own, that her hair was the exact shade. He found himself unable to speak.

“Prudence,” said Skinner from the other side of the room. She looked to him. “My name is Walter Skinner. I’m an investigator on Bow Street and I’ve been hired by Lord Wexford.”

“To find the Countess? I’ll help in any way I can,” she said earnestly.

Skinner merely nodded, not correcting her. “Thank you,” he said. “You have been working for Lord Wexford for several years, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, “I was hired as a maid at Henwick Priory when I turned seventeen.”

“Have you been happy working there?”

“Oh, very,” she said, for the first time giving a hesitant smile. “Lord Wexford is a kind and generous employer. I feel I have distinguished myself, such as a woman of my standing can. I was thrilled to be selected by Mrs. Paxton -- that’s Lord Wexford’s housekeeper -- to be the new Countess’s lady’s maid. Several of the other girls were hatefully envious, I can tell you. But I very much enjoy my job.”

“And where were you before you were hired at Henwick Priory?” Doggett asked.

“At an estate not far from here, in fact,” Prudence said, “I was an orphan, you see, and I was taken on as a charity case. When I came of age, I was told that the charity that had arranged my employment as a child had another opportunity lined up at the Priory. With guaranteed employment and a pension! I could not pass it up.”

“Did you know the footman Alexander before he was hired at Wexford House?” Skinner inquired.

A look of distaste crossed her features. “I did not,” she said shortly. “It’s… it’s not my place to say,” she darted eyes quickly to Mulder, “but something about the man has never sat right with me.”

From the corner of his eye, Mulder saw Frohike shift on his feet.

“Is Prudence your given name?” Skinner said.

“It is my middle name,” she explained, “there was an older scullery maid by the name of Samantha already working on the Fitzsimmons estate when I arrived.” Byers inhaled sharply. “I went by Prudence for the sake of simplicity.”

“What-” Mulder finally spoke, “what is the name of the estate where you were raised?”

“It is a small estate called Harwood Hall,” she said.

“And what of the gentleman who employed you there?” Skinner asked her.

“Mr. Fitzsimmons?” she asked. “I do not know him well. We were told to keep out of the way, and he lived mostly in Town.”

“This Harwood Hall,” Mulder said, rising from his seat, “you say it is nearby?”

“Not ten miles from here,” Prudence said, “by the sea.”

[magicianapprenticelyra]

At the Ready (Part I)

[Finding Space and Time] | [Counting the Days] | [At the Ready]

Timeline: Muriel’s Route; The Sun

[Featuring @vesuvianoak​‘s fan apprentice Ąžuolas]

“Hey, Ąžuolas?” James looks up from the base of the tree. Bảo’s settling into his spot as Ąžuolas leans over the edge of the platform.

“Yeah?” Ąžuolas replies.

“That’s my husband you got there . . .” James murmurs. “Please watch out for him.”

“JAMES!” Bảo exclaims, “Don’t put so much pressure on him! You so mean!”

His husband laughs, shaking his head. Hand on his sword’s hilt, James replies, “Just making sure. I know you both can take care of yourselves, and each other. I just . . .”

“Aw baby,” Bảo chuckles. “I know, you worry . . .”

“We’ll have each other’s backs,” Ąžuolas interjects. “That I can promise you.”

James nods at his fellow Southernlander and pulls the hood of his cloak up. With a wave, he’s off to check in on one last group: his wife and daughter at the cave.

O*O*O

“C’mon everyone, please keep in line!” Walt calls out, marking down whoever passes her by on a large pile of parchment. “File in towards the back, stay out of the pond with the giant lily pads, don’t stray from the marked paths, and I’ll be in there with the rest of ya shortly!”

“Walt!” James calls, weaving in and out of the foliage.

“Hey babe!” Walt continues to sign people in as she and her husband share a quick peck. “Bảo situated?”

“Yeah,” James nods. “Neha inside yet?”

“Done and done.”

“Good, good . . .”

“You see Ly and Muriel?”

“Back at barricades with the Countess,” James murmurs. “Gods be with us all today.”

Walt checks in the final person to the cave, exhaling in relief.

“I better get in there myself,” she murmurs.

Before she goes in, James pulls her into a tight hug. He’s shaking.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Walt soothes, gently rocking on her heels. The pair sway back and forth together. “You’ve been practicin’ with Ludo and Blumilda. You’ll be fine. Grab a shield on your way to your post.”

“Ach, right,” James groans, hiding his face into her shoulder. “I hope there are some left.”

“Get to it,” Walt encourages, stepping back. She squeezes his shoulders, giving him an earnest smile. “You got this!”

James nods, coming down to give her a proper kiss. With that he leaves, making haste to the weapons storage to grab a shield.

As he fades from view, Walterine starts activating all the protection sigils around the cave.

Neha is waiting for her at the mouth of it. She’s armed with her batting stick, shifting her weight from side to side as her mother strides in. Walt’s eyes glow a deep magenta.

“You didn’t have to wait for little ol’ me,” Walt chuckles.

“I wanted to see it all light up,” Neha replies. She walks backward, eyes pointed toward the nearest rocky surface.

As Walt passes the sigils she’s drawn into the walls, they come to life. A magical wall forms behind her, sealing the front of the cave in a solid mixture of illusory defense. Foliage appears in front of the cave’s mouth, hiding it from discerning eyes,

Before long, Walt sits down among her fellow Vesuvians. She blinks, her glowing eyes flickering in time with the shield’s walls.

As the war horns and drums sound outside, she’s focused on maintaining the shield.

The battle’s begun.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

FWIP! SWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-PAP!

The pebble smacks into an enemy soldier’s forehead. It stuns them enough to crash into their fellow compatriots. The group of them fall right into a hidden trap nearby, knocking even more of their soldiers off their feet.

“Nice one!” Ąžuolas crows, pelting others with hailstones the size of his fist.

“Thank you!” Bảo makes quick work of the contents of the giant leather sack between them. His aim is impeccable, his pebbles the perfect distraction and an actual danger to the exposed skins and craniums of the invaders.

There seems to be five mercenaries for every citizen of Vesuvia. Despite this, none of the enemies have made it anywhere close to the barricades.

When arrows start whizzing by their heads, Ąžuolas switches over to creating his ice traps. Buckets and barrels full of water had been hidden amongst the bushes, allowing Ąžuolas and other water-leaning magicians to make the most of it.

He catches some arrows in balls of ice, redirecting them to the archers that sent them. Down below, soldiers attempting to cut down their tree have Bảo busy.

As he shoots pebbles between several soldiers’ eyes, he hopes James is faring better.

O*O*O

One mercenary managed to disarm him. James is at a severe disadvantage without his sword. With their dagger and his weapon in their hands, the mercenary has him pinned against a nearby tree.

James has his shield up, gritting his teeth. With the other driving their blades into the splintering wood, it’s making it severely difficult to concentrate. The exertion of him pushing back against the enemy is starting to take its toll.

His gaze is locks with this mercenary’s own. Their eyes are wild, reveling in all the bloodshed they wrought upon the fallen Vesuvians around them both.

“Any last words?” they grin, watching as the shield begins to fall apart in James’s hands.

“Go ndeine an diabhal dréimire de cnámh do dhroma ag piocadh úll i ngairdín Ifrinn!” James swears, bracing for when steel would sink into his chest.

Before the mercenary could end him, blurs of white and orange slam into their ankles. James freezes, jaw dropping as recognition falls over him.

Corgis?! What in the world, he hasn’t seen any since—

The merc drops to the ground, trying to shake the dogs off. They bite harder in retaliation, growling and snapping at the mercenary’s offending hands and ankles.

James grabs a piece of his broken shield. Without ceremony, he smashes it over the mercenary’s head. Dusting his hands of the wood dust, he inspects them. He properly knocked them out; they aren’t dead, no, but at the very least concussed.

Seeing that the aggressor was down, the dogs turn around to face James. Their mouths are open, tongues lolling out amicably.

“Madra maith!” James praises the dogs, petting their heads and flanks. “Madra maith—ach, sorry for the blood, little ones!” He turns to find a dewy patch of grass, wiping his hands, wrists and arms free of red.

“Now then,” James looks over the stout little dogs, trying not to frown. “I think you’re all friends, but if you’re with the mercenaries I may be in troub—”

“James?”

He freezes, watching as the corgis trot off toward the direction of the new voice. Slowly, he gets to his feet. He stares at the tall woman approaching.

“James!” she exclaims, dropping her spear and rushing toward him.

His reply is lost in the din of war horns in the distance, but the newcomer sees it on his lips all the same.

Mum!

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

“Is she going to be okay?”

Lyra peers in through the tent flap, looking at Walterine. On the floor of the tent is her aunt, effectively knocked out. Curled up in Walt’s arms is Neha, who is just starting to fall asleep.

“She will be,” Bảo reassures. He’s sitting beside Neha, legs crossed as he looks on at Lyra. “Thank you for checking in, con.”

She nods. “If any of you need anything, Muri and I are just up the hill.”

Bảo laughs. “We know!” As she and her uncle laugh a bit, weighty footsteps come up behind Lyra. Bảo leans over to the side; it’s just enough for him to see that his niece’s beau just behind her.

“Đi con, đi,” Bảo urges, waving her off. “We be okay. I promise.”

Lyra nods at him before stepping away from the tent. Bảo listens as she and Muriel walk away. Before long, the only sound he can hear is the noise of Tent-Vesuvia going through its nightly routine. The man sits back, sighing softly.

James isn’t back from his meeting with the Countess yet. After Bảo and Ąžuolas got down from their perch, a messenger had found Bảo and told him that his husband was in the middle of an extremely important meeting with the Countess. 

Apparently, James had encountered someone from his family on the battlefield.

That was as much as Bảo knew of the situation. While the Countess is known for her fairness these days, the fact James encountered his family as they were on the side of the enemy . . .

It puts quite a few thorns into the situation, doesn’t it?

A/N: It’s good to be writing again! This has been in my drafts since January. Thank you so much for reading—it means a lot to me.

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era - Chapter 11

This is the newest chapter of a long-term fictional project of mine. It is a story centering around the lives of Lady Isabel Neville, George of Clarence and Richard Neville 16th Earl of Warwick (heavily also featuring Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick and Anne Neville). It is told alternating between their POVs, occasionally dipping into that of others from the outside eg Cecily Neville, Margaret of Anjou’s. It is based on history, as opposed to TWQ series!

Points of views so far include: Anne Beauchamp Countess of Warwick, Lady Anne Neville, George Duke of Clarence, Lady Isabel Neville, Richard Neville Earl of Warwick,Cecily Neville, Dowager Duchess of York and Margaret of Anjou

This chapter is through Margaret of Anjou’s POV:

[Text]:

10th July 1470

Among roses red and white presided the daisy - or so she had taken to inwardly correcting herself when whispers of her unenglishness would close around her like mocking rattles shook by the fauntkins that once haunted her nights. And then Edouard was finally born to her and those nightmares were assuaged only to be replaced by newer, more detestable faces: York, Warwick, Salisbury. And so the rattling returned after eight years, but it was that of armour.

At Angers she was now Marguerite again, although every time she would look back to her hands, she could believe it less. The long, white fingers that had once flashed brilliantly over parchments, whether it was a charter she penned or a match she wove for whichever gentlewoman of hers was yearning that week, would never straighten out as they once did. At times when she held her reins, she would cringe for their finery. Ma mère Isabelle, sage Yolande, to which end will your memory guide me when not even you have known exertions such as these?

But before her stood only her father, René with as many chins as he had titles. It was only in his presence that she would even dare examine her wrists or roll a fallen hair into her lap, checking how it greyed. Behind him the ‘Mary in The Burning Bush’ sizzled with the draft, bellowing forever through those red halls of her childhood. Even after the longest absence, she could still point to curls of orange paint and placings of ultramarine which Froment let the Duke of Anjou add by his own hand. Beauty in devotional dialogues as in verses he exchanged with the renowned Charles D’Orléans, the sarcenets and masks whirling in every colourful performance of the Passion of Angers, would there ever again be a place for her there? She would sometimes wonder - if, for all the families with men riding out, grizzling in battle squalor so to keep the brute from their ladies’ doors, whether god had played a twisted experiment on the men and women of her house. Twisted still, how the contrary courted every generation.

He was now looking at her, crossing his fleshy arms in a manner so familiar that she anticipated his tact from a league away ‘When I rode at Jeanne D’Arc’s side in the crusade of Orleans, she- ‘ strange of him to resurrect La Pucelle like this, helped to the flames by the Earl of Warwick’s very own father-in-law. She lifted her hand. Those same granddaughters of Warwick would come in her presence with their ancestor’s banners mingling in their skirts as in their overmighty subject blood and pack into her own robes as their grandmother of Salisbury had done some March procession ago. May they burst like the blistering skin of a snake. ‘Whither you come again father to sacrifice your own daughter in the interests of the country, only now this is to be made my own doing?’

Réné’s hands fell to the side, the sound broke her thoughts. Velvet was not supposed to make that sound when it met, she looked back and saw the black had faded from the fabric, not unlike the scarlet sunsetting the halls - at least now that she chanced another look. Mary in the Burning Bush, her father’s gaze followed hers to the painting. She burns but is not consumed, La Pucelle...

Her father’s rings were boring (digging/gripping could work) into her shoulders, however they did not dig much. Gentle impoverished man, I see I shall fight for you too. ‘The divine mystery’ he whispered behind her as if he himself beheld it now ‘jesu, her only son, ma fille, likewise as he, our only light. Marian’s sacrifice’

‘Sometimes, I think my king husband is much like the spirit of Most High’ she murmured not unkindly, for Henry’s was not the beacon laying the flame that would make ashes of the heart. Longing, in the end, had but one care, to cocoon, stifle and transform that which was unruly. Not yearning, the yearning that brought with it no peace; the gaudling of her London court for which the fashionable youth adored her, daughters of Chaucer down to her gilded ladies would forsake the altars for their Guinevere. Had the Yorkists only the craft to have seen that tale through complete materiality... She gave out an unbalanced sigh, while her mind addled on whether monsieur Warwick’s imagination coming to them would leave the brutes with naught else but smashing the cocoon, however snuggly lain in its stony bower.

July beams lingered, heat shattered off the floors, and so she tried to pull at the linen that clung to her wrist, more that it was unfashionable it was a grey that summer suns liked to singe ‘Have my thoughts wound about your tongue, mon père? you do not appear to have any words for response’

‘Ah?’ He turned her towards him raising an eyebrow ‘I was not aware you sook any, was there are question I did not note?’

