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soft-october-night · 3 years

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The Love Interests in the Works of Jane Austen: An Assessment

This is an "extremely scientific" and "thoroughly researched" ranking based on personality, money, family and connections, and is a bit of a blend between the book characterizations and the film characterizations (and is in no way only based on my own opinions). Here we go, grouped by book but not much else.

Edmund Bertram: absolute trash. His family has treated you unbelievably shitty since day one and not only has he BARELY noticed, he ALSO has treated you shitty. Will fall in love with someone beautiful and fun and when she dumps him will come crawling to you for a rebound. His passion for you is so lackluster that even the esteemed author who wrote about it barely spared a paragraph on your relationship. Has a job but only because his dad owns the land the church is built on. You’ll gain no connections or family by marrying him, since he’s literally your cousin. 0/10

Henry Crawford: There IS such thing as too much fun, and that is never clearer than in this man, who will try to seduce you as a game, freak out when his middling overtures don’t work and then try and seduce you “for really real” this time. You will definitely move up in the world if you marry him, and if you play your cards right it seems like his sister is also just REALLY into you, so see how that goes. Life will be pretty okay until you find him in bed with one (or more, who knows) of your relations. 3/10, 8/10 if you’re into that

John Willoughby: Will be like something out of a romance novel, you’re thinking he’s going to propose and then he just fucking ghosts you and embarrasses the fuck out of you at a party by acting like he doesn’t know you. Somehow marry him (congrats on the inheritance you must have, btw) and get ready to take a backseat to the whims of his aunt for as long as she lives. 1/10, at least you get to live in a nice house.

Edward Ferrars: Oh Edward. He’s a bit of a mess, isn’t he? Super kind, your family loves him, he made a bunch of stupid decisions in his youth that are coming back to bite him in the ass. He is loyal to an absolute fault, but you luck out when his fiance turns out to be a bit of a gold digger and dumps him when his mom disowns him. He doesn’t have a job and neither do you, but his family doesn’t wanna speak to him (lucky you!) and you’ll be happy and poor together if you two can work on your communication skills. 7/10.

Colonel Brandon: He’s got a nice house, the respect of his friends and the community, and he has a LOT of passion. He’ll give your sister’s penniless husband a job, dramatically rescue you from a rainstorm, make sure his dead girlfriend’s daughter is happy and taken care of even after your ex fucks HER over too, and is all around a pretty decent guy. Just. Uh. Maybe, kinda, sorta, needs to go after women his own age and is probably with you because you remind him of his dead girlfriend. 5/10 with the wildly inappropriate age gap, 9/10 without it.

Mr. Wickham: Please don’t. He’s a thirsty bitch who lives for drama and you think he’s fun until you find out he tried to sleep with one teenage girl and is making eyes at your fifteen year old sister behind your back. Marry him (through the grace of mysterious benefactors, cause he ain’t marrying anyone unless he’s paid the right price) and get ready for a life of being surrounded by military men in the north of England while your husband tries to fuck everything that moves. Work that out somehow with him and you might actually be happy. 0/10.

Mr. Bingley: He is a softboi who will do literally anything his friends tell him to do. He is SUPER rich, and marrying him will throw your sister’s into the path of other rich men and he is REALLY into you, but get ready to be sucking up to his sisters for literally the rest of your life. Unless he can ship Miss Bingley off to live with Mrs. Hurst, have fun trying to wage a war of barely concealed insults over the breakfast table every morning, and if you’re marrying Bingley I’m sorry but that is a war you just cannot win. He doesn’t have a job but he does have five thousand a year, and neither of you can manage money. You’ll love simply and deeply and be happy as any two can be. 8/10.

Mr. Collins: Last resort to rescue yourself from a life of being a burden to your parents until they die and then having to become a governess or something. Has a job but never shuts up about his boss. You will have to rearrange everything in your house according to his boss’ will. 2/10

Mr. Darcy: Is a anxious disaster who doesn’t know how to talk to girls at parties and needs to learn how say no to going out when he’s just not feeling it. He doesn’t have a job because he’s a landlord; he owns half of Derbyshire and has ten thousand a year, but turns out that all of that money and land can’t buy tact or charisma. Doesn’t know how to flirt and thinks he’s doing a great job (he’s not). He’ll propose to you out of the fucking blue one day by insulting literally everything about you, but don’t worry! Reading his letter unlocks Darcy 2.0. This patched version gives him humility, a personality, and he WILL gain the ability to rescue your family from utter ruin. Marry him and enjoy a life of luxury and witty ripostes, but beware! You ARE going to have to deal with Lady Catherine until the day she dies, not to mention Caroline Bingley’s barely concealed contempt every time you meet in polite company. Darcy 1.0 3/10, Darcy 2.0 8/10.

Captain Wentworth: Absolutely top tier. Has a job, has earned everything he has, including a fortune and the respect of his peers, superiors, and subordinates. His sister and her husband are practically the only happily older married couple you know, his friends are super fun and nice (even the dour one with all the poetry knows how to have a polite conversation). If you dumped him ten years ago on the advice of your almost comically shitty family yeah, he’s going to hold a grudge, but he WILL NEVER STOP LOVING YOU and the MOMENT he gets over his pride will do everything and anything in his power (including leaping the bounds of propriety!) to win you back. Based on his love, money, and connections you should RUN, not walk, into his arms TODAY and allow him to rescue you from your family and whisk you off to see the world on his ship, at least until Napoleon busts out of Elba. 12/10

Mr. Eliot: Will lose all your old schoolfriend’s husband’s money in a bad deal, has debts out the ass, might be trying to get with either you or the woman your dad has been flirting with for the last few years, you’re not sure. Is totally ruining the rekindling relationship you’re trying to get going with your far superior ex. He wants the land and title your dad has and will stop at nothing to get it. Marry him and you can move back into your old house (maybe? it’s a little unclear what with all the debts) but have every single cent your mother left you immediately put into some dumbass scheme. 1/10

Henry Tilney: another softboi who just wants to act in the school play while his dad and brother plan to ship him off to military school and berate him for not joining the football team. Bring him shopping with you to pick out dresses, spend long nights over tea chatting about books. Has a job, but again, only because his dad owns the land the church is on. Loves you even though you have some very strange ideas about his house, and will forgive you when he realizes you thought his dad either murdered or imprisoned his mom. If he can find the courage to tell his dad to fuck off and let him live his own life, expect a long, happy marriage of snuggling together in a window seat somewhere, sipping tea and reading. 9/10

John Thorpe: Trash bastard man. Peaked in whatever equivalent of high school he had. Shitty and rude to everyone, would post racist memes on facebook and start fights if he could, all while being shitty and manipulative and CREEPILY possessive of you. -2/10

Robert Martin: A sweet himbo farmer who just wants to love and worship you. He has a job, is pretty rich, and while his connections may not be above his class, he’s an earnest boy who wants to take care of you and be taken care of in turn. Marry him the first time, absolutely do NOT let your friend influence you against him, because who KNOWS if you will get a second proposal! (You will, he likes you THAT much.) Marry him and enjoy a sweet, simple life of exactly zero drama (unless your friend is around). 7/10

Mr. Elton: Trifling gold digging trash who doesn’t know what the word no means. Do not marry, unless you want to be censured by decent, hardworking people -1/10

Frank Churchill: Knows how to have fun, but you know there’s something more going on. He won’t let you see his letters, he sends out secret notes, then he smiles and tells you that everything is totally a okay. Another boy with ANOTHER overbearing aunt, only this one doesn’t know how to say no. Marry him if you’ve got the money, but he will always be longing after the poor girl next door that auntie wouldn’t let him married, and would have cheated on you already if she was into it. 3/10

Mr. Knightly: He’s your brother in law and you’ve known him almost your whole life, so that’s a little sus, but he is also the ONLY person in your entire life who knows how to tell you no (and you really, REALLY need to be told no sometimes.) He is extremely wealthy, but more importantly he’s kind and caring about people who are considered “beneath” him. He will break his weird no dancing rule to dance with your shy friend, he will ream you out for being shitty to unwed spinsters who value your opinion, and somehow has the correct read on everyone all the time. You will gain no connections by marrying him, since the two of you already have the exact same connections anyway, but the two of you should be content in a test of wills that will last a lifetime. You’ll be very happy as long as he doesn’t get super pedantic and start correcting you about everything. 7/10

#jane austen #pride and prejudice #persuasion #sense and sensibility #emma #mansfield park #northanger abbey #mr darcy #captain wentworth

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morethanaprincess-a · 3 years

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@somnium-delicata said: ❝ let me have the gun ❞ (Francis)

My muse has a gun in their hand. Send me ❝ LET ME HAVE THE GUN ❞ for your muse to carefully take the gun out of their hand and attempt to calm them down.

"Lord Francis?" Sonia asked, now very puzzled. The shot from the rifle still seemed to echo in her ears after months of not taking part in the sport. A country house party well outside of the busy English cities had come as welcome respite for Princess Sonia, who after smog-filled streets and glittering palaces was in need of something a little slower, a little more relaxing, a little more like the England she'd read about in novels. Like Jane Austen, Ann Radcliffe, and the Bronte sisters before her, she now joined an assortment of British nobles for a weeklong soiree, complete with outdoor sports and pursuits during the day and elegant dinners at night.

That day, it had been decided, would be the day of the grouse shoot and Sonia, excited to participate, had dressed early and bypassed breakfast entirely in order to get a spot with a proper loader, well in view of where the grouse would eventually fly. Dressed in her tweed skirt suit, the man who had been assigned to the position had seemed downright baffled to see her, especially when her Ladies maid trailed behind, toting several rifles from the Novoselic Royal Family's collection. Now, she could add Francis to the mix of confused members of the party as he gently took her own gun from her hands.

"I'm sorry, did you wish to shoot as well? I don't mind lending you my guns and loader if so. I daresay this one is lucky, as I've just shot my first bird of the day," She beamed, releasing it from her grip. "It's been months since I've had any proper practice so I'm rather pleased!"

What wasn't proper, though Sonia didn't know it, was that women were barred from participating in the sport in Britain. They were deemed appropriate spectators, to provide words of moral support and polite conversation to the man shooting, but not to wield a gun themselves no matter if they were the daughter of a member of peerage, a princess, or a queen. The rules were different in Novoselic, or at least different for the Royal Family whose princess was poised to inherit the country upon her father's death.

"It's strange," She continued, as her maid curtsied and the loader pleaded with his eyes in Francis's direction, desperate not to be reprimanded for the foreign princess's actions. "Everyone seems rather ruffled about it. I thought it would be a lovely start in arranging our lunch or dinner for today. After all, it is only right we eat what we kill."

#more-than-a-princess answered #somnium-delicata #(Muse has a gun meme)#Non-Despair AU: Edwardian verse #(I hope this works! It's not really angsty)#(More historical-based and Sonia committing a society faux-pas)#(She's foreign and royalty so she has an excuse!)

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

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Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Four; Acquaintances.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Nothing much to trigger in this chapter - just as the title suggests, a swooning moment or two perhaps-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

The sky remained hard. Resolutely letting snow sift from the thick great heavens, like icing sugar drifting down. The ground also continued to be frosty hard and scattered with patches of hidden silvery ice.

No sooner than the sun had risen over the tumbling flat frosty vista of Hampshire hills and frost crusted meadows, than Iris is up, and going about her daily chores all in the life of a gently bred - yet unwed- daughter, of fairly considerable means.

She takes food parcels to the poor. Calls on sick relatives or companions for tea. Pays calls. Fetched supplies for cook from the butchers or the grocers, or the fishmongers in town.

When one of the maids is ill, or is suffering a passing heartbreak until the next suitor comes along, Iris is the one to step into the void and fulfil their tasks. She collects the eggs from the chickens at the farm, or makes the ailing girl a hot milk posset or a cup of hot chocolate to cheer them.

It seemed like every other week their maids, Meg and Julia, seemed to go getting their hearts broken. Some farm hand. Or the boy from the butchers shop. The milliners son, or the strong handsome one who works in the drapers shop. As ever; Iris steps into the fray when - another - devastating crisis comes their way. She helps cook in the kitchen with supper. Or she helps out with idle cleaning around the house. Or see’s to the chores on the farm.

This morning is no different. Meg took to her bed with an ailing heart of the most acute kind. For the boy she fancies had become engaged to another girl. Iris brings her a cup of chocolate after breakfast and lends her a handkerchief and a shoulder so she can have a good long cry about it.

So household tasks fall onto her today. Fetching in what cook needed from market for supper. Even though she’d have liked to have spent a morning reading her book, or helping Julia get on top of the household washing. She’s wanted to take down the parlour curtains and give them a good scrub, for weeks now.

Or today she had ideally wanted to lend Flora and Posy a hand in drying some flowers, and french lavender and roses. For perfumes and bathing oils. They had to use their home grown stock from the gardens carefully. It was a long winter. And the convenience of summer blooms are far off yet. Dried flowers cost a pretty penny up the market.

Her duties are endless. She’s got calls to pay. Off to the butchers to buy sweet meats and game for the jugged hare cook is making tonight. She needs to buy beeswax candles and salt, and some more soaps.

And Posy and Flora are allowed to purchase two new ribbons each. They’ll walk into the village with her. No doubt nattering all the way there about what colours they want. And all the way back that they should’ve chosen different ones.

Iris steps outside in her wintry best and her cracked leather boots. Two pairs of wool stockings this time. Her navy blue wool pelisse over a thick white cotton dress. For good measure, she puts a bonnet on to keep her ears warm, and wraps a gold embroidered shawl around her shoulders.

Posy and Flora are trussed up as if they’re off to go personally meet the Prince Regent. Flora is in her gold pelisse with her pink dress under. And Posy had her powder blue coat over her mint green dress. They’re both wearing bonnets that they made up themselves. Their hats staggering under the weight of ribbons and cloth and trims and flounces.

Iris’s was far simpler - No fuss. No trims. A gold straw bonnet with grey ribbon tied under her chin.

Iris has to chide Posy, when they step out of doors, for forgetting to wear her gloves. She insists she hasn’t a decent pair and slips back into the house to go up to Iris’s room to conveniently borrow her grey rabbit fur lined gloves. Making her elder sister roll her eyes. The plot was clear.

They had a heavy basket each to carry. Some old granary loaves, soused herring, and some jars of Jam from their kitchens to go to the poor. They’re not even at the end of the drive and Flora is whinging about the weight of her basket. Iris heaves a sigh and grabs it off her.

She trudges behind them. Both arms carrying heavy baskets.

Her and Posy link arms, giggling, walking along merrily, animated and discussing last nights ball. Or, more accurately; making sport of the people who’d attended.

“Did you see that awful Lavender gown Jane Penwell had on?”

“I thought it suited her very ill indeed.”

“And did you hear about Lawrence Fisher? Apparently he’s now to be courting Lucy Miller.”

“I cannot stand her. Last night she was so boastful about the lace trim on her dress. She’s vile. And I haven’t had any new lace on my dress for over a year! Not since last summer. I’m sure she does it deliberately, just to vex me.”

“You are far prettier than Lucy Miller. She has ten million freckles and no conversation at all. She’s a pale ugly little thing.” Posy’s insisting fiercely to her younger sister.

Iris is amused by the sheer frailty of their worries.

“And besides, Mama said she had a letter from Mrs Thornby today, and apparently Lord Ren and Iris were the talk of the ball all night, last eve.” Flora says cheekily.

Turning over her shoulder to scrutinise her sister with a smug grin that flashes her straight little row of teeth.

Iris rolled her eyes. Strongly suspecting that as of now, her and Lord Ren would be gossiped about in front parlours for weeks. This was a sleepy country village with little amusement and not much variety to sustain it.

Mama’s and girls of the Ton would fall on the new shred of tittle-tattle like wolves.

“He left the ball last night without talking to any other girl, mama said.” Posy explains.

“The poor man probably didn’t have time enough to get through all the desperate Hampshire girls, eagerly throwing themselves at him to make an acquaintance.” Iris thinks aloud.