‘Yes’

His amusement faltered when he saw her unamused ‘Ah, yes, your sacrifice. It was ever your way Margaret, though whether it is for France or your son I do not know’

Her robe drew their shadows when she fell back, black thistles on grey from the gallery’s corners. ‘I’ she shook a crooked finger ‘you ask me this? I who- have you any idea why it is that the English so hate me father? It is not for I traded tin and wool; it is not for my founding of colleges...’

Now it was he who raised the hand ‘Indeed ma marguerite, your kingly husband rules over a nation of merchants huddled in village kingdoms. They who would cast the white of a lady’s hand anywhere but in council. The jealousy of the English is legendary, I know’.

‘Not that either’ her voice was terse while she took her seat on the stone bench. It was much more worn than she had found it years ago, if rock would splinter rather than burn. ‘It is because they think like you and my cousin le roi. Henry and Edouard’s people, once they were also mine - descendants of Charlemagne as are we? They have never forgotten how I had Maine and Anjou surrendered, all for you et comme ça I became France’s agent. Not a queen for England was I: mercantile where their English roses are industrious, that was, before I was the wastrel of a lavish court where their ladies stayed stately patrons steeped in pious splendour... and yet the Yorks are not England, not more than Pembroke, Somerset, Suffolk, Exeter’

Réné stepped back and huffed a laugh, the way his lips sat after, thin and waved would have looked shrewd in other men’s faces, never in his, sat among his folds of pink and white skin ‘But the Monsieur le Warwick is’. He shuffled next to her, the pale blue of his eyes renarrowing as he concentrated on setting down his fleshiness on the little space, she could concede him on the bench ‘Not as us, ma marguerite, kings of Jerusalem, rulers of Majorcas and Minorcas...

‘Must he too make them different’ she realised she sounded like Henry, looking up with eyes rounded and rimmed so darkly by unsleep that she did not notice the footsteps approaching ‘Can crowns and people be so? The English and the French? Ah to stoop l’Agneau into an alliance with a subject, to have my posterity sat on thrones built on concessions, to they themselves be so as well?’

‘And so, you helped them to it when you gave Berwick back to the Scots. An act singing of the auld alliance’ Father and daughter looked up, it was something said with all the bitterness of an erstwhile groom of such a match. ‘I cannot say I minded that much’ Louis XI of France had just returned from mass, crossed himself and twitching his long Valois nose, Margaret was reminded how this was a man who went to prayer mechanically as in all manner of things; mimicking other’s gestures with the mind’s thoughts separate. Perchance all ceremony was indeed same to him, the prie-dieu of vespers though softer than the stone under his breaches and spurs when he had knelt with his Stuart dauphine at an alter times passed. She had died and he had burned all her poetry Margaret was horrified ill-befallen queen to be.

He was prudent, like Salisbury’s prudence but York was now a house of alchemists. Why have at Boccacio’s matter when bare re-anatomization could make for Lydgate’s fall of princes? Sometimes not even names need be changed. Her wandered to Queen’s College with a sigh; she could be angry no more.

He did not walk as much as swept with the blue heaviness of his robes as they cooled the sun off the flagstones, atop his head comically lay only a black skull cap which made his face smaller, less discernable.

‘and Carlisle’ she feigning her approval ‘France never breathed while England was strong’ behind Louis, Réné stood up shooting her bewildered looks. Just as nor would my son buttressed in from the North and South. But sectioned up part and parcel from within?

‘You now speak like a prince madame. A prince of France’ he spoke barely moving a lip ‘good did it you this spell at Angers, I see we are past ravings for vengeance’ he stayed the way he also did but now swung his eyes from one side to the other like a pendulum ‘I always know when to come, as does Warwick it seems. Two days ride they tell me’

‘Him? He’ she grabbed at the column grilling the window behind her as though she meant to wield it ‘here?’

Her father shrank away and Louis’ voice curled in amusement as he flicked a speck of dust from his collar ‘St Mary would do well, resplendent enough for an oath, the floors need no bending from our treasury without offending Monsieur’s apparent newly exalted tastes’

His confusion at her silence could almost have been taken for indignance, he now turned to her father with the same look. ‘I told her, nephew, we are agreed, Fortescue would not write to you without her consent you know that. She noticed how he hated being called that. ‘Marguerite-‘

‘That was in May’ she gathered her thumbs in an inward gesture and under her chin ‘before I knew they made a mockery of our assistance; all he did these months was spend all that Bourrée had given him and without profit. A lord without profit, think sire think.’

‘Leave the costs of their presences to me’ he retorted ‘all his sailors and had they ten children each are the poor’s bread sat next to you and yours all these years’

‘Maine and Anjou were scores that’ Margaret hissed ‘and you forget that by even deigning to compare your obligation to us as that towards Warwick. Edouard is a prince of France too - remember that.’

He huffed laying both hands on the counter-table. His sleeve’s fleur de lis pattern dragged to clarity when he stretching, lit the three candles that lay atop although it was daylight. The servants were sent away, he seems a very practiced man in these respects. ‘So I hope that you remember that when you prevail over that idiote de York’

‘Believe you in the right of Lancaster then?’ she heard an ounce of hope in her father’s voice ‘That Lancaster is good for the country? Warwick is either to be turned water crossing to his ruin or turn for my grandson? Advising a York had always been futile’. Had he not heard what had just been said?

‘Yes -oncle’ he narrowed his eyes, chaffed his heel while he spoke ‘rather... good for the world as well I think’

Margaret approached him, catching his sleeve when he tried slightly turning his back ‘it is good you see, for Pembroke will be governing besides your friend Warwick and we can insure an even goodlier reign over England under an even redder rose’. He looked over his shoulder with features pointed in irritation, The King of France was but around her age, yet he looked as those old English bankers that bit their coins and and found they were not gold.

Nearly two years ago, Jasper’s enterprises had cost Louis much, but now he had come back with only little accounts of assizes and short-lived sieges. Inwardly, Margaret felt pleasant. Apart from her, no one angered them as he did, he was now to Champagne, on his continuous quest. With every return she felt she could reclaim new pieces of her old court, and unknowingly his gallantry rebuilt her court of chivalry, regarbing her a Guinevere when he knelt. Regarbed, for the love they both bore Henry was second only to that for Edouard. As did Catherine de Valois, faithfully, as her welsh suitor longed, yearned and served. Wedded and then to die for his step-son’s cause. She once wondered whether such a musing could ever cross a busy mind like his, the welsh do have their romances, as do the French. But even though England pools them all to herself in the end, lovely waters of red and blue they stay.

‘It is good of you’ Réné said, patting his gut in a manner going with his satisfaction ‘that you also hold that an alliance between these two kingdoms is an ideal. You may yet grow to be known as the Europe’s bringer of perpetual peace, le prudent est la meilleure que l’universelle aragne, non?

‘Oncle...’ his dark eyes dropped to his simper and Margaret was beginning to realize was something Louis used to mock, ‘yes, yes. I also happen to know men like the Monsieurs Warwick and Clarence and they do not fall easily and will always know where to find me at every exile, especially now that Edward will never allow them to the force of Calais again. Though I had their wives housed with my Queen and gave the princeling a bolt of pretty green silk to appease him, one month since landing at Normandy they have caused me nothing but trouble. They did not spend all the coin Bourrée gave to them to affront you but to bade me recognize them, and loudly enough to bring Burgundy in his throes of idiocy, to tell me how I am breaking our treaty of Péronne by not attacking them for what they did to his ships. Attack? Ack all these men think about is hitting one another with their sticks of steel - dense as their skulls’

She raised an eyebrow Craven ‘Then you would not object to having Warwick kneel during the audience. He who bespoiled us, your treasury and my virtue- ’Many hard hours had been wasted like this. she felt herself being grabbed by the shoulders to which she responded by looking back at him in confusion, he proceeded to slip down and now she felt more shocked. ‘Marguerite, belle cousine, I beseech you. We need Warwick to invade and you need him most. France will not bear war with Burgundy, think on your hatred for those carver princes of your kingdom, just so is my wrath for Charles le Temerraire, he is like your York for me. The father and son merged in an even greater traitor. England has not razed to the ground, but if France falls, I split, just as my father had when he betrayed the maid of Orléans to them - the English and the Burgundians. Marguerite, I am not my fool father, I will not betray you and so you will not betray me. Do not trifle, dissimulate instead, I urge you as one sovereign to another. Take this as my kneeling in lieu of Warwick, as repayment for my father’s debt towards the maid’ And an England divided would suit you just as well, if not better than an alliance. Far less costly. His words sounded well-chewed, but such thoughts were overborne and unheard, thoughts paling to those for spirit of the Maid ‘who had raised Charles to throne’ and how it had ‘renewed in the Queen’. You who once followed a peasant girl follow now a queen, soft sprang the echoes, Captain Margaret.

‘Maman!’ her son came bounding in like a sprig, a tall, stately boy whose features were never left by the serious air that his childhood hung about them. His father’s blue eyes were squarely cut in his face and shone whenever in the presence of men with whom he could prove his mettle - he had the leanness of someone who never grew too easy. Just so, upon sight of Louis his tone dropped and he pecked her on the lips before sitting himself at the edge of the stone bench. ‘Comme les anglais’ her father joked and even the king managed a small smile ‘like the English princes’. She knew well that they were too old for this custom, but how many mothers so raised their sons so alone and unattended by others, the lord’s manger had straw for warmth where St Michel only stones.

‘I met the lady Anne’ started Louis ‘a vivacious girl, t’was her proud sister’s wedding festivities, but she did not strike neither me nor my brother le duc as one much saddened by much’

Your beloved Monsieur must be ever in god’s gratitudes to have found in you the wedding land for all his daughters and woes. And so now Margaret would lean onto his marital prowess as he unto her martial, for she knew Warwick had no third daughter, no alter avenues for alliance.

‘It is a shame cousin’ she said stroking her son’s cheek, faced away she could still feel some disaffection forming itself in that proud head ‘how you let harbour the joining of Isabelle to that shaking boy’ at that Edouard removed his cap while his mouth twisted in a callous smirk, the fringes of his yellow hair, had long been growing over his face and the concealment was timed perfectly for Louis not to see. The universal spider hated recall for parts in webs he left to the wind for miscalculated threads layed and they both knew that well.

‘Yes, Clarence still shakes but for quite something else, but that blunder is of no account, for remember - the sisters are co-heiresses one is as good as the other, the stately Isabelle may be marble, but Anne is the clay, with perceptive eyes, childhood and better French’ his face softened while he paused, as if readying for the next persuasion. ‘Do you know? She had approached us at the second day festivities, coyly to ask us if now that her sister is married and her English suitor had forsaken the match, if we now had a French prince for her, so that she may honour her sister, and remain apace. Her father had laughed, and not long after her mother - it was that which rather shocked me’

It was a little girl’s boldness that Louis would not know to invent. Margaret smiled, close-lipped but slipping involuntarily like a streak from the fireplace strays to a nearby pot, leaving in its wake a black but warm smudge as its patronage. If god have given her all her father’s spirit, we may harness her boldness to ours.

‘Perceptive?’ Edouard peaked one eye as he slipped back his blue skull cap. He could not image what would have to twist in a fourteen-year-old girl’s eye for anyone to see such moods. In hers he had only known the same that dwelled in all other men’s eyes. It is he who is most like la pucelle Margaret thought a little tinged with guilt.

She approached Edward in his bright brocades with the shift of her faded ones, she cringed at the sound as she regathered her skirts over to her knees, waiting for the dust to settle ‘So what say you my son?’ From the corner of her eyes Louis raised an eyebrow to her father’s fidgeting.

He held them all paused a minute, and then scrounged up his nose. ‘One may be good enough for a pretender’s traitor brother but not for us’ he raised his chin in a way that never before so struck the image of a Henry looking up at mass, and proclaimed ‘we will not be compromised, concede to servants who so tear our country asunder, those who injure our person so with illicit raisings of arms and slander’. My son, our son.

Réné had long slipped off from their side, so he made his way forward to finally speak ‘mais petit-fils, can you not see how Warwick’s acceptance of this marriage would be the strongest declaration to the world that he retracts his statements?’ Such was ever his wont- playing bubbling grandfather, but while gently nodding his head with her son, blue eyes smiling on blue, Margaret wondered if there was another tact she had not quite noticed before.

Edouard slipped away with disappointment and suspicion forming into one of his pouts, little matter as they were all rosebuds to Margaret. His look to her was unshaped and she knew the thought that what stood behind those heavy-lidded eyes remained unsure ‘Édouard, if I may brook those insults levered at me, then you must learn to as well. Your justice must bend to compromise’ perhaps you may transfer some of this Marian devotion to your wife, lose some for me if you will. When she store at the painting again, the flames no longer appeared to flicker, nothing moved but an orange light, muting all with the mark of the day’s descent. She wondered if this new girl’s hair hued the same, held any of the colour’s warmth, would at least for Edouard.

Louis lifted one finger and thrumping it on Edouard’s shoulder, the youth looked up ‘do know something else, you may have an annulment should the union outstretch its use. Without consummation there can be no bind, papal dispensation notwithstanding’

‘She is all but fourteen, it is true’ her father murmured ‘Monsieur appears to have a woman’s heart when it comes to his children. Or so that is the impression you have given me’

Louis nodded ‘I know better than to presume to know his mind, but he readily shows himself willing for a delay. Of what cause I do not know’

‘Ah now the dog insults us!’ Edouard blurted

‘Hushhh’ Margaret did not hide her grimace ‘he is now to be your father-in-law, lay him before you as a shield, for soon we may have no more swords’

Find the rest of the story on AO3… (link in the reblog)

[mypoisonedvine]

Helping Hand - Chapter 1

Jaskier x (female)Reader

Rating: E 

Warnings: None, just a lot of smut and hopefully some fluff and angst to come

Word Count: a bit over 3k

Prompt: “Hey hey! I basically just read every piece of Jaskier stuff on your page and I'm in looooove. Could you write one where the reader (female) has been cursed with a love spell? Kinda? Like every touch is ultry heightened but she cant "take care of business" unless it's from the person she loves? So she has to embarrassingly ask/confess to Jaskier (and maybe Geralt if you want) for a helping hand?” (thanks for not only the prompt but the title idea lol)

Taglist: @100percentamess @mytinybaguette 

Of course, you assumed the old hag was just senile, at first.  When someone pisses someone else off, it’s somewhat normal to curse them, it’s just that it’s not really literal.  So why would you take it seriously when some woman claiming to be a bog witch says that she’ll put a curse on you for trespassing on her swamp?  

You didn’t even really pay attention to what she’d said- something about your true affections coming to light?  And she had rhymed light with plight?  But you forgot what the plight even was, because it didn’t matter.  