They walk up Westwell’s frosted drive and out onto the snowy lanes that cut through quaint countryside and woods.

The golden sun is in its early rising, striping ribbons of thick satin gold through the trees. The ruddy browns and ash greys and ochre coppery rusts of the Turner-esque English countryside. Of fields and hedgerows and treetops. The grass is no longer green. It’s a musty white. And that same cloying powder clings onto the dead taupe leaves and branches of every tree. The air is bitter to breathe in.

Iris takes a deep lungful of it, and its like a chest full of sharp pins. Needling at her lips and her neck. She should’ve thought to employ a wool scarf. As it is she can only tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Tucking the heavy baskets into to dig deeper into her elbows. The frost numbs her feet, and sneaks up her skirts and snatched cruelly at her legs.

She clenched her numb fingers, scrunching and unscrunching them up in her much too thin gloves.

Posy and Flora continue their giggling and swapping tidbits of gossip about Lord Ren.

“You know he didn’t even dance with anyone!”

“A great sin, I’m sure. Punishable by death.” Iris thinks to herself under her breath.

“He probably didn’t have time-“ Posy remarks.

“Or he doesn’t know how.” Flora supposed.

“A man that lofty, of course he can dance. Maybe he prefers not too.”

“Maybe he has a false leg, or, or a war wound!”

Iris rather wishes her ears were purely ornamental by this point.

Give me a pair of vestigial ears anytime you wish. She idly prays. Turning her eyes skywards.

“Maybe he’s shy-“ Flora squeaks. Posy clasps her hand over her mouth and laughs so loudly it startles the chaffinches out the trees.

“I don’t think he can afford to blend into the wallpaper with a stature like that.” Flora grins.

“His shoulders were twice the width of me.” Posy says dreamily.

“Did he have soft lips Iris? For you must’ve felt them through your gloves... Were they heavenly?” Flora demands to know. Both sisters walking in step alongside her now.

She side eyes them. “That is not a proper thing to discuss. And well you know it Flora Jane Ashton.” Iris insists. Concealing her secrets to herself.

She wasn’t telling her sisters how her whole body burst into shivers popping and skipping up her spine. How his touch made her skin feel like it was dancing of its own accord. Free from her body. She shivered yet she was blushing hot.

His lips were the softest, sweetest things that had ever come into contact with her body.

Her whole arm felt dizzy afterwards. It wasn’t possible. But that’s how it felt. Hours after she was still rubbing the patch where his lips had lain on her satin gloves.

When she got home after the ball, she peeled her glove off and looked at her hand.

It still looked ordinary. Her skin wasn’t red or marked - but it felt like it should be. It felt as if something utterly astounding had happened to her.

The memory of his eyes gazing their arrow-striking glare into her own haunted her head all night long. Swam behind her closed eyelids in her sleep. Those opulent piercing eyes.

“We won’t tell a soul.” Posy promises

“Oh, look. Here is the Barton’s cottage. Flora pass me the ointment for Mr Barton.” Iris demands.

Seeing the little boxy cottage coming into view. Roof thick with iced thatch. Walls butter yellow. With fat pink sickly rose vines creeping up the walls. Iris sees the chimney is smoking. They must be home keeping warm on this frigid morning. Acrid woodsmoke from the house drifts across the woods.

They deliver the ointment into Mrs Barton’s hand. Along with some jam, a loaf, and pickled goods to see them through the wintry cold week. They were a frail elderly couple after all. And Iris likes helping people. She always had. Her mother always insisted she’d been cursed with an unshakable vein of kindness.

Which often meant as a child she was forever taking in birds wounded falling out their nests in the gardens. Leaving carrots out for the wild rabbits. Seeds for the birds. Feed for the little monk-jack deers. She shared all her dolls as a girl. Forever saw to caring for the people and creatures which surround her. She visits the infirm with medicine. Reads to the lonely old matrons who’d lost all the grandchildren of their own.

Now she’s grown that inclination hasn’t left her. She likes making sure none of the infirm elderly, or the more impoverished friends of her acquaintance suffer through the bitter cold climes. They never have to struggle alone. Iris is a balm to the hurting. She gives what she can. And is a friend to everyone kind enough to recognise it.

Before long, the trio of ladies dispense their generosity upon those who need it. Giving what sustenance and leftovers they can spare. It’s not much really- when all is said and done. But it’s helping in any little way possible. And that’s what matters.

They come eventually into Pembleton high street. The every busy and jagged row of higgledy Tudor houses. Separated by a lane of sticky brown mud where horses hooves and carts churn up the dirt. Carts and stalls line the streets. Modest shopfronts sell their wares. The air is full up of woodsmoke and the scent of roasting nuts from the brazier on the stand nearby.

Iris loses Posy and Flora very quickly to the haberdashers, where the ribbons hang from great silken trails in racks from the ceiling. Every colour Imaginable.

She sees them fussing over Belgian lace and leaves them be. She steps into the butchers for Cooks desired hare and sweet meats. She buys the candles, salt and the paper wrapped little cakes of soaps from Mr Milton’s shop next door.

She crosses the street to the grocers. Fills her basket with green leeks, onions, potatoes and carrots. She tucks everything in her basket, around the poor lamented hare with its fur still on, and covers it with a patterned linen cloth.

She has a shilling spare- she wanders over to Mr. Greeley. The proud proprietor of the roasted nuts stall. She buys a bag of warm, buttery sweet chestnuts.

Hides them from Posy and Flora. This was her one little indulgence for today. She sneaks one of the hot things onto her tongue and savours it.

She strides back up the line of shop windows. Looking and listening to the clack and bustle of the street behind her. Clopping hooves, rattling carts, ponies and traps clunking along the high street. Friends and acquaintances stopped to gossip and chat in the street. Young and old. Of every walk of life.

She looks in the drapers window. The reflection off the glass, showed her a watery image of a gaggle of matronly mamas stood behind her across the street, loudly gossiping in her direction. Pointing and gesturing toward her.

She rolls her eyes in huffing annoyance.

She wasn’t enjoying being the inconstant centre of attention. Open to such censure and fascination in odes to the Hearst’s ball last night.

Also in odes to the mysterious new stranger to these shores, too. The dark, dashing, and taciturn Lord Ren.

Every wet-behind-the-ears girl in all of Hampshire was busy envisioning their swirled initials joined with his in their embroidery. A big handsome stranger from far off lands. It was the precursor to the stuff of romance from drippy novels. A harbinger of a great love story.

Maybe not hers. Lord Ren may have kissed her hand and called her handsome. But so have countless other rich suitors, and then two months later them and their pretty blonde heiress of ten thousand pounds, are lavishly married and installed in a house in Brunswick square. She’s sure he’ll eventually find some far more moneyed girl to march into matrimony.

It won’t be her- not her turn to pick out her wedding clothes. It never is.

She lets the whispers and doubts about her, flourish from unimportant mouths.

She never cared for the savagery of society. She won’t start being missish about it all, now. It won’t serve her any purpose-

She can only hope the next scandal or engagement or elopement, or any other source of fascination to the bored inhabitants of this county, comes flooding in quick to snatch away all unhealthy - and rather undue - interest in her.

She waits outside the haberdashers for her pair of silly sisters. They eventually come out. Comparing their new ribbons with each other’s. Flora has a pink, Posy has some frothy white lace.

Posy hands Iris a teal silk ribbon. “For your hair. It would become you so well. And it will go with your eyes.” She insists.

Iris smiles. Wrapping the long length of satin around her grey glove. It was very pretty.

“Pray how did you afford this?” Iris narrows her eyes in smiling suspicion at the pair of them.

“I saved up my allowance.” Posy insists plainly. Iris continues her look. She tilts her chin down a notch. Let’s her eyes harden to steel. Arched her muddy shaped brows.

“...And the haberdasher’s son is so very obliging.” Flora beams. The younger Ashton’s giggle together knowingly.

Iris sighs again. Strongly suspecting she could safely boast that she had two of the silliest siblings in the entire country. Hell, in the entire British Empire.

“Let’s take our leave shall we...” Iris says. Slowly heading away. Down the street in the opposite direction they came. It took them home down on the woodland path.

She picks up her pristine white skirts and steps over the mud. Baskets heavy with her goods now thunking against her hip as they walk. One filled with meat. The other with candles and potatoes and other luxuries for supper.

Posy and Flora trail behind her. Discussing how best to use their ribbons. On bonnets or around the waistline of their favourite dresses. Iris drowns them out and listens to the crunch of her feet on the frost. The silver wisp of her breath as its whisked away up into the reach of the sky. She likes how sun glimmers off frost like sparkles and diamonds and gems. Like something fine and rich.

They just come across a curve in the lane. Leading through an open meadow full of frosted grass and withered wildflowers. When a thundering sound gallops into being, hitting the hard ground in succession from beyond the bend.

Iris looks up, attention captured swiftly by the beast of a large rider atop a colossal shimmering black horse, moving quick towards where they are walking along the quiet little lane. The peace shattered by the horses hooves pounding the earth.

A great hulking beast of a man sits astride it. Who indeed almost matches the brutally-enormous muscled intensity of the creature he rides.

Lord Ren.

Iris startled and went to move aside. But he sees them and is already slowing the horse. She draws a deep breath and watches as he tugs the reins to reel in his galloping mount. Reducing to a canter, a trot and then to a slow stop. Hooves churning up frost and spitting wet and crushed muddy grass, under its enormous stomping treads.

The sun in fiercely shining behind him. So Iris can only make out the silhouette at first. There’s no mistaking that singular body for another man. The primal size and bulk of him is unmistakable.

But then he shifts forwards on his horse as it stops. Lumbering towards them all. And that winter sun shines amber over his shoulder and she’s met with the full face of the handsome man she became acquainted with yesterday. His breath and that of his horses turn to silver smoke in the cold air

He passes the strops of its black reins into one gloved leather hand. His attire not much changed since yesterday. Still all black. The shining calf riding boots. The breeches that sit entirely too snug to the sturdy trunks of his legs and hips. The tailored black wool coat. White shirt tied with an elaborately knotted wine coloured cravat. Diamond pin studded central into the tie of the cloth.

His hair is free and rumpled by the wind. Desirable and untamed. Wild. He wears no top hat on his head like most gentlemen of civility did, when out riding.

Something about that lack of full dress she admires. Maybe he likes to feel the wind tangle his hair. The suns kiss his pale skin. The wind stinging at his cheeks. Likes galloping across the terrain at full speed on his mammoth sized beast of a horse.

“Good morning ladies.” He nods to them all. Still seated on his horse.

“Miss Ashton.” He smiles directly down at Iris as his horse shifts and stomps and nibbles the dewy wet grass below.

She ducks her head and curtseys. “Good morning. Your Lordship.” She says politely. Dwarfed by his horses shadow.

He holds her gaze for a second and smiles. Eyes more opulent charcoal in their shade than ever, this morning. He even had a kiss of pink colour in his cheeks. He looks healthy. Less alabaster pale. She strongly suspects its because of the icy wind stinging his cheeks as he rode.

He unlatched his right boot from the stirrup and smoothly swings himself off the horse. Grips the pommel at the front of the black saddle and swings himself down. Feet land to earth with a crunching thud. Frost and grass crushed underfoot.

His long wool riding coat flaps at his knees. Billowing open at his chest to show just his white shirt beneath it. Such thin layers. He must’ve been freezing.

“If I may be so bold, Miss Ashton, allow me to see you along to your intended destination?” He asks kindly. One big hand patting the solid flank of his horses shoulder when it huffs at his dismounting.

Iris’s cheeks go flaming red. She’s sure of it. Throat dry she manages to answer.

“Oh. Forgive my impertinence Lord Ren. But I don’t wish to take you out of your way. Only we are heading in the opposite direction to your path.”

“With your permission. I should like to walk with you. I’ve done a sufficient amount of riding for this morning.” He tells her.

Iris smiles. Flattered that he’d rearrange his ride, just to see her safely home. Just to walk with her for a moment or two.

Posy digs a sharp elbow into Flora’s ribs. Which jolts the youngest into speaking. “Iris. We were just going up the lane here to call on Charlotte Morris.”

Iris gazes pointedly at Flora with a piercing state that could’ve rivalled a dressmakers needle. “How remiss of you not to bring it up until now...” Iris glares a little.

“Should you mind?” Posy asks. Fluttering her lashes.

“Of course not.” Iris says flatly. “Mind the hour home and do for heavens sake be sensible.”

“We are the very vision of sensibility.” Flora beams.

Iris quirks a wry brow at the both of them. Teeth grit.

The two most transparent pests on the planet. Their plot was clear as day- One of sneaking away and leaving their elder sister unchaperoned and alone with him.

They turn away giggling and make for the little lane opposite. Gabbling and whispering all the way. Loud giggles follow them like fluttering birdsong.

When she turns back to Lord Ren he looks slightly amused. She blushes.

“I feel I ought offer an apology, your lordship. They are- most puerile and trying at times.” Iris offers as she shifts to step nearer to where he is.

He smiles gently. “They are young girls who fancy themselves cunning, I wager. No apology is necessary for that.” He declares affably. Patting his horses neck.

He brings the big horse around. Holding the gathered reins in his left hand. He leads his gigantic horse around with a click of his tongue and some soft words in urging Bavarian. The big creature follows his lead. She moves and alters the heavy baskets on her arms.

He sees this. Kylo frowns at the heavy weights at both her elbows. She shouldn’t be tasked with fetching and carrying like a damned pack horse. He extends a hand. “Allow me, Miss Ashton.”

“Oh, no it’s- I couldn’t.” By the time her protestations die on her lips. He has one basket in one hand, the other, he tied the handle to a saddle bag strap on his horse. Lays it rest against the saddle.

She’s mortified that a Lord offers to carry her basket for her.

“That’s truly a magnificent horse. I’ve never seen the like before.” She says. The steeds eyes glitter as if it knows it’s being discussed. “What’s his name?” She asks rummaging in her basket he holds. Hand slipped under the cloth.

“Erland.” Kylo says. The horses ears twitch.

“Erland. A majestic name. For a majestic beast.” She smiles at him.

She steps up to the horse and strokes her gloved hand down the flat bone between his eyes, leading down to his snout. Scents of hay and oats and animal sweat pour musky off his coat.

“He’s a lovely animal.” She says. Stroking his solid flank.

“Percheron. He’s a French draft horse. His breed originated in the Huisne valley in western France.” Lord Ren tells her.

“Bred for use as war horses, and pulling stagecoaches. This one has a fair mount of Arabian blood in him too. Makes him far too proud and headstrong.” He announces. Erland flicks his swishing tail at his owner. Snorting at him.

“I bought him with me from Bavaria. He’s the best riding horse I’ve had for a while. Stubborn temperament.” He offers. He watches her stroke his head. Touch the soft spot behind his ears.

“You like animals, Miss Ashton.” He states.

Most girls, as far as he’s aware, deigned horses as smelly, ugly creatures, whose only purpose was beneath them. Or to pull their carriages. She seemed to like this big equine creature very much.

“I do. Especially ones who are as beautiful as him.”

“Careful. Or else that flattery will shoot right to his ego.” He warns lightly.

She smiles.

Erland’s hairy velveteen muzzle cheekily nudges at her shoulder for more affection. He clearly likes her touch. Kylo tugs on his reins and frowns at him.

“Benehmen Sie sich.” Kylo rumbles in a firm Bavarian command at his horse. Calling him back. Telling him to be good. Rubbing his stocky shoulder. The round strong bones of him and the hot silk of his coat underneath his gloved palm.

She smiles. Lets the carrot she fetched from her basket, sit in the flat cradle of her gloved palm. She offers it to Erland, who snuffles it up and crunches on it. Breaking the frail vegetables skin with his big teeth. Munching it all down. Nuzzles her for more when he’s done.

He snorts when Kylo speaks up. “Anymore and you’ll get fat. You great beast.” He assures his horse in that soft foreign dialect. Shoving his snout into Miss Ashton’s hand for yet more treats. Erland’s head was so big and his power so strong, he could’ve very realistically knocked her over with one push.