Your first sign that something was wrong was when you rejoined Geralt and Jaskier at the edge of the bog.  They’d asked how your search went, all was normal, but then Jaskier touched you.  It was casual, something you never would’ve even thought about previously, but this time it felt oddly strong.  Like he was gripping you with so much force, like he had punched you in the shoulder.  Except it wasn’t painful?  Just powerful.  You still yelped in surprise.

“Damn, it was just a bug on your shoulder, no need to have a fit,” Jaskier mumbled.

“Why did you touch me so… hard?”

“I barely touched you…?  Are you injured?” he asked.  He started to reach out to examine you but you ducked away.

"I'm fine," you grumbled.

You weren't fine, and it became clear to you very quickly.  As soon as you'd all begun to travel back into town, the heat started.  It was cold out, and yet you felt like you were burning up.  You didn't say anything because you didn't want to cause alarm over hot flashes.  But then you felt that undeniable need, usually not the sort of thing to strike you in the afternoon as you walked alongside Roach, burning through you.  You looked over to Jaskier and though he looked the same as always, you felt like you were seeing him with new eyes.  As you gaze scanned each part of him, an urge to reach out and touch whatever you could reach began to knock against your brain.  It’s not like you’d never noticed he was attractive before, but now it was like you couldn’t see anything else; you forced yourself to look away before you couldn’t stop yourself from pouncing on him.  

The second you were back in town, you were in the pub and drinking like it was the end of the world.  This was the sort of strange feeling that you felt like only alcohol could wash down.  Of course, it turns out you were entirely wrong- being drunk just made it impossible to resist the ridiculous whims running through your mind.

“Say, would you pass me that-” Jaskier began.  He hadn’t even finished when you jumped up and reached for the nearby mug of ale, handing it to him eagerly.  “Erm, thanks,” he nodded.  Even as you felt embarrassed upon realizing that your reaction was rather strange, you felt relief wash over you for some reason.  To know that you had done what he wanted, perhaps to have even made him happy in some small way, was deeply satisfying.  

“Are you feeling alright?” Geralt asked with a mildly concerned expression.  Knowing that this was only going to get worse, you decided to take the opportunity to leave while you still could.

“This ale hits harder than I’d anticipated.  I’ll turn in early, I think,” you decided as you stood up, giving a quick bow before you dashed upstairs to your room.

You fell onto your bed, and though your mind was requesting for some time to think about whatever the hell was going on, your body was alight with a very clear and unified need.  You were barely laying down before you were shimmying your trousers down and touching yourself.  It was good, but instantly you were longing for something more, and though you didn’t mean to think of him, Jaskier (of course) popped into your mind.  Thinking of Jaskier brought you so much closer but never close enough.  You were desperate enough to rub yourself raw seeking release, but you knew that it would never work.  You certainly tried several times anyways, but soon you were looking to the door, then you looked away, then you looked back to the door, and repeated this until your desperation overcame your guilt and you found yourself stumbling down the hall to Jaskier’s room.

"Jask…?" you prompted as you pushed open the door.  You found him laying back on his bed, setting a book aside to greet you.

"What is it?" he asked cheerily.  You closed the door behind you.

"Do you remember a few months ago… we were at that pub in Cintra-" you began.

"I remember," he interrupted, almost sounding stern about it.

Talking about it made your stomach feel all floaty and twisty.  You'd agreed it was a mistake, fueled by drunkenness and loneliness- him just having been dumped by the Countess again and you having developed affections for a man you'd encountered on the journey only to discover he had failed to mention he was married.  (For you, marriage was actually a deal-breaker, much to Jaskier's surprise.)  We both really wanted someone else, you'd told him, and settled on each other.  He'd thought that was a good summary, you shook hands on it and thankfully were able to move on as friends.  And that's what you'd wanted, wasn't it?

"I'm sorry to bring it up," you nervously apologized.

"It's not like I'd forgotten about it," he chuckled.

"I'm sort of- I have a… situation," you began.

"The same sort of situation that had you falling into my bed?" he presumed.  You felt your face get hot from hearing that.  He seemed a little agitated, which made you very concerned that this was going to backfire on you.  But, you were in too deep to stop now.

"I suppose," you answered.

"There's plenty of fish in the sea," he shrugged.

"I want you, specifically," you clarified.  "I need you.  It has to be you."

“So, I’ve ruined you for all other men?” he smirked.

“I can’t… by myself,” you gestured, hoping he would get what you meant.

"I’ve ruined you even for yourself?”

"I think I was cursed!" you finally blurted out.

"Falling in love with me can feel like a curse, I know, but don't blame yourself," he soothed sarcastically, resting his hands behind his head.

"That day I went into the bog, you touched me- and ever since, everything's been wrong, and you're the only person who can… I can't even think about anyone else," you continued.  He seemed to actually start paying attention.  "I have this strange urge to do what you tell me to, it feels so, erm, good.  It feels good to do what you ask of me."

He straightened up a bit, his smile dropping.  "Okay, that doesn't sound anything like you.  You've definitely been cursed."

"And I have this… desire.  It's overwhelming.  I can't even think straight."

“You- you should have Geralt take care of you.  He’s got a lot of stamina, and no pesky feelings to get in the way,” he dismissed, looking away from you as he got up off the bed. 

If you weren’t so high on desperation, you would’ve noticed the implications of his phrasing, but of course you were, so you didn’t.

“I want you,” you begged, “please.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you weren’t cursed,” he scoffed.  You stepped closer and in such a small room he was already so close and your body felt like a tuning fork, vibrating and humming for him.

“Of course not.  But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” you countered, your breathing suddenly heavy.

He looked at you and he almost looked pained… sad, guilty maybe.  Since when did a woman begging for him inspire anything but unadulterated joy in any man, let alone a man like Jaskier?

“Please,” you whimpered one more time.  He stepped forward and reached out, tentatively at first, and brushed his fingers against your chest.  You had to bite your lip to suppress a moan.

“Wow, you’re really worked up, huh?” he asked, somewhere between genuine concern and teasing.  You nodded feverishly.

“How can I help you?” he asked softly.

“Make love to me,” you pleaded.

He made a peculiar noise when you said that, like a gasp and a sigh at once, even though they’re technically opposites.

He leaned in and you nearly sobbed at just the idea of him kissing you.  Instead he pressed his lips against your neck, even the slightest touch causing your hips to buck towards him.  He reached around and started to undo the lacing on the back of your bodice- even through the layers of your blouse you felt the warmth of his fingertips, and the delicate movements of his hands sent shivering tingles up and down your back.  He’d only been touching you for maybe twenty seconds and you felt like you were two-thirds to orgasm- everything was more sensitive, more powerful.  You weren’t sure how you would keep your composure.

“This ale hit you really hard, hm?”

“It’s not the ale,” you panted.

“That’s not what you’ll say tomorrow morning,” he theorized.

“What will I say- ah- tomorrow morning?” you asked, trying to stop every moan and whimper from arising.  He’d gotten your top off just enough to expose your shoulders and was kissing along the left one like it was actually worth kissing even though it was just a damn shoulder.  An hour ago you’d have killed for him to kiss you like this anywhere, but now that you were here, suddenly you had much more specific ideas.

“I won’t be able to tell what you’re saying because you’ll be smashing my lute over my head,” he chuckled.

You’d sort of forgotten what question you were asking.

“You really think I dislike you that much?” you asked quietly.  He didn’t answer, pulling your blouse up over your head and letting it fall to the floor.  You expected it to be cold but you suddenly felt warmer than ever, like you were wrapped in warm blankets.  Even better than warm blankets, though, you were wrapped in Jaskier’s arms, which felt so much stronger than you remembered as he pulled you close and guided you to his bed.  

You expected him to lay with you but instead he laid you down and stepped back.  You felt very aware of your toplessness, and that he was fully dressed and staring at you.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” you asked nervously.  

“Or I could just stare at you all night,” he offered, crossing his arms.

“No, please, touch me,” you whined, your back arching.

“I was just kidding, don’t stress yourself out,” he laughed, slipping off his doublet and chemise and climbing on top of you.  His body pressed against yours was everything you’d dreamed, everything you’d wanted, and finally he kissed you.  You recognized it a bit from the back of the pub rendezvous but this one was different, a little slower, a little deeper.  You decided that you needed to kiss him again when you were sober because this kiss was too good to be wasted on a version of yourself that couldn’t remember it perfectly, which sadly applied to both instances so far.  Suddenly he rolled his hips, ever so slightly, and you felt that he was hard and it rubbed against you in just the right place and instantly you came, even with your trousers still on.  You did your best to hide it, your moans lost in his lips, and either he didn’t notice or didn’t mind because all he did was pull you closer.  Your face felt hot, in fact all of you felt hot, and even as relief had just washed over you, you were not spared from your desire.  If anything, the edge had been taken off, and yet you felt like you needed him more than ever.  

“Please, inside me, please,” you managed to mumble between kisses.  He didn’t respond, but he did reach down to start pulling your trousers lower.  You lifted your hips so he could do it more easily and you sort of hoped he would just get them down to your knees and get on with it, but instead he took the time to take them all the way off, sitting back on his legs to peel each leg off your feet.  You sat up with him, starting to work on his trousers and having to fight yourself to do it slowly rather than ripping them off.  Once you could pull them down enough to get his cock out, though, you were nixing the entire trousers concept and wrapping your hand around it.  You sighed with relief, just to feel it so warm and heavy in your grip.  Compelled for more, you found yourself leaning forward and taking it into your mouth.  You heard him gasp and it was the most wonderful noise, the sound of it giving you that wonderful feeling like you’d done something good, something so right.  You bobbed up and down and it seemed to come naturally to you, his gasps getting faster and turning to moans.

“I thought I was supposed to be taking care of you,” he panted.  You just moaned around him, doing your best to take him as deep as you could.  His fingers wove into your hair, and just the way they grazed your scalp made your skin tingle and shiver all over.  He didn’t let you go on much longer until he grabbed your shoulders and (lightly) pushed you back onto the bed, balancing on his forearms to hover above you.  You thought he might say something, and he was looking at you like he wanted to say something, but he just kissed you again.  How could just a kiss have so much of an effect on you?

But then he was running his hands along your legs, and gently spreading them open, and that had even more of an effect on you.  In fact, you had to put in so much effort just to suppress your reaction, and yet your head still fell back against the pillow and your lips still leaked out a little moan.

“Is this the curse?  Or the ale?” he asked quietly, his lips brushing against your jaw.

“It’s just you,” you mumbled.

“Bull.  It’s the curse,” he smiled, “but I’ll pretend it’s me anyways.”

“Please, don’t tease me any longer,” you pleaded quietly, your back arching off the bed.

“This isn’t teasing, it’s seducing,” he frowned.

“I don’t care for it.” 

“You seem to be having a good time,” he smirked, kisses running down to your collarbones, chest, and finally delicately wrapping around a hardened nipple.  You whined, suddenly unable to form any words with which to respond.  His right hand trailed around your thigh, reaching closer to where you needed him most until he ever-so-casually plunged two fingers into you.  You had to dig your nails into his shoulder to resist crying out, afraid that if you were as loud as you wanted to be, you’d get a noise complaint from the neighboring rooms.  He barely even had to move them to hit spots inside you that you hadn’t realized you had, making your hips buck and your legs shake.

“Please,” you stuttered, “I need you.”

“You have me,” he said as if it were some simple, obvious thing to say and not the sort of thing that would make you want for him so desperately that you feared fainting.  

And all at once he removed his fingers, reaching to wrap his hands around your waist and since when were his hands so big?

And all at once he was pushing his hips closer to yours and your gaze met his and since when were his eyes so blue?

And all at once he was inside you and you didn’t really care about noise complaints anymore.

~

“Jaskier?  Are you awake?” you whispered.

“I am now,” he responded quietly, turning to face you in the bed.  There was only moonlight streaming in through the window but it cast the most beautiful shadows and you found yourself running your fingers along his muscled chest.  

"I long for you," you admitted, "I need you."

"Again?"

Gods, did he have to make it seem like such a chore?

“Don’t you understand?  I have no other way to get off!”

“Well, how often were you getting off before?”

“I don’t know, maybe… once, twice a night?”

His eyes went wider than you’d maybe ever seen them.  “Holy- you can’t be serious.”

“What?” you shrugged.

“You’re insatiable!  I mean, with a libido like that, how and why are you the most chaste of the three of us?”

“Because I’m getting off on my own three times a night.”

“You said once or twice,” he frowned.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react if I told you I go four times in a row,” you smirked.

“I’m afraid to keep talking to you in case the number just keeps going up,” he sighed, his head falling into his hands. “I can’t keep up with that!”

“You can!” you encouraged. “You have,” you mumbled.

“I have?” he repeated, perking up all of a sudden.

“Yeah, well, before…” you trailed off.  “You’re just trying to flatter me until I agree to make love to you four times a day,” he dismissed.

“No, that’s what I’m saying.  You don’t need to, er, do that four times to get four… just once is apparently enough.”  How was it so hard to say the words when you’d already done the deeds? “Apparently?  I think we need to test that theory,” he smiled, and though it was dark and you could barely see anything, you still saw a little glimmer shining in his eye.

~

“Jaskier, we need to get up,” you reminded as you shook him awake.

“Are we leaving town, or do you just want me to make love to you again?” “You weren’t complaining when I woke you up the last two times,” you remembered with a quirked eyebrow.

“Well, I wasn’t as underslept then.  Gods, I feel like I could sleep for a week.”  He turned to you, and moved a lock of hair behind your ear.  “Aren’t you exhausted?”  

But he was giving you this... look, and you weren’t sure if it was the look, but apparently it was enough to get you inspired.  You pulled him into a kiss, climbing on top of him and straddling his legs with yours.  

“Suddenly I’m feeling very energized, actually,” you smiled.

(next chapter)

[365days365movies]

April 4, 2021: The Great Dictator (Review)

It's a 100%. Haven't given one of those in a while!

Here's the thing: this is a great film. Hang the comedy bit, even though it's also a very funny film! This is a great movie, no questions. I actually have no problems with it, and barely any actual commentary, gonna be honest. Fact of the matter is, it's essentially perfect in my book. Maybe it's not actually flawless...but I'm having a lot of trouble seeing any flaws. If you've got any, PLEASE tell me! I'm curious, really.

But OK, why am I even writing this, then? Because I want to close out this Golden Era of Comedy with a post about the end of its biggest star, Charlie Chaplin. Because from here...things are all downhill. And the seeds of that journey can be seen in this film. So, in other words, this post is a film history post. WELCOME TO SCHOOL

Yeah, sorry. If you like these history posts, I hope you like this one! And if not...yeah, that's entirely fair. Go ahead and skip this one! The next movie is Arsenic and Old Lace, so I'll save you the trouble of scrolling down! See you next time!