She steps back and takes her place alongside a Lord Ren so they can continue in their walk. He’s a busy man. She doesn’t wish to hold him up. They fall into step easy. Her on Kylo’s left, Erland in his big lumbering enormity on Kylo’s right. His master has his right hand holding his stallions reins. The other easily carries her basket for her.

“Did you enjoy your introduction into Hampshire society, Your lordship?” Iris can’t help but ask him with mirth creeping into her voice and on her smile.

He turns his head to look at her. “The sheer amount of handsome and accomplished young ladies hereabouts is staggering.” He comments with dry humour. “I wonder if this isn’t the most accomplished county in all of England.” He states.

Iris finds herself smiling. Every desperate mother worth her salt last night would be crowing her daughters praise to high heaven. Enough to induce the possibility that her very accomplished, pretty and upstanding daughter might have a chance at landing him.

“Mothers can be so very domineering when the subject of marriage arises.” Iris promises. Looking down to step over a particularly frosty puddle.

Kylo looks across at her. Watches her profile. Along the curve of her nose and the swell of her smiling lips. It occurred to him then, that she didn’t know of her beauty. She was not aware of its potency. He could sense it; this was a girl who overlooked her own worth and highly underestimated her attractiveness.

With her pebble-ash eyes shining in the marigold sun like that, sparkling as if made of moonstone gems, and her rosy smile so unguarded and free. She didn’t see her beauty then. Not the way he could. Didn’t see it lay in the kiss of pink in her cheeks or the merriment of her face. On the geniality of her laugh and smiles.

“I know I shouldn’t comment on such things. But I do feel so dearly for every new suitor who comes to this village. Every Mama and every daughter must veritably drown poor men with their female offspring.”

Kylo raises one brow. “Rest assured. I’m not a man so inclined to favour polite safe conversation.” He promises her. He doesn’t tiptoe around propriety.

“And I will admit I lost count of the young ladies I was introduced too last eve. My ears were quite ringing with names and sickly smiles by the end of the evening.” He confesses.

She smiles wide again. Looks across. “I do sometimes wish that the people here could look beyond the scope of their own ignorance. To look beyond the defining goal of matrimony.” She confesses.

“Why should a woman’s worth be tied onto who she weds? Can she not be her own person and find a man to suit that.” She avows. Letting her stalwart brain run away with her rather passionate mouth.

“That’s very forward thinking of you.” Kylo says to her with a kind smile. Her face falls. She’s inspired insult with that comment.

She’s flushing with embarrassment.

“Mother would faint if she heard me confess that to you. Do forgive me, for the impertinence of my tongue.” She begs. Face wrinkling into a worried frown.

“You have a mind. Miss Ashton.” Kylo says. “It’s entitled to make itself known.”

“I’m a gently bred, unmarried, woman. And the eldest daughter, Lord Ren. My mind should be silent at all times. And possessed only, night and day, by thoughts and longing for matrimony.” She says. Quoting one of her mother’s rants.

“Well. You have my word. I’m most blessedly glad it’s not.” He says. Turning to look deep into her eyes.

She seems curiously confused. “You are?”

“Indeed.” He answers plainly.

“It means you are the one woman in this entire county with whom I can conduct a refreshing conversation. One that doesn’t revolve around reminding me again and again, that I’m a rich man who desperately needs a wife.” He offers.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Iris says laughing. “Not often I happen find someone on the same page as myself.”

“English men may find your so called ‘impertinence’ intolerable, Miss Ashton. For they were raised to know no better. But I am not a English man. Where I came from, it is applauded that a woman might speak her mind and have judgements and executions of her own.” He supplies.

“Our way of life here must seem so strange and strict to an outsider.” She dares. The defining pinnacle of English country society was its savage nature, after all.

“I don’t see much of the society in Bavaria.” He explains. “I see to the welfare of tenants on my land. I go hunting every season to pass the time. I’m afraid I rarely indulge in attending parties and balls.” He tells.

“A castle must be an incredible home.” She guesses.

“Even so- it can be very limiting being confined to it in the cold dark winters. Very little company. Little to entertain. I found myself wanting a change of scene. I had looked for some land opportunity’s to enclose in over here. When Hellford became available. It seemed a good opportunity to travel. Sink my teeth into a new venture.” He smarts. Eyes darkly roaming over her face with that handsome smile.

She nods. “I quite understand.” Erland clops alongside them in the misty morning sunshine. Snorting breaths silver and wispy still in the biting air.

“What are the winters like in Bavaria?” She enquires.

He smiles. “Beautiful. But bitter.” He explains. “The snow can be deep. As tall as me some days when it falls.” She smiles at his description.

“The castle stands out of a tall pine forest. A lake and a river to the east. One of the biggest woods in the country. Full of wolves, boars, and deer. It’s quite a wilderness in its own right.”

“Goodness- wolves. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?” She frets.

Not as much as me. He thinks. Matter of fact, when he steps foot in that forest, he is the most bloodthirsty dangerous animal in it.

“The beasts respect the boundary of my castle. I respect the forest is theirs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” He tells her.

“Surrounded by wolves. You must feel very at home here too, then.” She jokes.

He laughs. “There’s something familiar I grant. Though the wolves back home don’t don lace caps and thrust all their daughters at me.”

She laughs at his remark. And suddenly, she goes spinning off course. Her worn boots slipping on a sneaky patch of frost and ice. No grip to their soles in this devilish cold. A yelp leaves her mouth as she skids. Blood flashing flushing hot and terrible suddenly. The shock of slipping stabbing at her stomach.

He acts quick. He lets go of Erland’s reins and steps that big form forwards and snatched one arm out to grab her. Slips back around her waist, cups the back of her hip, and yanks her tight to him to stop her falling.

She gasps and trembles as her vision spins, to be quickly halted by a sheer wall of cold, dark clad muscle. She barely registers where she is now.

Because she’s pressed right up into Lord Ren’s redoubtably firm chest. Her palms crushed flat on his lapels. His arm seizing her back and cupping her onto him to stop her slipping. She can feel under her coat how her breasts are crushed flat to him. Can feel his breathing heaving up and down, much like her own.

A shaky gasp leaves her mouth as she looks up, peering past the peak of her bonnet with flaming cheeks. Realising that they are slanted very close together. His face is right there, and he’s gazing down at her.

She’s in his arms. Buried into his chest. And it feels incredible. Such musculature and sheer masculine mass under her palms. Her head swims. He’s dizzying. Hypnotising.

Eyes as dark as burnt-ember molasses flecked with gold, and his lips look so invitingly pink ripe and soft- she curses at herself for that treacherous thought and her blush rises more. His wool coat and cologne nearly smacks her in the nose as she almost collided into his pectorals.

Kylo can hear her fluttering heartbeat. Like a racing preys pulse beating wild. Frail and fast, like a baby birds. A huge drift of her fragrance absolutely drowns him, pulls him under. Clary sage, French lavender and peppermint. Sweet and calming. Addictive. He wants to lean down and taste the salt of it off her neck...

It seems an eternity passes before he speaks.

“Are you hurt?” He asks. Making sure she didn’t turn one of her ankles. Or damage the bone

“T-Thankyou. I’m, I’m well.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry- I” She explains moving her hands down off his chest. He nearly swept her up off her feet. Now only her tiptoes brush the icy ground. The only part of her barely rooted to earth. Lost in those eyes.

Domineering, commanding, brutal, eyes. Eyes that had seen this world ten times over. But never gazed upon anything comparable to her-

Erland brings them both back down to earth. Snorting and fussing. Swishing his tail and nudging his nose at his masters shoulder.

Sense swims back through the fog of attraction and the heady bloom of lust. Kylo unleashes her back and her hip from his hold.

Quite liking the feel of her he accidentally - and literally - caught underneath her coat. The plump of her thighs and the shapely flesh of her hip and her bottom. There’s doubtless a figure to rival Venus herself, under this shapeless coat and thin dress. She slowly drags her hands off his chest and steps back. Avoiding the ice beneath her toes. Her gloves rasp on his fine wool coat.

“You fell. Miss Ashton. No need to be sorry for such a thing.” He tells her.

“You’ve a steady hand, Lord Ren.” She compliments. Thanking him further. He still held her basket in the arm that had not reached out to catch her. He looked as if he barely had to flex out an arm to catch her. Just twisted his body. His reflexes were sharp and cunning. As strong as he was.

He reached out and retook Erland’s reins.

They continue walking carefully along the little lane. For Westwell is just beyond the tree line now. It saddens her that she’ll be home soon.

Back to her daily chores. Back to scrubbing curtains, and helping cook roll pastry and mediating the silly shouting screeching arguments that Posy and Flora have over who gets to take turns to wear their favourite bonnet

She reflects how restoring it is to talk to someone so fully - without having to watch or guard her tongue. It’s even more enlightening to talk to someone such as him. Someone who, like her, feels like an outsider. Never fully fits in. And harbouring no desire too.

She feels her heart sink, morbid mournful and grey settling in her ribs, when they come to the meagre gateway along the short drive to Westwell. The twin stone pillars signifying the gateway were old and crusted with frosted moss.

Kylo calls Erland to halt. She pats the wonderful beasts strong shoulder in goodbye. He rubs the great velvet plain of black his forehead at her. Kylo untied her basket and handed it to her.

“I’d have no hesitation in seeing you to the door directly. But I fear your mother might see fault with our being left unchaperoned.” He disclosed. Giving her back the groaning full wicker basket with a clever grin.

She shivers when their hands brush. If she had any doubts in her attraction, that betraying little Judas of a tingle that thrashed her body, made her realise otherwise.

She likes him-

“Astute observation, your lordship. I Thankyou for your discretion.” She blushes. Hooking the baskets back on her arms. Adjusting the shawl where it had slipped down from her shoulders.

She looks down into her basket, and smiles. “A token of gratitude.” She explains before handing over the still warmed bag of chestnuts across to him.

He cradled them in his leather gloved hand. Appreciative of the gift. He rarely ate food. There wasn’t much need for it and it wasn’t the manna that’s sustained him. He had little joy in any human sustenance - apart from humans themselves.

When he did eat food, it was red meat that was still rare, juicy, and dripping blood. And he only drank sharp deep red wine.

He reaches over and took her hand. Once again dropping Erland’s reins. He took her dainty hand and brought it up and bows to kiss her palm.

He’s tired of satin and calfskin under his lips. He rather wanted to grasp a taste of her skin. Soon.

“Always a pleasure, Miss Ashton. I hope the experience of your company repeats itself shortly.” He compliments.

She smiles, apples of her cheeks creasing dimples with her widened smile. She nods politely and curtseys. “Your Lordship.” She curtseys gently. Bonnet tipping forwards. Criminally covering that beautiful face of hers.

She turns and he watches her walk up the pale lane to home. Sun striping through the trees onto her bleached linen white skirts. Bleached by sunshine. And softly scented of fresh cotton and French lavender.

Miss Ashton is made up of good intentions and possesses a giving heart as pure as gold. Pure. That’s his little dove all over-

He looks down in his hand and weighs the small bag of nuts she’d gifted him. He lifts it to his nose and inhales their scent. Buttery, sweet, burnt and acrid.

He tips his eyes back up to watch her. Thought creases up his brow. He’ll never know how it is to have such a virtue as a kind heart.

She was made up of honour and purity and softness. Doves feathers, lavender and rose petals. And he is made of cruelty. Of war and broken glass and shards of steel. He was made between ash and snow and a landscape soaking swimming festering in blood.

There’s no kindness in him. No mercy. Barely any love in him either.

He cares little for humans. After he was turned. That’s just how he became. They became meaningless specs of nothing to him. She has no idea what he is- who he is- he’s sent entire scores and countries of men shrieking to their deaths and writhing in agony into hell, cursing his name on their lips.

And here she was handing him this little harmless gift, like he wasn’t one of the most fearsome beasts put on this earth.

She’s not far away when she turns back - just as he’s about to mount Erland to ride back to Hellford Park once more. He tucks her meaningful present into his coat pocket.

“Erland... Is that a Bavarian name?” She turns and asks curiously. A kind frown on the lintels of her eyebrows. She tilts her head curiously. Her grey eyes glitter innocently off the sun like honey poured onto slate.

She’s so innocent. And it strikes him so deeply right then. How much he admires that.

He hoists himself into the saddle using the pommel. Feet slipping in the stirrups. Hips resting back onto the cantle behind him.

“It is a Norse name.” He calls to her. Erland is whinnying excitedly. Stomping his hooves to get out to the open fields and get his blood pumping. Kylo can feel the excitement shivering through his stocky legs.

“What does it mean?” She seeks.

“In old Nordic tongue, I believe it means ‘Outsider.’” He tells her.

She smiles. “Well. I trust you both know you have atleast one friend in this Hampshire county.” She smiles.

“Good day, Lord Ren.” She beams brightly. She turns away and she’s already missing the gaze of those melting cocoa eyes appraising her warmly.

Her skin still thrashes from the memory of his touch. All over her skin is alive with the memory of that strength of his. His chest under her hands she’s never felt the like- he was as cold and solid as marble. Some Greek god manifested out of carved stone and come to life.

He turns Erland back onto the snowy road. Clicks his tongue and urges him to run with a sharp dig of his shoe into his side. He feels the ice and the wind sting his skin for all the ride home.

He thinks about her parting gift and her touch against his body for the rest of the day - truly he does. It’s moved him.

He hasn’t been moved so much by another being in all of his years.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren oc #vampire!kylo #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊#Lord Ren vibes ��#Draegan vibes 🥀#vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #lovestory #angst #slowest of slow burn #slow burn

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aziraphalesrarebooks · 4 years

Text

A Good Omens fic inspired by the confession scene in Emma by Jane Austen: "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”

Aziraphale whispers the words of Knightley’s confession in hopes it will be enough.

They’d gone out to dinner, or rather, Aziraphale had gone out to dinner only for Crowley to show up as he was being seated. These rare occasions were so special to him, being allowed in the demon’s presence, to bask in him. What they were doing was wrong, Aziraphale knew this all too well. Crowley was a demon, a creature who had turned against the Almighty and had fallen into the pits of hell as a result.

But, he was also the one being who held his heart. It was blasphemous, wrong and dangerous. An angel of the lord loving a foul creature of hell; despicable, but Crowley was anything but foul. He was charming, kind and curious.

Aziraphale had sobered up once Crowley had fallen asleep, head in his lap, cheek pressed firmly against his belly. With each exhale, his warm breath stirred him, seeped into him. Aziraphale’s left hand was curled in the demon’s fiery locks, combing through the length of hair as he read the lines of one of his favorite novels; Emma.

Crowley needed the rest, tired as he was. He’d been playing mother to little Warlock Dowling because the boy's actual mother refused to. He spent most of his time with the boy, feeding him and caring for him in a capacity Aziraphale had been surprised by. The child loved his nanny; it was so plain to see. More importantly, Crowley loved the child.

Aziraphale’s eyes roamed over the familiar pages, he’d always felt a strange kinship to Emma Woodhouse, likely because he too had found himself irrevocably in love with his best friend all the while he was clearly in love with someone else. He only wished his ending could be a happy one, but the angel knew it wasn't to be. They were incompatible, Heave and Hell would never stand for it.

He was nearing the end of the novel, this chapter had always caused him heartache. It gave him false hope, a sense of possibility that he knew would never come to fruition.

As he read the lines, he could almost pretend the voice was that of a demon. He stopped and chewed his lip thoughtfully and began to read aloud. Softly he spoke, just a whisper, allowing the words to run freely that he could not bring himself to say.

"I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of anything that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think."

Aziraphale glanced down at the demon, just to be sure he was truly asleep. Crowley sighed contently, shifting slightly, mouth agape in his sleep. Aziraphale continued:

"As a friend!"—repeated Mr. Knightley.—"Emma, that I fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?— I have gone too far already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer— Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?" He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.

Aziraphale felt his voice grow heavy with unshed emotion.

"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say 'No,' if it is to be said."— She could really say nothing.—"You are silent," he cried, with great animation; "absolutely silent! at present I ask no more."