...

...OK, you still here? Cool, let's do this. Go ahead and "keep reading" for more on Chaplin after this film!

Review: Charlie Chaplin

Chaplin's walking on air, at least in terms of his film career! The Great Dictator will become his best-received film critically, and was a smash-hit in the United States. But that's pretty heavily contrasted with the reception of, well, Chaplin himself. Because unfortunately for him, Chaplin's ideologies would soon VIOLENTLY clash with that of his adopted country of the United States.

First things first, his love life was a mess, as was typical for the film star. His latest significant other was actress Joan Barry, and they separated bitterly (AKA, the only was Chaplin separates from anybody), after having a child together. This relationship would begin the downfall of Chaplin's image, starting in 1942. And that would be due to one of the most irritating, shitty dudes in the history of the FBI: J. Edgar Hoover.

Hoover HATED Chaplin, mostly because he was suspicious of him, as he was with EVERYBODY. Fuck Hoover, by the way, dude was a monster. He was also an INSANE patriot, bordering on straight up nationalism. But his hatred of Chaplin revolved around the fact that Chaplin's views were...controversial. I mean, Modern Times was an anti-industrialist film, and that's what the USA was ALL ABOUT at the time. And then, there's...one more thing. I'll get there.

Hoover launched a smear campaign against Charlie, and the Barry case was saddled with an additional allegation: violation of the Mann Act, which stated that it was illegal to transport women across state lines for sexual reasons. It was an attempt to stifle prostitution, and part of a massive moral panic of the time period. It was a bullshit charge, and Chaplin escaped it in trial. But damage had been done to his reputation, and Charlie was about to make it worse.

Shortly after, in 1943, Chaplin would meet his last wife, Oona O'Neill. She was 18, he was 54. Fuckin' OOF, dude. And in 19 years, the two would have EIGHT CHILDREN JESUS FUCKING CHRIST CHAPLIN!!!

Anyway, other than this positive development, the Barry trial had beaten the shit out of him, will-wise. But he began developing a new ambitious film project in 1946, which was called Monsieur Verdoux. This was a black comedy about a bank clerk/serial killer that killed women for money. Which is obviously pretty controversial in a moral panic-stricken America, but that was made worse by Chaplin more overtly expressing his political views...which were violently anti-capitalism! In post-World War II America!

Uh-oh.

In 1947, with the release of Monsieur Verdoux, the film was legit booed at the premiere in the USA. Fuck. Tensions finally came to a head, and Chaplin was "outed" as a filthy, filthy commie! And I put "outed" in quotes because, well...he wasn't. Sure, Chaplin was against capitalism and military nationalism, as well as sympathizing with communist ideals in some cases. He was also friends with suspected communists, and with Soviet diplomats. And that shit's barely OK NOW amongst a pretty big proportion of people in the country. In 1947? WAY FUCKIN' WORSE.

Chaplin was "dangerous and amoral" according to the FBI, and he probably believed in equal rights for minorities too, the FILTHY FUCKIN' COMMIE!!! But, yeah, he was targeted by Joseph McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee, and was nearly listed as one of the Hollywood Ten, a group of filmmakers blacklisted from Hollywood for alleged communist activities. Chaplin escaped that, but was still a major target for the Red Scare.

Chaplin, not giving a fuck as always, now decided upon a new project. Limelight was a semi-autobiographical film, in which he played an aging former vaudeville actor who had lost his popularity and fame, and falls in love with a younger woman. On the nose as always, Chaplin. Also, that's Buster Keaton in the GIF up there! Only time the two ever appeared on screen. Neat, huh?

Chaplin went home to the UK for the film's well-publicized premiere in 1952. And that's when the US Attorney General STRUCK, revoking Chaplin's VISA, and trapping him overseas permanently. Chaplin was banned from the United States, through really shitty underhanded tactics. Fuck, man. Worst part is, it's since been proven that there was no good justification for the VISA to be revoked. But the damage was done, and Chaplin willingly cut his ties with the United States, having been spurned by his adopted country for years.

Loved in Europe and hated in America, Charlie continued making films, with his next film being another semi-autobiographical parody called A King in New York. He also came out not as a communist, but as a straight-up anarchist! He hated government altogether at this point, and it's hard to blame the guy. He really did get screwed. But, ironically, his love life was now quite stable, and his marriage with Oona was happy, by all accounts.

His films were banned in the United States, and Chaplin banned them right back, not releasing his films there, and preventing American journalists from attending its premiere. But even ten years later, Chaplin's filmography began to re-emerge for movie audiences, and his popularity began to rebound. The man was just that good, what can I say? Chaplin made a romantic comedy in 1967, called A Countess from Hong Kong, and starring Marlon Brando of all people! It was his first color film, and...it did NOT go well with audiences, ANYWHERE. It just wasn't well-received, and that film would be Chaplin's last.

In 1967, Chaplin had his first stroke of many. He continued his marriage with Oona, and even continued making another film called The Freak, an ambitious project from what's known about it. Basically, it was about a South American girl with wings, which is interesting. In 1972, after 20 years away, Chaplin was welcomed back to the United States with open arms, and was given an Honorary Academy Award for his insane contribution to the medium since the Golden Age of Hollywood. He was given a 12-minute standing ovation, the longest ever given at an Academy Award ceremony.

Still planning on making his film, he returned home. But the film went on a permanent hiatus by 1977, by which time his health had badly declined. On Christmas Day, 1977, Chaplin was found dead, having suffered a stroke in his sleep. He was 88 years of age, and was buried two days later in Switzerland. And THEN...he was dug up.

Yeah, DUDE'S GRAVE WAS FUCKIN' ROBBED! A couple of guys held Chaplin's corpse for ransom, which didn't work out for them, and he was reburied a few days later, this time in a reinforced concrete vault, where his remains remain to this day.

Charles Spencer Chaplin is one of the greatest actors and filmmakers of his time, and didn't deserve the guff he got from the government. The guff he got from his wives...eh, that he probably did deserve, not gonna lie. Dude wasn't the best husband, or the best dad to at least three of his kids. But in an ongoing effort to separate the art from the artist, Chaplin needs to be appreciated for the mountain of talent that he was, and his films will make him immortal in the annals of film history. Long live the Tramp.

But with him and his influence, the film industry had a place to evolve from, especially in terms of comedy. After The Great Dictator, some comedies felt the freedom to take a bit of a darker tone. And from here on out, we're splitting the timeline by genre, tracking comedy films by the evolution of their respective genres. And we start in 1944, with a film about...MYURDERRRR!!! And sweet old ladies!

April 5, 2021: Arsenic and Old Lace (1944), dir. Frank Capra

[translator-chan]

3rd person pov:

There is nobody on the rooftop of this school, it was the most isolated part of this school.

Minjoo Cha walked to the edge of the rooftop and closed her eyes. Sweaty clothes were sticking to her back while she was climbing the stairs. The hem sticks to her back as she grunts in frustration. The hot sunlight shines your eyes as always making your eyes sting. The woman wore an angelic face as if it contained all the loveliness of this world. Whenever she was shy, her cheeks will be painted in a red hue, and her long and fluttering eyelashes all went well along with her facial features. Of course, that face didn't look lovely to Minjoo.

Cha Minjoo pov:

Bang!

I heard the door being slammed open behind my back. I went up the stairs in a hurry as I heard the sound of breath also catch up."Hey, Minjoo Cha!" I looked back at the calling voice. I saw a face that was hated so that my teeth were gritting. "Min-Ju, wait!" The woman who was following me found climbing up the staircase hard as she breathed rather hardly. I began to tremble with a pale face. The lips that call my name are red and thick. "Are you really trying to jump off the school building(aka suicide)? Or did you just send a letter to surprise me?" The woman took the letter out of her arms and held it.

3rd person pov:

It was a letter left like a will. The face of the woman who was evil while she held the letter slightly with her index finger and thumb as if holding a dirty object.

"Do you think I'm scared of you doing this?" "Lee Soo-Yeon."The democratic name was low. Soo-Yeon shook her shoulder. She turned away from all her evil deeds and fell into self-pity. The anger crouched deep in the stomach as it wriggled its way in dynamically.

The resentful heart which bore resentment soon becomes anger.

Anyway, there was no one besides democracy(a law I guess?). Minjoo had no parents to protect and friends to protect her."Do I need to live by grinding my teeth? 'Can we happily dream of the future as long as we pass this period safely?'

Minjoo shook her head while asking herself a question. "You know, I thought that way too."

But now Minjoo did not have the confidence to continue live.

Cha Minjoo Pov:

There was no regret to follow this ditch-like life. If life is a novel, I wanted to complete this book and leave for the next story. If God existed, I hoped to do live another life once more. "If I was born again, I want to be born in the same world like you, and ask that you live and eat in the same place as me." Every time she connected, Soo-Yeon trembled less. Minjoo smiles and hopes so much that she could take her revenge in her next life. I whispered an oath I didn't have. "So I can take revenge on you." The wall touching my back was very low hence it was an easy height to jump down. Suyeon face turned pale as if she noticed it "wait!Wait!"

"Soo-Yeon, listen carefully. Now, remember this moment. Never forget it. I shall wait for the day where you will definitely pay for everything you did to me."

"Even if you live, I hope you die miserably."

With the last curse, Minjoo took off her last ounce of control of her body and collapsed quickly so as not to make any mistake. You have to smash your head first you will definitely die.

What was unexpected was Lee Soo-Yeon's behavior.

" No! "I thought she would laugh as usual, but she ran away with her teeth clenched and grabbed my hand. I wonder if she is afraid of dying herself."Let go of my hand!"She completely leaned against the wall as I was trying to shake her hand off with all the strength I had. Unfortunately, Lee Soo-Yeon doesn't have the strength to stop her but she still held in her arms causing them to fall off the building together. While falling together, Lee Soo-Yeon's scream did not disappear from her ear. After that all was blank. Dahlia's body started suffering from intense heat and air pressure. Just before she opened his eyes in, what she wondered was what Cha Min-kyu had suffered.

****************************

Evil woman.

It is a word that refers to a woman with a bad temper.

And Dahlia Margaret, the first daughter of the Count Margaret family, was a wicked woman who was said to be the innermost woman in the empire.

Beautiful appearance, cold atmosphere, vicious personality.

Everyone in the empire was afraid of her.

That was the fame of Dahlia Margaret that Cha Min-Joo knew.

"Madam, can I help?"

The maid who came in drove in politely drew her head.

" Okay ."

Dahlia responded nicely and kept her expression as cool as possible.

If I'm staying quiet as if I'm dead, or if I have a careless attitude,

It was.

When I lived as a second democracy in Korea, I always lived like that.

'If the whole earth is rumored to be a vicious and wicked woman, how much evil do you have to commit?'

But now it was a world in a novel.

Besides, the world is in a novel she had read before she died!

'Should I say that I'm glad I've read the contents of the book?'

Dahlia touched her fingernails hiding her impatience.

When I first opened my eyes in this world,

I thought I couldn't die badly and had a seizure.

There were many people wearing strange clothes around, so I was surprised to make more sauce.

"Dahlia!Dahlia, my daughter! Are you okay?"

'Who, who....... Who are you? Your father, Dahlia!"

But when a man named father came and we had some conversations, I could quickly find out where who this was about.

Floret. Was born to be loved> '.

As you can feel from the title, the main of the novel.

Dalia turned to the sound of someone knocking on the door.

The maid who finished the dressing also stepped back one step.

It was an old butler who appeared from the open door.

"Lady, the Count is waiting for you, and I will guide you to the parlor when you are ready.

"All right so stay out."

Dahlia deliberately threw a chilly answer.

Read as much as she can build

There was also a lovely face.

" Yeah?

"

However, the butler looked surprised.

Dahlia kicked her tongue because she wanted everything upset.

' What?

Should I have thrown that candlestick?

You must have done something bad to know!

'

This was the biggest challenge currently given to Dahlia.

Dahlia Margaret was the best beauty and evil woman in the empire, but Cha Min-jung was not a bad woman.

She was just a high school student who devoted herself to her studies in a normal and modest manner. I couldn't regret that I didn't see one of the common weekend dramas because I was focusing on my studies.

If I had watched the last drama, I would have been able to see how badly to do it in this situation.

All that was bad behavior for her, at best, was to raise her eyes or scream.

"My, can't you hear me? Get out!"

Dahlia, whose face was half-blushed, squeezed her voice hard.

"Oh, okay, sorry, baby Seed."

The butler hurriedly closed the door and went out.

Even after being left alone in the hallway, confusion continued.

'It is true that the rumor that the lady has become weird!

Even when he was five years old, he couldn't stand it without throwing things.

'

The butler groped his forehead with a depressed face.

There was still a scar from Dahlia torn by a candlestick threw when she was five years old for knocking on the door while taking a nap.

It was unbelievable that a young lady who had a high snot on her back with the prestige of the Count's family suddenly became so gentle.

Besides, on a day when an unwanted sister came in, like today, you would have been expected to run wild more.........

.

The butler trembled lightly, imagining what was going to happen soon.

Dahlia, after finishing the dressing, finally calmed her mind and went out into the hall.

The butler standing quietly in the corridor found her and came straight to her.

'I was a little annoyed earlier, but...

...

.

'

Dahlia hesitantly looked at the butler's face.

The feeling of guilt increased when I saw his gray hair and a forehead full of wrinkles as if proving his old age.

'am I being a little different from the original?

These aren't big trunks.

'

In the end, Dali, who could not overcome the guilt, whispered little to the butler.

" there ...

...

.

"

Couldn't finishing the sentence as I couldn't remember what the butler's name was.

"Yes, lady, do you have anything to order?"

The old butler quickly noticed and looked deeply.

It was an attitude that he was used to instructing like this.

"Before I... shouted ....... "

What should I apologize for?

How can I properly relieve the guilt of the villain without having a big crack on her reputation?

" ... sorry . "

" Yes ?

"

Dahlia, whispering with a new red face, quickly escaped.

The left butler froze with a face that seemed to pop out of her eyes in shock and looked only at her empty spot.

Dahlia Margaret is apologizing!

While working for the Count, he

never received an apology from the people of the Countess family.

But the first apology, no other way, I hear from Miss Dali.

'Madam, I...

...

I will never forget this day!

'

He trembled with excitement by himself, and ran after Dahlia, who had run away late.

That was why I remembered that I had to guide her to the parlor.

Dahlia recklessly ran the hallway.

The moment I apologized, I saw the frozen man's face and couldn't stay there.

In the novel, I just said that the evil deed was severe, but I didn't know it well, but I still couldn't get a sense of how much it was.

"Oh, huh.

"

Dahlia took a quick breath and entered any room.

The scent of old wood and books.