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.

He glanced down once more at the sleeping demon, he inhaled, a deep steadying breath. He was surprised when he continued to read, that his voice was unwavering. With each word, a weight was lifted from him. Perhaps this would be enough, at least for now.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.—"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.— Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.— But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

Aziraphale paused as if he were waiting for a reply he knew wouldn’t come. His bravado lost, he swallowed then sent the book to its place on his shelf, unable to read it any longer.

He laid his head back against the cushion, reveling in the warm demon sleeping in his lap.

Aziraphale was surprised to find the next morning, that he was wrapped snugly in a heavy red and black blanket that smelled faintly of Crowley.

"Crowley?" he asked the empty shop. Aziraphale realized he was gone, he’d rather hoped they would get breakfast this morning before returning to the estate. He lingered, allowing his fingertips to brush over the ornate floral patterns decorating the fabric. He brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled; cedar and smoke, Crowley. It warmed him and brought a serene smile to his face. It was the small things Crowley did that made it difficult, that gave him hope Crowley could one day love him as dearly as he loved the demon.

Many years later, Aziraphale found himself being held tightly under the large apple tree in their garden. It hung heavy with fruit, ready for the picking. He thought it might be nice to bake a pie for dessert, perhaps with a little vanilla ice cream dolloped on top. He wiggled against the demon behind him, trying to find a position where his leg wouldn’t fall asleep as it was currently doing.

“’Ziraphale?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Do you remember the night I met you for ramen?”

He shook his head, “Which time?”

“Warlock was little, still in diapers actually. We went back to the shop to have a drink.”

Aziraphale stiffened, he remembered that night well. A flush began to creep up his cheeks and around his ears. “Oh, yes… I believe I do.”

Crowley chuckled warmly, “What was the book you were reading?”

“Oh!” he gasped, “You… you were awake?”

“Course I was, you were letting me be close to you and your fingers were divine.”

Aziraphale swallowed, “So…You-you heard me?”

Crowley sat up, tugging Aziraphale with him. “Yeah, I did. Gave me hope that one day you’d be mine,” he said softly.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, his pale skin a pretty shade of rose, “had I known you were awake…”

“I know, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

He nodded, “I do love you, Crowley.”

“I love you too, Aziraphale.”

Blockquotes are taken from Emma by Jane Austen.

#Good Omens fic #good omens #Ineffable Husbands #ineffable #Aziraphale #Crowley #they are idiots and I love them #Just look how much your demon loves you silly angel #Emma by Jane Austen

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stuck-on-your-heart · 4 years

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weird asks: 3, 9, 21, 28, 55, 76, 98

3. Bubblegum or cotton candy?

bubblegum loses its flavor too quickly and cotton candy is pretty and way more fun to eat, so i’m going with cotton candy. cotton candy flavored ice cream is my go-to bc I’m actually 12

9. favorite smell in the summer

I hope this isn’t weird, but I love the smell of coppertone baby sunscreen. something about it is so nostalgic and reminds me of going to the pool with my mom as a kid

21. obsession from childhood

I was very obsessed with Kim Possible as a kid. I had all her merch and memorized her cd and I thought she was the coolest girl in the whole world. my two best friends would play Kim Possible at recess every day (I was always Ron lmao)

28. five songs to describe you

this one was tough!

Mostly to Yourself by Noah Reid

Older by Ben Platt

CHAMPION by Bishop Briggs

Maybe IDK by John Bellion

Human by The Killers

55. favorite fairy tale

i’m going to say The Princess and the Pea because I had a fun pop-up book of this story as a kid :)

76. favorite potato food

breakfast: hash browns, lunch: tater tots, dinner: loaded mashed potatoes

i couldn’t possibly choose just one!!!

98. favorite historical era

Early 1800′s England because of the yearning and romanticism and Jane Austen

thank you so much for these!!! <3

| weird asks that say a lot |

#this was so fun!!!#feeling very nostalgic :)#kiashyel #ask

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honeycombtesseract · 5 years

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Could you please do the personality headcanon thing for 2p England?

// Someone asked this forever ago, but then I suddenly went to college. Whoops. Sorry! I’d love it if people sent in Hetalia related asks since this is the first and only one I’ve gotten! Thanks, Anonymous; you’re my biggest fan.

Assorted Personality Headcanons: 2p! England

2p! England // Oliver:

I know it’s been said a thousand times before, but this man loves to bake. He isn’t restricted to that though; at his heart, Oliver loves to create and surround himself with good, orderly things. Because of this, he dabbles in an unbelievably long list of crafts. He always sticks to baking as his first love, but he becomes infatuated with a new secondary craft every couple of weeks. He got hooked on macrame, but then he had a scrapbooking binge. Now he’s learning paper marbling, and next week, he’ll be embroidering. He picks up all of these things very quickly; he has very dextrous hands. He tends to stick to more delicate crafts that he can decorate his house with and give to people, and he stays away from scarier work like woodturning and metalworking.

Oliver is generally very upbeat and very in control of his daily life. He sticks to a schedule, going to sleep and waking up early every day. He waters his garden, makes an elaborate breakfast/lunch/dinner, visits neighbors and friends, cleans the house, goes to the store, volunteers at the soup kitchen, gives himself a break to do a craft, etc. etc., all on a very tight schedule. He always has to be doing something; idleness disturbs him a little bit.

He’s quite proud of anything he makes (he puts a lot of effort into everything and pays attention to the details). He went through a period of time where he entered his baking into competitions. It started out very fun and casual, but it eventually revealed that he has a secret competitive streak. He sort of lost his mind a little bit when a new baking expert came around and threatened to take his titles, which manifested in strained smiles and very, very subtle passive aggression (“Oh, is that how you make your buttercream? Interesting! That’s not how I do it…”) Think very sweet but easily threatened PTA mom. He promptly quit going to competitions because he doesn’t like it when he’s not himself.

Oliver really likes Victorian novels. He doesn’t read too much in general, and he doesn’t get too deep or reflective about these books; he just enjoys reading about high societé and tea time and romantic drama. He went to a Jane Austen reading club for a while, but he thought the others took it too seriously.

His alcohol tolerance is incredibly low. He took a few sips of wine at a dinner once, and the rest is a very embarrassing story that he wishes he could forget… He hasn’t had a drink since.

Wherever Oliver lives, his neighborhood community is very important to him. He visits and brings food to his neighbors frequently. He loves to keep up with other people’s lives and genuinely cares about what happens to them. Oliver never forgets names, birthdays, or phone numbers, and he remembers little details (“Oh, I haven’t seen you in forever! How is your pet goldfish doing?”)

Oliver hates movies that are violent, scary, or sad. He can name any Hallmark movie that’s been on at 7 pm for the past week, but if you mention Fight Club (Al made him watch it), he will look upset and traumatized for a second before promptly redirecting the conversation.

He can become so absorbed in helping other people that he forgets to take care of himself (like the time he agreed to help a friend decorate their new house while he had serious bronchitis... they had to force him to go home)

#2p hetalia #2p england #2p headcanons #2ptalia #2p hetalia headcanons #hetalia #aph england #oliver kirkland

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dear-mrs-otome · 5 years

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About Me Tag

Thanks @otonymous dear, for the tag!

the rules are:

1. Tag the person who tagged you

2. Answer the questions.

3. Tag 10 people

•How tall are you?

5′4″

•What color and style is your hair?

Currently giving it a rest from a few years of bleach and fantasy tones (usually purple or blue) so it’s a nice boring auburn, and I keep it mid-chest length!

•What color are your eyes?

Mostly green, with a bit of blue!

•Do you wear glasses?

When I read, or my eyes are tired.

•Do you wear braces?

No, that was years ago, but I do have the dubious honor of a permanent retainer glued behind my teeth. Hey...it beats wearing one to keep the teeth straight I guess?

•What’s your fashion sense?

I guess kind of boho? I like flowy things, patterns and prints mixed with solids, scarves and big funky jewelry, but with some restraint. Still gotta look classy - not like you just rolled out of a Woodstock documentary. I love shopping vintage stores, and I can forgo makeup in a pinch as long as I have my accessories on!