It Took her nerves to enter.

She put her hands on her rising and falling chest and raised her head.

"Is this... the library?" "

The densely packed library greeted Dahlia.

There was a chair in the distance by the window.

She tumbled back and sat down on the chair.

"Ha...."

A month has passed since I have been in this body.

It was a way to get used to it, but the attitude of the servants who were surprised no matter what they did was a surprise.

"You have to do bad things to know, I know."

Dahlia briefly recalled her previous life.

I remember when I was used to being bad, but I wasn't used to doing it.

'Would I be okay if I act like Lee Soo-yeon?

'

When I think of a woman from a previous life who continued a damn bad relationship, I feel somberly lost .

It was the moment when I became dissatisfied with the body I entered again.

'Hope...

...

Unlucky enough to enter Dahlia body out of many and many characters.

The evil woman who dies terribly.

'

I would have lived a new life at all if it had been just the beginning with no role.

The world did not change no matter how much resentment was expressed.

Even when I opened my eyes to pray, there was still a woman with silver hair and violet eyes standing in the mirror.

Fortunately, I was a reader who had read this novel until the end of the story.

"If you keep talking in moderation and fall out, I can save your life, right?

"

Dahlia had no intention of appearing on stage.

Because, the moment she becomes a character, she knows well that the stage will lead her to death.

Unlike Floret, Dahlia wasn't the main character, but was only the enemy of the main character.

"Dahlia!"

At that time, a thick voice hit my ear

All.

Dahlias get upset

Raised.

Someone pops open the door and thumps

And moved.

Her father, Videl Margaret Bag

[eveningcatcher]

Main six + courtiers playing D&D part 1

"Alright, now that everyone's here," you said as you were looking over your papers, "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Wait, wait," Vulgora said, swinging their character sheet in the air, "How did you calculate any of these things? Why the fuck is here +5" she pointed at their intimidation stat, then moved her finger to the persuasion stat, "And here it's +3?"

"It's because you've added your proficiency bonus there," Nadia explained as she stirred her coffee.

"Proficiency?" they asked, frowning.

"That coloured dot," Julian said.

"Ohh, ohhhh, that makes sense now," they put the paper down and took the large gulp of their beer, recklessly spilling it over the white sheet of paper.

Valerius moves his chair away from the pontifex, as well as his character sheets, "So, I can leave in three hours, right?"

Read the whole chapter here

"Why would you want to leave so soon?" you asked them, pouring them a glass of wine.

"Because there is no fulfilment in wasting time with filling these sheets and sitting idly, spending the precious time in useless chatter about non-existing worlds and their non-existing characters going into non-existing journeys," quaestor added as they pulled a chair in between Volta and Vulgora, "If your heart yearns for such journeys and adventures then why don't you go on and experience them on your own?"

"I see you've done some research," Portia adds as she put a huge tray of food next to the procurator, "Ilya remember when we used to play D&D?"

Julian gave his sister a wide grin, "Oh, I remember when you started yelling at me whenever I would be a DM."

"Well that's because you would never let me do anything I wanted to," she put a cup of tea next to the praetor, "Careful, it's still hot."

"So how long do we play this game?" Vlastomil asked, "I need to take care of my dear Wriggler. Oh, how sad she was when I left," he frowned, quickly wiping a single dear, "She must be worried sick, wriggling around, eating her sorrows away..."

"Oh, I can completely understand her, yes I can," Volta rose her head from her food, giving the praetor an understanding look, "I always eat when I'm stressed and anxious."

"You always eat, though," Asra commented before facing Julian, "Did I fill this right?" they asked him.

"Hm, let me see," he took the papers, along with the player's handbook. He would list through the pages, not bothering to check the book content, only stopping when he needed to check the papers.

"Here," he pointed at the skills, "You can check another stat you want."

"Oh, thanks," they took the pencil and checked insight, adding the proficiency bonus.

"So, shall we begin then?" you asked as you raised DM's screen.

"Why do you have that?!? Where is mine?!?"

"Yeah, I want some too!" Lucio demanded.

"But I am the DM, players can't have this."

"Can we just begin already?" Muriel said something for the first time, "I just want to leave."

"Alright, fine. I hope you've all made yourselves comfortable because we won't take a break for a while."

"Oh, that's no good, no, that is terrible," tiny procurator said as she was chewing her food, spilling some of it out, "What about the food? We're almost out!"

"Don't worry dear," Nadia said, as she was taking one of her rings out, cleaning the emerald with her sleeve, "Food will be brought over the time, so let's just begin already."

"Alright, alright, let's begin now," you said as you gathered magic in your hands, letting it poof and cover the top of the table, "The story begins in a small tavern on the northern side of the human village-"

"Let's smash their skulls and claim all of their things!" Vulgora said as they smashed their fist on the table, moving the mist away.

"I mean, you could do that," you said, putting your finger on your lips as you gave their idea a bit more thought. Once you've come up with the satisfying idea, you started to control the mist, folding it to your liking, until the mist turned into an inside of a tavern, with all of their characters sitting on one table, some of them drinking, others talking(more like arguing) and others playing a game of cards.

Amongst them, there is one certain Dragonborn who can't seem to calm down. They stand up, walking over the table, then announcing their idea loudly enough for the other PC's to hear:

"Let's kill everyone in this stupid village!" the Dragonborn said.

"I don't know, I kinda like it here," Julian's PC said as they took another glass of beer.

"Oh, I love this magic smoke!" he said as he grabbed a handful of popcorn, munching on it as he tried not to spill it.

"I'll try my best to make it as realistic as possible," you said, as you stopped motioning with your hands once you were sure the magic will last, "But anyway, any other thoughts on Vulgora's idea?"

"Absolutely no." Nadia and her character said in unision.

"I have to agree with the countess," Valerius said as he went through his character sheets, "The guards will kill us all."

"No they won't," Vulgora responded sharply, "There are so many of us, we will kill them all!"

"We are all first level, so I doubt it," Portia said, taking the tray of food and setting it in front of hungry Volta.

"Wait, there are levels here," praetor asked, his head buried in the player's handbook, not understanding anything.

"Yes, twenty of them, apparently," Valdemar added calmly, clearly bored; "Um, is that supposed to happen?" Muriel asked as they pointed towards a figure walking towards their PC's.

With a sly grin, you started to tell them your story. Altering your voice to what you believe a tall, middle-aged sorcerer would sound like.

Everyone looked at each other as if they thought that the other knew what was going on. Once they realised that this is most likely something about your story, they looked at the fog and listened to the old sorcerer.

"So... you must be the adventurers who want to," he quickly took a glance at the other people in the tavern, leaning towards the table the group was sitting in, and, with a low voice, said, "Kill the gods?"

"I, uh," Muriel stuttered, not knowing how to react, however, Asra started talking, moving the attention to them and, with a sly grin, said "Yes, you got the right people."

"Oh, ho, so it is indeed you," he chuckled, "What an... interesting bunch you are... reminds me of the last adventurers who have tried to do what you long for..." he smiled, "Ohh, those were the times, yes indeed they were."

"Tell us more about them," Portia insisted.

"Ohh, they were, you know, quite the colourful bunch," he said, "Though not as big as you are. Just a small group of three, a human, tiefling and a..." he stopped talking for a moment, taking the time to run their bony hands through the beard, "A, hmm, was she a pureblood, or a human too... I can't quite recall," he shrugged it off with a simple gesture of hands, "It doesn't matter. The important, and a quite interesting part, is that they were all wronged by the world and-"

"Oh, please make it quick, I don't care about them!" Vulgora's PC said.

"I use my cantrip prestidigitation to muffle out their complains," Asra said.

"Okay, you succeeded," you said, through a giggle as you muted Vulgora's endless number of complaints.

"," Vulgora tried to say something, but no words could be heard from their lips. However, this couldn't stop them, so they signed to Asra a few words, probably the only ones they knew how to sign: I'll crush you, wizard boy!

"Sorry about that my good sir," Nadia's PC turned on her chair, calling a taverner, "Could you please bring us some ginger ale for this gentleman?"

The sorcerer chuckled, satisfied with the free drink and continued, "Well then, where was I again, ah yes," he stroke his long beard as he recalled the lore, "Those three were, quite a chaotic bunch to say the least. They all hated this society, but they didn't blame the government, no no, they blamed the gods who have created this world. So anyway, what is the reason behind your decision?" he leaned to Muriel's druid, "Is it power, glory and praise? No, you don't look like the type who desires such things..." he muttered, leaning towards the evil Tiefling, "What about you, oh I think I know!" he nodded with satisfaction, "You seek the answers, young one, don't you? Or maybe it's the curiosity; what would the world be like with no god? Oh, ho, ho..." he sat back to his chair, just in time as he was handed the beverage and took a huge gulp, choking on it. With a few loud coughs, he calmed down and continued, "Well then, I must warn you, everyone who tried to kill a God has met the same fate, so I truly hope that your reason is worth it."

"Of course it is!" Lucio exclaimed, happy that the attention finally focused on him, "If we kill Gods, then everyone would be forced to become an atheist, and the only person that they could worship would be me!"

Everyone took a moment of silence to think through his preposterous statement. Julian and Portia tried to muffle their laugh, while Vugora, who finally got the ability to talk again stayed silent.

"Well, I mean," the old man started, "I guess it's not that bad. There wouldn't be any cultist attacks anymore..." he stayed silent after that statement as he, slowly this time, took a sip of the drink. Once he had drunk it all, he stood up, "Well, thank you, my children, for the drink, in return, I offer you the map to three of twelve artefacts that you'll need to kill a god."

"Wait, what are we supposed to do after we got them?" Volta asked as she chewed on a sandwich with excitement in her eyes. She was certainly enjoying this a lot more than she had expected to.

In response, the sorcerer chuckled, but this time, there was something odd in his voice, "Oh, please, only two people have gotten all three of the artefacts," after that bold statement, he seemed to have realised that he might have sounded a bit too dark, so he changed the tone, giving the group a warm smile, "But I'm sure that you could get them. Oh, ho, ho, after all, there is eleven of you, I'm sure some of you could be lucky enough."

With that, he dropped them a scroll and slowly walked towards the exit. "So," you said, "What will you do with the scroll?"

"Read it, obviously," Valerius responded, trying to sound as though he was bored.

"Alright. Nadia, you have opened the scroll, however, you can't understand anything it's written. However, you Valdemar seem to understand it. It's written in Infernal."

"Very well, then," they extended a hand to Nadia, "Give me the scroll."

"Um," she looked at you, as you gathered fog in your hands, forming a scroll with some unreadable words to her, but, when she handed it to Valdemar, they seemed to be able to read it. They didn't read it aloud, instead, they simply rolled their eyes.

"Come on, read it already!" Valstomil demanded.

"Very well then," they started reading a scroll, with a dull voice"Hot elf moms in your area are looking for a good time. No need for a pouch, they just want your big-"

"WRONG SCROLL, WRONG SCROLL!!!" the sorcerer rushed into the tavern, snatching the scroll, replacing it with a lot older one, a bit ripped at the side.

Everyone, excluding some burst into laughter. Portia's face has gotten so red that Julian laughed even louder, pointing at her, even though he didn't look any better. Asra tried to hold in the laugh, knowing that this is not the joke they should laugh at, while Muriel innocently asked Volta what was the big thing elf moms wanted. Neither one of them knew the answer, so they asked Vulgora, who gladly responded with: "Elves want the di-" they stopped as soon as they saw the Countess' disapproving look.

"I swear if this one is also a 'wrong scroll' I'm leaving," Valerius said.

"Alright, alright," you said, a bit disappointed that not everyone enjoyed the joke as much as you did, "Here you go, Julian" you handed him another scroll.

He took it and, with a bit of scepticism, started reading in a dramatic voice, accenting a random word that he found interesting: "The first artefact is Abaddon's dagger. It lies untouched in the Saint Milu's church, slowly rusting away, waiting for its owner to return, or perhaps, for another champion worthy of them..." he stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath and asked in a normal tone: "So, how was that?"

"Perfect Ilyushka!" Portia said with a smile, "You can read the scrolls from now on!" she shifted her gaze to you, "So, how are we supposed to find that dagger?"

"I don't know," you sulked into your seat, "You're supposed to think of an idea," you slowly straightened your posture, "But, if you get stuck, I guess I will help you out."

"Shouldn't we go ask some people about that church?" Volta asked as she bit on cherry cheesecake.

"That seems to be the best option," Nadia concluded, "Then, let's go, shall we?"

Before they left, Julian took a d20 and said with a smirk, "I roll sleight of hand check to see if I can steal some money from that dude drinking beer," he pointed at some random guy sitting next to the exit.

"Alright," you said, "Go on."

He put the dice in between his hands, pretending to pray and rolled it. The dice hit Volta's plate, to which she flinched, and then finally, the dice stopped. It rolled on 16.

"Yeah, you succeeded," you started as you grabbed some popcorn, "You took a little pouch, containing 2gp."

"I walk to the gentleman and inform him that his pouch has been stolen by this terrible man," Valerius said with a sly grin as he sipped his wine.

"Dude NO!" Julian shouted.

Before you could determine the outcome you turned to see if Valerius is still sure about his decision, to which he simply nodded. Amused by the way this is going so far, you said: "Well, you've told the man about the stolen money," you shifted your hands up, moulding the fog to your imagination, then continued talking in a masculine voice, "That rascal! Thank you, my man, at least some of this youth is still polite," the man stood up, walked to Julian, slapped him right across the face and took the old pouch from his hands, "How disrespectful, did your mother teach you that?!?!"

Asra giggled like a highschooler while Muriel looked amused as he listened to Volta commenting about how, if he were to steal her food, she would have given him more than just a slap.

"Roll a d20 to see how bad the imprint looks," you took the d20 that still laid next to Volta's plate to Julian. This time, he didn't do anything fancy, instead, he just rolled it expecting to get some low number.

"Natural twenty," you snorted, hiding your face in your hands from laughter, "Oh my god," you felt your face getting redder and redder from the lack of oxygen, "Yeah, that will defenetely leave a mark," you shifted the fog towards Julian's face, imprinting a red handprint across his left cheek.

"You look like a fucking idiot!" Vulgora laughed their ass off, pointing at Julian's face.

"Serves you right for doing such a crime!" Vlastomil added, along with Volta who just nodded in approval, too busy with eating to respond.

"Was it really necessary for you to be a snitch, consul?" Nadia asked, "After all, I believe that the point of the game is to do anything you want."

Valerius, in response, gave an ironic smile, lowering his head as if he were to bow, "But countess, I am simply acting according to my," he raised his sheet, "Alignment."

"Can we beat our teammates?" Portia asked.

"Why not," you smiled, still thinking about Julain's scar.

"Okay, so, consul," Portia turned to Valerius, "If you decide to be a snitch again, " she put her hand on Asra's shoulder, "We will beat you up!"

"Just take all of his possessions and give it to the poor if he likes helping so much," Muriel commented as he peeled lemon as if it were an orange.

"Muriel," Portia walked to him and gave him the tightest hug she could, "You're a genius! MC, give him 50gp for such a brilliant idea!"

"Sorry, but I can't," you shifted in your seat as you arranged some of the papers, "But I can continue with the story!"

"Finally, I was getting bored," Valdemar said, "When can I summon the dead?"

"When you reach the third level, I believe," you gave them a quick response and then continued talking about the campaign, "So anyway, you leave the tavern with Julian. who is still dazed by the slap-"

"You'll make this a permanent scar, won't you?" he asked as he pointed at his face.

"Of course I will. So, you left the tavern and noticed a bleeding beggar on the side, what do you do?"

"Valerius, this is your chance!" Asra said mockingly.

"Can we help them?" Volta asked, looking at the fog, "She looks like she hasn't been eating for days!"

"They're bleeding and you're caring about that," Lucio turned to Volta, then to others, "Why should we do anything? MC is probably just messing with us."

"Like with that scroll!" Vlastomil agreed.

"Do they have anything valuable that we could take?" Valdemar asked.

"Oh, I'm glad you're finally getting the hang of roleplaying, quaestor, but no, they don't have anything useful."

"Hm," the quaestor was silent for a moment, then they responded with a gleam of delight in their eyes, "I need components for my spells, no?" they didn't give you the time to respond, "While she may not have any valuables, she still has bones, doesn't she?"

"Valdemar no!" Nadia said.

"Why not, after all, the point of the game is to do anything you want, isn't it?" Valerius, said, still a bit salty.

"Shut up, all of you!" Portia said as she slammed her hands on the table, which made you flinch, "At this point, she'll bleed to death! Julian do something!"

"Why me?"

"Because you have Cure wounds! Use it to heal her!"

"But then I'll spend my slot."

"BuT tHeN I'lL sPeNd mY sLoT," she said as she mimicked him, "I don't care, do it, or else I'll give you a matching scar on the other cheek!"

"Fine... I use my spell on the beggar."

"Okay, you succeeded, the beggar is not bleeding, what now?" you asked.

"I give her some of my food rations," Volta said.

"Alright," you changed the fog to show a healed beggar with some food in front of her, "You've helped her, congrats, but she doesn't say anything, instead, she just stares at you."

"Let's just keep going," Asra said, "We've done enough."

"I agree, let's go for that dagger!"

"But we don't know where it is," Vlastomil said.

"Let's just snoop around then," Portia said with a smile.

"You're in a town," you pointed at the fog which showed their PC's walking around the village, "What now?"

"We ask the NPC's if they know where that church is," Asra said as his PC walked to one woman, "Excuse me, do you know where..." he stopped for a moment to think, " Saint Milu is?"

"Why I do," she said, "But, are you sure you want to go? It's very dangerous."

"Of course we do!" Vulgora added, "Nothing is too dangerous, you're just making a fuss over nothing!"

"Well, if you're so confident, then if you do go there and return alive, I'll tell my dad and he'll reward you."

"Um...sure?" Asra said, a bit reluctant.

"But I need proof that you were there!"

"Sure, what do you want?"

"How am I supposed to know that?" she pouted, "I've never gone there myself. I told you it's too dangerous, remember?"

"Alright, alright, we'll bring you a battle trophy, just tell us where to go, goddammit!" Vulgora said, clearly losing their patience.

"Alright, alright, sheesh," she said, "Just go north from the city's shop. It's the last house in the village, just straight forward," she extended her hand in front of herself, "You can't miss it!"

"Thank you," Julian said, "By the way, has anyone ever told you you look dazzling?"

"Why thank you, " she smiled, "Too bad I can't say the same for your face," she giggled and went her way.

"OH MY GOD!!!" Portia snorted, unable to sustain the laughter.

"You'll keep doing this to me, won't you?" Julian asked defeated.

You nodded and continued., with the narration: "You've walked to the small shop. Do you want to stop by to buy some things?"

All of them agreed and went inside.

"Oh, travellers, I haven't seen any of them in a while. Greetings, greetings, how may I help you," he turned to Vlastomil and Valdemar's PC, to which he immediately shouted, shaking in fear, "Oh GOD, please, please don't kill me! I don't have any valuables, nor do I have much money, plus I'm not tasty, see?" he pointed at himself, "I'm only skin and bone! I barely have anything to feed my son with, please, please spare me!"

"Um, sir," Nadia said, "We are not here to kill you... we just want to buy something."

"You do?" the man straightened himself, grasping at Nadia's hands with tears of joy, "Oh thank you, thank you! I thought this was going to be the last day of my life! Please, ask for anything that you need!"

"Do you have healer's kit?" Volta asked.

"Why I certainly do, my dear," the shopkeeper responded, "That'll be 7gp."

"But isn't the price for that 5gp?" Portia asked.

"It is," the shopkeeper said, "However, I had to buy this in the town and to go all the way to here. Plus I'm also the only shopkeeper in all of the nearby villages."

"Could you give us a special price," Julian asked, "After all we are the adventurers, so we'll surely buy many things!"

"Are you buying the healer's kit for him, dear?" he asked Volta, "I doubt that will be enough to help him," before Julian could protest about the rude comment again, the shopkeeper clapped his hands and said, "But I sure know what could help you!" he bowed down and took a little bottle, "Mommy's kiss!"

"Mommy's kiss?"

"Yes, mommy's kiss is a powerful cream that can clear your skin from any acne, blackheads and, most importantly, scars! Suitable for any race and any skin type! My son loves it!"

"If that's the only thing that will remove this scar, then sure. How much for Mommy's kiss?"

"Well, this is a rare cream that can remove any skin imperfection, but for you, my fine gentleman, I'll lower the price to 200 gp!"

"Two hundred gold pieces for that tiny bottle!?!"

"Well, it is Mommy's kiss, after all."

"Sorry, but I'll have to pass."

"But I'll take the healer's kit," Volta said.

"And I'll take five arrows," Portia said.

"Why does the Great axe cost 30gp?!?" Lucio asked.

"But I only have 10!!!" Vulgora said, "How can we get the money?!?"

"Well, if you go to the Saint Milu, you'll get some money," you said.

"Ughh, fine..."

"Excuse me, sir," Valdemar leaned to the shopkeeper who nervously sweated, "Do you, by any chance, sell bones of the humanoids?"

"Eek!" the shopkeeper said.

"Okay, so, Valdemar, the shopkeeper is terrified of you," you started, "Because of that, you have an advantage on rolling intimidation check. So if you want to force them to give you something, feel free to try."

"Oh, how fun," Valdemar's eyes glowed with joy, "Are there any scrolls here?"

"I, I do have some scrolls," he said, visibly shaking.

"I'll take the one with the inflict wounds spell," they said.

You threw two d20 at them, "Roll them, the AC is 15."

They rolled the dice, where one dice landed on 4 while the other one on 14.

"Is your intimidation at least +1?"

They took a glance at the skills table and gave you a toothy grin.

"You got the scroll, however, the shopkeeper told you to get out or else he'll call the guards."

"Too bad. Looks like you're not going to get Mommy's kiss, Ilyushka!"

"Fear not, we're going to find you Mommy's kiss in some other shop," Lucio said, laughing mid-sentence.

"So, because Muriel has a keen mind feat, he leads all of you north."

"You go Muri!" Portia cheered.

"...Thanks."

Read the whole chapter here

[josy72]

Call 'Portrait of a Lady on Fire' what it is: a Political Masterpiece

Screen Queens 22 hours ago

Lilies Films

At the premiere of Portrait of a Lady on Fire, the world should have foreseen the immense feminist implications that the film would have when the director and screenwriter, Céline Sciamma and one of the film’s actresses, Adèle Haenel, showed up with “50/50” pins glimmering in gold to stand for gender equality in cinema. During the seemingly never-ending, multinational promotional tour for the film, the director and actresses have spoken time and time again on how the creation of the female gaze is a located one; it exists affirmatively in a polarised state as the male gaze exists neutrally. With Portrait, Sciamma pointedly declares that the revolution does not just begin in the home – it can also begin on the screen. And while that is definitely the case, after nine months of screenings, releases, and promotion, how is Portrait of a Lady on Fire still not regarded as a political enigma?

The story unravels slowly throughout the two-hour course of the film, showing what it means for two women to learn, love, and ultimately lose each other, entirely through the medium of creative collaboration. Marianne (Noémie Merlant) is hired to paint Héloïse’s portrait (Adèle Haenel) in secret for the Milanese man her mother, the Countess (Valerie Golino) chose for her to marry. Marianne arrives from Paris to an island off the coast of Brittany, where she spends her days watching Héloïse and burning her contours and colours into her memory to ultimately impose onto a canvas at nightfall. Héloïse, unaware of Marianne’s true reason for observing her at the castle, begins to study her surveyor as well, through shuttered looks and soft gazes. While the film has gained heavy appraisal for portraying lesbian love in Prerevolutionary France, it is nothing short of contemporary. Sciamma meticulously threads the modern-day discourse of gaze, subjectivity, female body politics, and abortion through the craftmanship of reconstitution and memory to yield an immaculate representation of what life would be like for women free from the scrutiny of men.

Calling the male gaze a “problem” in cinema even seems like an understatement because it is embedded in the history of how films are made; the male gaze has been integral to getting films produced, and equally so in further objectifying women in general. One of the most insidious adversaries of genuine lesbian representation on screen is a director’s use of a corroded lens rather than a clean mirror in order to portray female characters. Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire, however, does away with both of these. She unscrews the lens, smashes the mirror, and hands her protagonist a paintbrush. Once Héloïse finally learns the truth, she agrees to pose, choosing her own fate and reclaiming her own bodily autonomy: nothing will be taken from her that she does not give. From then on, the story re-positions itself, and the lovers reclaim both their bodies and their stories. The subjectivity of both the painter and the model allows for an active exploration of one another, consent, and a willingness to be intimate. A perfect example of this is the scene executing the admission of love. Without any words or loss of rapture, Sciamma crafted the first kiss scene in a way where both women are subjects. She did this by having the two women, face to face, inches away, remove the wind-barring scarves from their mouths in near synchrony and thus, the first kiss ensues. With this scene and the Cannes Prix du Scenario in hand, Sciamma unprecedentedly wrote off the history of cinema and denounced all film personnel and viewers who have grossly claimed that “consent isn’t sexy.”

However, the aforementioned comment is never even brought forth to be bargained with in the film. There is no voice given to men, because as Sciamma says, her stories exist in a vacuum, allowing for no temporally or spatially “outside” influence, and since there are no men in this story, these female characters are existing in a continuum where their creations and intentions are regarded as having utmost importance in the film: Marianne’s art untainted by convention, their love unrepressed by conflict. The absence of men allows for gender equality, no dominance, no submission. It also allows for a complete demolition of class between women who come from different backgrounds, both financial, societal, and dispositional; the three core women are a Countess’s only remaining child, a trained painter, and a maid. When the film begins, these roles are enforced, as Héloïse is kept in the dark when it comes to her future marriage, forbidding her from both knowledge and choices; Marianne’s sole role is to paint Héloïse, fulfil her position as the woman hired to paint the Countess’s daughter; Sophie is only present to serve the Countess’s family and accommodate their guest. These defined roles according to the time period’s rigid social structures undergo complete transformation once the Countess leaves. On the beach, Sophie runs relays to exhaust her body and lose the child; while Marianne forcefully pushes her in the opposite direction as an aid, Sophie is careful not to approach Héloïse too closely. After she collapses from exhaustion, Héloïse approaches her and offers her hand, and with some hesitation, Sophie takes it. The interaction between these two characters serves as a complete turning point, the ultimate demolition of class structure. In what would otherwise be a parallel universe, the audience then bears witness to the Aristocrat, Héloïse cooking, the maid working on embroidery, and the painter observing the work of both. Furthermore, intellectual equality is demonstrated in the three of them reading and discussing Ovid’s Metamorphosis, with each fully demonstrating their own opinion without conceding to one another, and ultimately agreeing on the meaning of the test.

In drafting a landscape literally away from the male gaze, Sciamma has seamlessly employed one of the most fundamental feminist concepts of the twentieth century, from Carol Hanisch’s eponymous 1970 essay, “The Personal is Political.” It is one of the clearest ways Sciamma politicises her characters – they do not express comportment that would have been influenced by patriarchal thought. When Marianne discovers that Sophie is pregnant, she does not hesitate when it comes to helping Sophie miscarry. Furthermore, Héloïse does not prevent her from seeking technical help in doing so. One may argue that this is not so unlikely as Marianne comes from Paris where she has free reign to work and move around as she pleases, engaging with ideas and reconstituting her surroundings as not just her job but her way of life; she would never be obligated to marry and thus has the ability to think beyond her companion. Héloïse, however, spent the entirety of her life as an eligible adult in a convent, only leaving because she was due to marry. She would have every ontological reason to react negatively, coming from life in a Catholic Church, in a country and a time period where the bible meant everything, and a woman’s body meant practically nothing. Instead, the film sequences shift seamlessly into Héloïse helping Sophie, searching for solutions to induce miscarriage, standing behind her, and accompanying her and Marianne to the cabin of the women performing the abortion.

Sciamma does not end the discourse on abortion here; she takes it one step further when Héloïse and Marianne follow Sophie into the cabin and watch the abortion take place. Initially, Marianne turns her face away while Héloïse’s eyes are glued to the image unravelling before her; when she notices Marianne’s hesitation, she tells her to “Look,” and at that moment you are no longer seeing Héloïse pull Marianne out of the dark, you are also seeing Sciamma herself reaching out to the audience and showing how much acceptance there can be in the face of revulsion if only we took the time to examine the entire picture. Later in the evening, in the half candlelit room, Héloïse feels compelled to recreate the scene so that Marianne could paint it, yearning to preserve the rawness and delicacy of Sophie’s autonomy and strength. This allows Héloïse to lock these moments away in her memory, to remind her of women acting autonomously for their bodies, in the future when she will have given herself to a fate she never desired.

Calling this a feminist film is not an extrapolated read on this body of work. No fantastical analysis has to be done in order for it to be considered political. The core of the film, memory, is no passive gesture that carries this love story throughout time; it is actually an active decision on Marianne’s part to remember Héloïse how she was in their limited time in place of letting herself be crushed under the unforgiving reality that would never allow both Marianne and Héloïse be happy and in love. When Marianne tells Héloïse “Don’t regret, remember” she is also convincing herself for a final time. These women make their own decisions and at the end of Marianne’s stay on the island, they seal off the impenetrable wrinkle of time so no part of the outside, patriarchal world can ever taint it. They make this decision, Céline Sciamma made this decision, the actresses made this decision, and a loyal audience makes the decision to believe them – entirely effortlessly. It is the ability of viewers to make secret promises to the creators that we are all on the same page in the struggle towards representation, and it is a political one indeed. It is now time for everyone to see that Portrait of a Lady on Fire, as Céline Sciamma said so herself, “…is changing the world.

by Ariel Klinghoffer

[elibeancosplay]

Cosplay masterlist

This is a list of cosplays I have done. I will try and link some posts for some of them. I will be updating this in the future. Stay tuned!

Ace Attorney

Mia Fey

Adventure Time

Princess Bubblegum

American Horror Story

The Countess

Attack on Titan

Armin Arlet

Hange Zoe

Levi Ackerman

Baldur’s Gate 3

Astarion

My Tav/OC

Chainsaw Man

Power

Danganronpa

Toko Fukawa

Genocider Syo

Nagito Komaeda

Junko Enoshima

Mukuro Ikusaba

Kotoko Utsugi 

Kokichi Ouma

Byakuya Togami

Hajime Hinata 

Chihiro Fujisaki 

Monokuma 

Death Note

Misa Amane

Demon Slayer

Mitsuri Kanroji  Post 1, Post 2

Doctor Who

The Fourth Doctor

The Eleventh Doctor

Rose Tyler

Doki Doki Literature Club

Monika

Elli (Video Game)

Elli        Post 1, Post 2

Food Wars (Shokugeki no soma)

Satoshi Isshiki 

Good Omens

Aziraphale

Gotham/DC Comics

Fem!Riddler / Fem! Edward Nygma

Hazbin Hotel

Angel Dust

Heathers

Veronica Sawyer 

Jujutsu Kaisen

Satoru Gojo

Land of the Lustrous (Houseki no kuni)

Diamond

Marvel

Loki (Lady Loki non-canon design)

Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch (Avengers: Age of Ultron)

Vision (Wandavision human form)

Miraculous Ladybug

Adrien Agreste

Cat Noir

Monster High

Draculaura

My Hero Academia (BNHA)

Tsuyu Asui

Denki Kaminari

Mystic Messenger

707/Saeyoung Choi

Rika

Zen

Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt

Panty Anarchy

Pokémon

Nurse Joy

Popee The Performer

Frog

Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Kyoko Sakura

RE:Zero

Rem

Star Wars

Anakin Skywalker

Stranger Things

Steve Harrington

Studio Ghibli

Ponyo

Super Mario

Princess Peach

The Arcana

Asra Alnazar 

Lucio 

MC/OC

The Legend of Zelda

Zelda (Super Smash Bros. Ultimate)

The Magnus Archives

Nikola Orsinov

The Mighty Boosh

Vince Noir

The Owl House

Amity Blight

Trinity Seven

Arin Kannazuki

Twilight

Alice Cullen

Jasper Hale

Rosalie Hale

Vocaloid

Hatsune Miku

What We Do in The Shadows

Nadja

Yandere Simulator

Ayano Aishi

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Series One - Episode Three

This episode is in my mind the finest hour that Downton has ever had. And by finest, I mean the most absurd. It has everything: clandestine trips to the post office, millions of dogs and body horror. Episode three is the time when we all realise that we need to settle in, because life at Downton is going to get weird as shagging a diplomat to death is treated with the same level of outrage as owning a typewriter. 

This episode is really about Kamal and Kamal only for me but we do start to see the development of the plot point outlined in episode two, namely Gwen’s shadowy relationship with the post bag. When Gwen’s typewriter is laid bare on the servant’s dining hall table, Mr Carson reacts to it in an entirely calm manner with a level of alarm that befits the situation. Of course he doesn’t and in return, Gwen points out that all she has done is “Bought a typewriter and taken a correspondence course in typing and shorthand”. She is not aware that either of these actions are illegal but this memo does not seem to have reached Carson. 

Whilst all this is going on, Bates is lurking behind Anna and Gwen in a move apparently inspired by Donald Trump. Jaws music could be added here and it would totally fit. In fact throughout the episode, Bates does make a habit of popping up like a northern limping genie at times of distress in such a manner that means he is probably the only person in the house (upstairs or down) to have a proper handle on everyone’s emotional states. In modern day terms, he’s the sort of person who I imagine would have gone on a life coaching course.  But in the end, it’s not Bates’ emotional support that aids Gwen. Sybil comes to the rescue, vigorously circling adverts in the paper and plotting to smash the nearest available glass ceiling. More on this, and other smatterings of feminism, in later episodes. 

Bates has issues of his own though as he is sold a rather torturous leg brace by a man with all the scruples of an amoral PR flack who sells their services to industries that pollute. As such we are treated to some fresh out of drama school wincing and hissing from Bates whilst he takes on the tradition of men refusing any kind of medical help for serious things (yet somehow are more than happy to harp on about ‘man flu’ for days on end). Mrs Hughes eventually brow beats Bates into showing her his mangled appendage. Much to her credit, instead of recoiling in horror she cries in a sort of forlorn way and then proceeds to encourage Bates to contribute to freshwater pollution by lobbing the brace into a nearby lake. 

Someone who is almost having as bad a time of it as Bates this episode is Edith who somehow manages to become third wheel to a church. Kudos. Matthew is clearly more interested in the side aisles than anything that Edith’s personality can produce and firmly puts the nail in the coffin by suggesting “next time let’s take my mother”. The general sense of unease around Matthew seems to have dissipated entirely in the span of two episodes from everyone bar Violet and to an increasingly lesser degree Mary, but not as fast as Matthew would like. 

But for all the other strands in this episode, there is one that stands out: Kamal Pamuk (a name that Cora has difficulty pronouncing and Isobel can’t even read despite the fact that it’s a relatively straightforward name, pronounced pretty much as it is written). After a bit of casual racism from Mary, we finally see that the Turkish cultural attache has a heck of a lot going for him. He seems to think so too. And so does Mary. So that’s lucky I guess. The pair flirt on horseback as they hunt to the backdrop of some truly awful music: there is such a thing as too many violins. Kamal asks Mary to “take the jump” with him. It’s downhill for Mary’s reputation from there. 

But it’s not just Mary’s head that has been turned. Upon clapping eyes on Kamal, Thomas enquires of Carson “Is that one mine?”. Thomas is apparently ever the optimist and, as it turns out, Carson ever obliging which seems like an odd move for someone who loathes this side of Thomas. But maybe Kamal is so handsome that even Carson can see the appeal. The look that Thomas shoots the girls as he walks with Kamal says it all really. 

Behind closed doors, Thomas declares that he is “very attracted to the Turkish culture” but I imagine it’s in the same way that Zac Goldsmith is attracted to Bollywood. Kamal then indulges in a bit of period typical homophobia and blackmail and at the end of the scene we are reminded of the fact that Thomas lives his life sailing perilously close to the wind. 

Kamal is now a man on a mission. The strength of the set is tested as he basically runs Mary into a wall and I’m presuming that four burly prop hands are suring it up just out of shot. Mary is hesitant at first but then fully enters into the spirit of things only to have Kamal give up the ghost. Literally. 

But where Mary loses out, the viewer gains because thereafter is what I think the greatest section of Downton of all time. It starts with a shot of Kamal’s dead face in soft focus in the foreground and just gets better and better. The pinnacle for me is the beautifully framed shot of Anna, Mary and Cora shuffling Kamal’s body across the landing with the legs disappearing around a corner. Brilliant stuff. 

Romantic declaration of the moment 

There is clearly only one winner for this. Kamal Pamuk. He only got twenty minutes screen time maximum, but his absurdly handsome ghost will haunt us, and more importantly Mary, for many seasons to come. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Every single character’s face from the 29:10 minute mark onwards but a special shout out does go to Carson’s face when Gwen declares that she does not want to be in service forever. 

Wait, what? 

“Is the screen a Cromwell casualty?” No but I think this date is. 

“I put myself entirely in your hands” Yeah, Thomas wishes…. 

“I am in the grip of madness” Kamal’s words also later to be uttered by whoever commissioned the movie. 

“Its my wonderful complexion inherited from my Irish mother” No-one has ever said this. 

“We must have a care for feminine sensibilities; they are finer and more fragile than our own” With that kind of talk, it’s no wonder Sybil eschewed the landed gentry and married an Irish radical. 

“I hope we’re in control of something, if only ourselves” The first of many signs that the Dowager Countess would have voted Leave if possible. Clearly, she was ahead of her time. 

There is a fleeting suggestion by Bates that Mrs Patmore is a spy. I would pay good money to watch this spin off. 

Also Thomas snacking in the kitchen is even more proof that he is, indeed, my spirit animal. 

[tatttletale]

The One Thing (Julian & Nadia)

Carefree laughter echoed through the halls and Portia stopped, curious, in her tracks. It seemed to be coming from an open door up ahead.

       Another stream of chuckles and she felt her heart lighten. Milady sounds like she's having a good time — that's nice. She's been so stressed lately. . .

       Despite herself, she tiptoed to the door and peeked through the crack. In the sitting room, Nadia and, to Portia's surprise, her own brother, were sprawled across the couches, gossiping by the looks of it.

       Nadia, on the closest couch, shifted, and Portia caught sight of a wine glass in her hand. Ilya was also cupping a glass of the deep red liquid.

       "Another story I heard about myself," he announced jauntily, swinging his glass and almost spilling the stuff— Here we go, Portia thought, "—this one happened a couple years back. Uh, so Mazelinka owns a ship, and back then it was really new. Pasha loved to spend time on it."

       "Mazelinka owns a ship?" Nadia put in interestedly.

       "She's a pirate, as a matter of fact," Julian replied, eyebrows waggling. "And back then, Pasha was almost one herself." Portia almost chuckled. If only he knew. . . "SO, being a pirate, old girl got herself into quite a bit of trouble—"

       "Is that where you get it from?" Nadia interrupted again playfully. Portia smiled.

       "Countess, I'm trying to tell you a story," Ilya said, wounded.

       "Alright, alright, Julian, please continue."

       "Mazelinka got herself into trouble quite a bit, and it's fair to say she wasn't that popular around here. So one weekend, she and her wife decided to leave town — which you should never do if you're unpopular. And, get this, Pasha decides to throw a party on her ship!"

       When Nadia spoke, she sounded scandalised. "Portia? Getting into mischief?"

       "Oh, you know it," Ilya chuckled irritatingly, and Portia had to check herself before she went barrelling in to confront him. "Anyway, everyone around South End heard about it, and we all got up individually and thought — not me, of course — and thought, 'Okay, let's go over there, and destroy the place."

       Nadia broke into snickers. "Poor Mazelinka. . ."

       Ilya nodded seriously. "Indeed. Well, I decided I'd better go and supervise the thing, you know— so I walked into this party — and everyone I had ever met in Vesuvia was there, and everyone was drinking like it was the end of the world. People were drinking like it was the civil war and a doctor was coming to saw our legs off!"

       "So they must have had quite a fright when you showed up, then?"

       "My dear!" Ilya cried indignantly. "You wound me! Would I ever amputate without reasonable cause?"

       "Actually, I can think of a few—"

       "Anyway," he interrupted hurriedly, "So, apart from me, it was completely unsupervised. And of course, I thought, 'Well, since I'm here, I may as well have a good time,' but that was a mistake because I got a little tipsy myself and—"

       Another bout of barking laughter from Nadia, and outside, Portia scoffed. She bet they were both thinking the same thing.

       "A little tipsy, doctor?" Nadia asked innocently.

       Portia snorted.

       Ilya decided to not even contend with her remark. "—Well it was . . . intense. We were like dogs without horses, we were running wild. I walked down—" he paused and took a swig of his drink— "I walked down to the mess cabin, she has a pool table in the mess cabin, and one guy took a running start and threw his body onto the pool table and broke it in half. Another guy found out which room was Mazelinka's and went upstairs and took a shit on her bed."

       Nadia cackled.

       "So the party was going great," Ilya grinned, and Nadia wiped her eyes. "So I'm standing in the mess cabin, and I'm holding one of those tankards (you've seen plays), and I was standing there, and I'm holding a tankard—" he was obviously already tipsy— "and I'm starting to black out, and I guess, someone said, like, 'Something something, guards' and in a brilliant moment of word association, I yelled, 'Fuck tha guards!'"

       Nadia by now was bent over double in hysterics. Ilya chuckled proudly.

       "'Fuck tha guards!' And everyone. Else. Joined. In."

       Portia hid a snigger behind her hand. She remembered this.

       "A hundred, drunk, scraggy people, yelling 'fuck, tha, guards', with the confidence of guys who have already been to jail, like, most of them probably had been, I mean I had, but still, guys who had already been to jail and aren't afraid of it anymore?" He was slurring his word by now. Definitely drunk. "Know that like, 'I served my dubloon you come and take me!' confidence. But drunk people."

       He paused for a moment, cleared his throat and took another sip — no, another gulp — of wine, dragging the moment out for dramatic flair. Portia rolled her eyes.

       "So," he finally said, setting his wine down on the side table, "The reason someone had said, 'Something something guards', was because the guards were there."

       Nadia snorted and devolved into another fit of giggles.

       "So a South End guard, walked down the stairs, and got to the bottom in the mess cabin, and looked out over a sea of drunk toddlers, yelling, 'Fuck the guards', in his face!— And he was almost impressed!"

       Portia had to bite her lip to trap a bubbling laugh. "He was like, 'Wooooww. . .' and then he grabbed his lantern from his belt and opened the panel and coloured the flame pink — which is like the assistance signal — and Asra — yes, Asra was there — who I remind you, is now a father, this man has a baby, he grabbed a whole beer barrel, smashed it on the ground and yelled 'SCATTER!'"

       Portia broke out into laughter, and hurriedly clamped a hand over her mouth — thankfully Nadia's guffaws were louder and they didn't hear her.

       "And everyone ran into different directions!" Ilya continued, barely able to contain his own laughter. "We all ran in different directions — it was like, have you ever ran into a crowd of pigeons in the square, and they all fly off in different ways? We all ran in different directions. I ran into the washroom and I jumped up on the basin and I smashed the porthole and crawled out and dropped into the water and now I'm swimming around the ship to the docks and I look up at the pier and it's like seven feet high and I though 'I've never climbed a pier that high before!'— and then I woke up at home."

       Ilya threw his head back and barked with laughter, tears glistening in his eyes. "And— and a couple of days later I went to the markets, because that's what we did back then. And I'm walking into the main street and who do I see but Pasha." Portia rolled her eyes but grinned. "And she says to me— 'Hey, were you at my party the other day?' And I said 'No', y'know, like a liar. But she did not fall for that at all. And she said, almost in tears, 'Things got really out of hand. . . someone broke the pool table. . . someone took a shit on Mazelinka's bed. . . but the worst thing!' she says, 'The worst thing is that someone stole this old heirloom oil painting of her father. . . and she's throwing a fit over it.'"

       He paused again and reached for his glass, downing the last of the wine before resuming. "And I had that thought. That thought that only black-out drunks and courtiers can have. Did. . ." Nadia snorted as he continued. ". . . Did I do that? I figured no. . . I wouldn't have done that. But I was never sure — until two years later."

       She devolved into giggles again and Ilya gave an exasperated grin. "Relax. So I'm here, in the palace, with Lucio — I know. And he's just dragging me around all over the place, showing me all these statues and things, and then Lucio says to me, 'Hey, c'mere, I wanna show you something.' And he takes me all the way across into his bedroom, and then he takes me into a sideroom off of his bedroom — never a good thing to have."

       Nadia raised an eyebrow and Ilya raised his hands in defence. "We didn't do anything! It was just like, this room, with a big long dining table and chairs and it's covered wall-to-wall in stolen antique oil paintings from people's parties over the years."

       Nadia choked on her wine. Ilya continued excitedly. "And I said 'Why? . . . Why do you do this?' AND LUCIO SAID, 'BECAUSE IT'S THE ONE THING YOU CAN'T REPLACE.'"

       With that, Portia howled, and the two friends spun around to find her standing at the crack in the door, wheezing into her hands.

       After a moment of silence inside the room, Ilya cracked a grin. "And this is why I tell this story every time Pasha can hear it."

PROMPT: "Nadia and Julian bonding over a drink. Maybe they'll talk about their travels or something." — for gaiabloom on Tumblr! Hope you enjoyed! :)        I'm really not that creative. I just— don't John Mulaney's stories fit Julian perfectly?

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Check out this story on: - Wattpad - Archive Of Our Own

[nighthowlers8795]

You Have Never Loved Me (AU) Liam x MC    Part 15

Warning: Not your TYPICAL Liam and not your TYPICAL MC

Catch up here : You Have Never Loved Me masterlist

Summery: How will Annie and Liam deal with the fall out of their relationship?

Tag list: @drakelover78 @indiacater @kinkykingliam @pens-girl-87madaraism @boneandfur @laniquelove @blackcatkita @never-ending-choices @writtenbycandy @alicars @hopefulmoonobject @mfackenthal @darley1101 @queencatherynerhys @lizeboredom @xxrainbowprincessxx @umccall71 @crookedsmilecreatorpasta @starstruckzonkoperatorbat @heatherfilliez @mrsdrakewalkerblog @liam-rhys @greyeyedsmile14 @bella-ca

Liam enters their living area and saw that the roses he sent to Annie were still on the coffee table. She usually takes them back to their bed chamber and leaves the flowers on the dresser.

He calls a maid for the queen’s location. “Is Duchess Olivia still here? Where is your queen?”

“Her Majesty and Duchess Olivia left together with some of Queen Annie’s luggage bags.” The maid hands over an envelope then walks her way back to a safe distance. “Before they left, Ms. Mara gave me this and said you would know everything once you opens the envelop.”

The king opens the envelop and sees a piece of note paper that has turned yellow. He would never thought that Annie kept it. 「I have something to take care of, I won’t be back for dinner.」

Clenching onto the note and he takes a deep breath. “Has everything been okay since I left this afternoon?”

The maid insists on keeping the focus on her shoes. “Errrr, Countess Madeleine was here before Lady Olivia showed up for her afternoon tea.”

-----------------------------

“Hey, Annie. Would you at least tell me what’s going on? You said you would talk once we leave the palace. We are two hours away from the capital now.” Olivia is seriously concerned about her best friend, they seems so happy welcoming their first child soon. When Annie told her she needs to get out the palace, she thought she is going crazy.

“Why nobody has mentioned that Liam and Madeleine were engaged before?” She gazes far into the mountains of Cordonia. “She stopped by before you showed up. And warned me that I shouldn’t trust Liam with my baby.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you knew. But listen to me Annie. Madeleine can not be trusted, she is a blonde devil would say anything to get what she wants. Look at how messed up you are right now.” She moves across the rolls and sit next to Annie with her hands on top of hers. “You need to trust me on this, Madeleine is nobody.”

“But she told me they have slept together to show off.” Her voice is so broken and almost crying.

“Oh, honey. I wouldn’t think that’s true. Liam left the country almost immediately after he found out Leo’s abdication. Madeleine was engaged to Leo at first, Regina wanted her niece to be the future queen so much she pushed Madeleine to Liam when he became the next in line.” She grabs a bottle of water from the mini cooler on board and hands over to Annie. “You see, when Liam came back to Cordonia and claimed the throne, he dismissed the engagement. Why do you think you have never seen their family at court? They were rejected and embarrassed.”

“Would you still take me to Lythikos with you, please. I think I need some space.” Annie takes a sip of the water.

“You will have my full support when you sort things out.” She beams at Annie and give her hand a gentle squeeze. ”Now take a nap, it will be quite a drive to Lythikos.”

“Thank you.” The queen takes the blanket the duchess handed her and tries to find a comfortable position in the limo seat.

She was holding on some information that she found out about Liam. After Madeleine left, she tried to calm herself down by doing some cleaning in the bathroom. Annie scrubbed the tub and the toilet before she moved on to the double sink vanities. Bunch of condoms turned up when she sorted through all the drawers. They have never used condoms, she was on pills before they were married. Even those were not for Madeleine, there must have been other women. The thought of that makes her sick to her stomach, she needs to get out of there.

-------------------------------------------------------

“Countess, the King is on line one.” A butler bows and holds a telephone to Madeleine.

“Hmm, it is about time.” A evil grin on her red lips, she takes the phone. “My dearest Liam. I thought you have forgotten me completely”

“What have you done Madeleine?” He smashes the desk so hard, startled Drake who just walked in.

“Oh, well. I’ve only paid a friendly visit to your precious bride and filled her in with some information about us you were to shy to share with her.”

He almost forgot how annoying her high pitched voice could be. “There was nothing between us and you better pray to heaven that the baby and her will be alright. I thought your family would learn from Regina and make peace with the crown. Fine,

I’m motivated to take away your title. Thank you, Madeleine, for giving me a legit cause”

“You can’t do that, Liam. The Committee would never let you do that.” The devil screams and he can imagine she is probably kicking and smashing judging by the sound.

“Then we will have to find out.” He ends the phone call despite the constant yelling from the other end.

“Wow, remember me to never become your enemy.” Drake takes a seat across the King’s desk.

“Oh, yea? Then why didn’t you stop them when they were about to leave?” Liam pitches the bridge of his nose.” Don’t you have any control over your woman?”

“Dude, we are talking about the same woman here right? Olivia Nevrakis? You think I wanna die?” Drake can’t believe what his best friend was suggesting.” Plus Annie was crying and Olivia said they would be back shortly, how would I suppose to know that Annie has packed?”

“Okay, I see your point.” The king holds out his palm to stop Drake’s nagging.”Did they at least say where they are going after the fact ?”

“Yup, Olivia texted, they are heading back to Lythikos.”

To be contunied

[mst3kproject]

The Mask of Satan

Like a number of MST3K films, The Mask of Satan has multiple titles – it also goes by Black Sunday and Revenge of the Vampire.  The cast includes Ivo Garrani and Arturo Dominici, both of whom were in Hercules, and it was directed by Mario Bava, who worked on Hercules, Hercules Unchained, and Danger: Diabolik.  It’s an overwrought and highly riffable film – even the opening credits invite you to make fun, what with their announcement that this is ‘A Galatea Jolly Picture’ and the mention of a company called ‘Titanus’.  I can only imagine the reaction of the bots.

Three hundred years ago a vampire, or maybe a witch, named Asa was burned at the stake along with her boyfriend Igor.  As she dies, Asa cursed the head inquisitor, who happened to be her brother, and told him she would have her revenge.  Fast forward to the nineteenth century.  A couple of doctors are on their way to a medical conference in Moscow when they happen across Asa’s tomb, and one of them accidentally allows some blood to fall on her, which brings her back to life. As foretold in her own curse, she sets out to destroy her brother’s descendants, which of course include Katya, a young woman played by the same actress as Asa.  That’s just how movies work.

While many movies that were on MST3K were bottomlessly cheap, The Mask of Satan was clearly fairly expensive: there are large, elaborate sets and detailed costumes, all too obviously artificial to really be convincing but impressive nevertheless. A few of the effects, like Asa’s eyes growing back in her skull or the ground buckling as Igor rises from the grave, are really cool.  Even the mediocre ones do their job, and the only real effects failure is the fakest rubber bat this side of Samson vs the Vampire Women.  This is obviously where most of the budget was spent, and they got what they paid for.

There’s also one really well-handled story element, which is when Asa makes one of the doctors, Kruvajan, into her undead slave. His inability to resist her makes us earnestly worried for his younger colleague Andre later in the film, and actor Andrea Checchi is really creepy, clearly distinct from the living version of Kruvajan, and yet still makes us believe that the other characters don’t find his behaviour suspicious.  Without any hesitation, this is the best performance, live or dubbed, in the movie.

Other aspects of The Mask of Satan are not nearly so well-done.  The sound, for example, is very odd.  More than once we hear wailing wind in shots without a single leaf stirring in their ‘creepy woods’ stock footage.  In other places where ambient sound might heighten the atmosphere, such as the first few moments of the terrified milkmaid on her way to the barn, the film is eerily silent.  Katya’s appearance is always accompanied by sweeping romantic music, even in the first scene where she’s supposed to be threatening – in one spot, she actually plays her own love theme on the piano.  There’s a bit where Asa clearly calls out Igor’s name, but the dub people didn’t bother adding it.

Also weird is that nobody in this movie, or at least nobody responsible for the dubbing, knows the difference between a dragon and a griffin, let alone a vampire and a witch.

The actual plot, as you may have noticed, is a list of tropes: identical descendants, history destined to repeat itself, love at first sight, and so forth, very little of it really justified in the story beyond assuming that everybody knows how these things work.  Old classics like the trapdoor spike pit and the pitchfork-wielding mob make completely straight-faced appearances. Characters speak lines and lines of exposition that doesn’t even try to sound like natural conversation.  In particular, Katya’s father spends most of his time on screen telling other people things they must already know.  Andre falls in love with Katya the moment he sees her, because the writers are too lazy to build up an actual emotional bond between them.  And surely it’s just a coincidence that casting the same actress as both Asa and Katya also saved money for the film-makers!

The writing is incredibly contrived.  Asa’s awakening, for example: having happened across the cemetery, one of the doctors explains to the other that the soul of a witch is kept down by a stone cross above her coffin.  Moments later, he is attacked by a bat out of nowhere (no explanation for this is ever given, although the movie acknowledges that it’s mysterious) and smashes both the cross and some glass in trying to scare it off, thus allowing his blood to drip onto the corpse.  This sounds kind of forced when I write it out, and believe me, it’s even more so in the movie.

Not so bad but still pretty awkward is the discovery of the secret passage behind the fireplace.  This feels like it really ought to be the result of careful searching but instead it’s a complete accident when a curtain catches on fire. There isn’t even any hint of a supernatural explanation for this as there was for the bat.  It just happens, and by very good luck it is exactly what the characters need!  The movie also leaves open the question of how anybody used the secret passage without wrecking the painting that covers the lever.  Again, no explanation is ever offered.

Like Samson vs the Vampire Women, The Mask of Satan tells us that we are looking at events of the past that are destined to be repeated.  Asa even says as much to Katya – this young woman was born to aid Asa’s resurrection, and she has no purpose in the world outside of that.  This leads to the most annoying thing in the movie: Katya is a complete cipher.  Like Helen in Revenge of the Creature, you could replace her with an object and the story wouldn’t change.  She could be a mystical book or magic amulet, anything the villains want to get and the heroes therefore need to keep.

Only once is the possibility raised of Katya having a life outside the movie: when Asa taunts her by telling her that Andre’s love for her could have saved her.  Even as a hypothetical free woman, Katya is still a possession, a thing – she can belong to Asa, or to Andre.  She cannot save herself because she has no will of her own.

In spite of this statement, Andre isn’t even the one who saves Katya!  He manages to break Asa’s hypnotic hold on him when he realizes Katya is wearing a cross, which Asa would be unable to do, but then he just sits around weeping and being comforted by a priest while the torch-wielding villagers run in to seize Asa and burn her at the stake.  It is only with Asa’s death that Katya is truly ‘saved’.  Andre didn’t defeat the undead Kruvajan – the priest did that. He didn’t kill Igor – Katya’s brother Konstantin did that, before dying, himself.  We’re supposed to believe Andre is the hero of this movie when he did basically nothing for the entire running time!

So the protagonists of this movie are completely useless, and don’t even have any romantic chemistry – hence the ridiculous music that always accompanies Katya, trying to make up the lack.  That doesn’t have to kill a movie.  One of my favourite old horror movies, Countess Dracula, has useless heroes, and I still enjoy it very much because the villains of that story are very compelling.  Likewise with most of Hammer’s Frankenstein movies, dominated by Peter Cushing’s doctor while the so-called ‘heroes’ merely revolve around him.  But the villains of The Mask of Satan aren’t particularly interesting, either.  Igor has nothing to him.  He wanders around looking like Vlad the Impaler and doing Asa’s bidding, but he has no personality.  Maybe this is intentional because he’s her zombie slave.  Asa herself does some monologuing, but is never particularly intimidating, possibly because she spends most of the movie lying flat on her back in a crypt while other people do her bidding.

The Mask of Satan presents women in general as very passive creatures.  Katya is a helpless victim, and even Asa, who ought to be the driving force of evil, sits around and lets others do her work. While Katya obeys orders, Asa gives them, which is supposed to establish her as evil by reminding us that women aren’t supposed to be in charge of anything.  The only other female characters with speaking roles are the milkmaid, who exists to passively watch some evil goings-on and then report them to the male characters, and her mother, a servant.  It is abundantly clear that the writers expect women to help the men and do as they’re told.

This is a pretty dull movie, all things considered. It launched the careers of both director Mario Bava and star Barbara Steele, but since he spent the rest of his career making Hercules movies and she went on to be in things like Nightmare Castle and The She-Beast (as distinct from the She-Creature), neither exactly became a name you’ll hear mentioned at the dinner table.  Despite some nice effects and effectively creepy moments, The Mask of Satan is not very engaging, egregiously sexist, and overall blandly forgettable.