•Full name?

What more do you need than Mrs. O??

•When were you born?

It’s no secret I’m old AF. Let’s put it this way - I graduated high school in the prior century. I remember life before the internet, or cellphones, or CDs.

•Where are you from and where do you live now?

Born and raised and still a West Coast girl.

•What school do you go to?

That is safely in the rear-view.

•What kind of student are you?

I enjoyed school, and was always good at it, though I tended to procrastinate and finish things in horrible cram sessions last minute. Whoops.

•Do you like school?

I did! I still love discovering stuff, and try to challenge myself to learn a new skill on the regular. Never, ever stop learning.

•Favorite subject?

Literature, Creative Writing, Biology

•Favorite TV show?

I don’t really watch TV. At all. I guess just by dint of being the last show I have seen every episode of, I’d say Stranger Things?? Maybe Black Mirror too.

•Favorite Movie?

How can you pick just one?

High Fidelity. The Breakfast Club. You’ve Got Mail. Beauty and the Beast. Pride and Prejudice. Empire of the Sun. The Sound of Music. All the Thor movies. Star Wars. Blade Runner.

•Favorite books?

Beauty by Robin McKinley is the only book I re-read twice a year, closely followed by The Blue Sword. And most anything else by McKinley.

It’s Problematic, but Heart-Beast by Tanith Lee is one I also re-read, and I will never let my out-of-print copy slip from my clutches. Dark and beautiful gothic horror about my favorite monsters.

A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan.

Anything by Ian McEwan is a must-read. Courtney Milan is my go-to for romance novels. Chuck Palahniuk. Neil Gaiman. Jane Austen. Ilona Andrews for my urban fantasy fixes. A Court of Thorns and Roses series by Sarah J. Maas for giving me my One True Love, Rhysand.

I’m currently working through The Tiger by John Vaillant and it’s shiver-inducing, delightfully good.

•Favorite pastime?

Playing otome, writing, cooking! Hiking and bicycling, reading, knitting and sewing.

•Do you have any regrets?

Not particularly. I’m very much a ‘things happen because they’re meant to’ kind of person. If there were things about the past I changed, even the ugly bits, I wouldn’t be where and who I am today.

Maybe the usual - not saying the things that should have been said, to those who are now gone. Always remember that life is short.

•Dream job?

A writer. Or a chef.

•Would you ever like to be married?

Done it, second time is the charm!

•Would you like to have kids?

Too late to say no now, isn’t it? But yes, I have always looked forward to kids, and my three little bugs are my world.

•How many?

•Do you like shopping?

I do! Clothes shopping is fun, but I will go absolutely nuts in a shoe store. And keep me out of the fabric or yarn or bookstores, or you won’t see me again for the rest of the day.

•What countries have you visited?

Born and raised in the US. I’ve been most parts of it, including Alaska and Hawaii, and to Puerto Rico. Mexico. Canada. France. England. Spain.

•Scariest nightmare you have ever had?

I never remember my dreams. I can’t honestly tell you a nightmare I’ve had.

•Any enemies?

Life is too short for those. Live and let live.

•Any significant other?

Indeed. My husband is the closest thing to a real-life Shigezane you will ever meet, and he’s the light of my life.

Seriously. Get you a man that will still call you his bride, 10 years after your wedding day. <3

•Do you believe in miracles?

Not really. Good things happen to bad people, bad things happen to good people. The fall of the dice just sometimes works out better that way.

•How are you?

Grand! Loving the arrival of spring, and living for all the sunshine and flowers...and new otome routes. ;)

Tagging: @otomelin @sakura-daydream @ladyrinielbright I think lots of people have been tagged by now so if you read this and want to hop on, go for it!

#about me

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tokyotwosome · 5 years

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England: ”This Earth of Majesty”

7/26/19 - ENGLAND. The mother to the modern world’s business tongue. A country within the United Kingdom within Great Britain and none of us can make any sense of what the heck the difference is. This wondrous place is an island I’d always dreamed of visiting from the first time I picked up The Chronicles of Narnia. Or Pride and Prejudice. Or Harry Potter. The list goes on. From its rich history, its captivating architecture, and the many famous humans that have walked these streets, England is not a country to be missed.

We arrived in London on a Friday evening. The summer in the U.K. is much like Seattle; the sun is fickle and the rain needy. Seeing the countless parks throughout the city, not to mention the luscious greenery throughout the countryside, it’s no wonder it rains so much here. On Saturday morning, we met up with a friend to do a proper tour of the city. For the day, we purchased a “London Pass” which gets you into over 75 attractions as well as access to the Hop on Hop Off bus. We swiftly made our way to the top of the double decker, not caring that the open-roof was a bit damp and paying notice to the “mind your head” signs up the stairs. As we embarked through the city, a man with a microphone prompted us to grab headphones and listen to his countless facts about London.

Did you know that there are actually two Londons? Greater London refers to the American definition of “London”. This is where the Queen hails and is generally what we think of when referring to London. There is also “The City of London”, a square mile within Greater London that can be easily identified by its dragon statues which guard its borders. The City of London is separately governed, collects separate taxes, enforces separate laws, has their own separate flag, and even elects their own Lord Mayor. Queen Elizabeth isn’t even allowed to enter the City of London without permission from the Lord Mayor. It’s all very scratch-head worthy.

There’s a laundry list of sites to see in London. There’s Big Ben (currently under construction), Westminster Abbey (filled with famous and infamous corpses), Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge (much cooler than London Bridge), the Churchill War Rooms, Shakespeare’s Globe, and loads more. One would need to devote an entire week to site seeing just to manage it all in. Needless to say, we didn’t get to see everything, but we managed to get some good ones under our belt.

Our first stop was at the Tower of London, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Tower Bridge on the north bank of the River Thames (pronounced “Tems”). The Tower of London is less of a tower and more of a series of towers that feel more like medieval grounds from something out of a storybook. Within each tower holds its own treasures and stories. There was original armor, crown jewels, the bloody tower (where two princes were believed to have been killed by their uncle so that he could have the crown for himself), prison cells (where names and images have been carved into walls)...and so much more. You could spend all day at this site alone, but we hurried on off to lunch after building up an appetite..must have been all the murder stories that did it. Speaking of murder - walking across the Tower Bridge, we found the street where many Jack the Ripper scenes were filmed. They even offer evening tours of all his murder spots (a big no thank you from me).

The food in England is a journey in and of itself. If you ask for pie, don’t expect something sweet. A traditional English-style breakfast consists of toast (seemingly the most important food group), beans, mushrooms and/or tomatoes, an over-easy egg, a hash brown, bacon (which is actually more ham-like), and sausage (tastes more like fake meat to me). We can’t tell you how many times we ate the same English-style breakfast, but it really was quite hearty. Brunch will sometimes include all-you-can-drink. And let’s not forget Sunday roast! Tea was also a staple for most, if not all, of our breakfasts - I like mine with two sugars and milk. In terms of stereotype foods, we didn’t see a crumpet in sight.

While London is a must-see when in England, it’s certainly not the highlight of the country. We rented a car and made our way north, with our final destination being Scotland. We’d arranged to have overnight stays in aribnb’s along the way, taking recommendations from our very own Rick Steves. The street signs were comical, seeing ones like “mind the gap” and “queues likely”. Getting used to the different terminology is a journey of its own. First stop was Stow-on-the-Wold; a quaint little market town with sandy-colored buildings, friendly town folk, and shops around every corner. We still aren’t sure what a Stow or a Wold is, but while we passed through, it was clear why it was a place outsiders wanted to visit. After spending a few days in the city, it was refreshing to be in a small town. We managed to only go down the wrong side of the street towards oncoming traffic once, so that’s a bonus!

Shortly following our pit-stop to Stow-on-the-Wold, we found our airbnb in a place known as Derbyshire, arriving promptly at 3:00 PM. A woman answered the door and greeted us by saying, “you’re positively punctual”. She sounded like Mary Poppins and I could’ve swore she was about to break out in song next and a bird would likely land delicately on her finger. That was when I really realized we weren’t in Kansas anymore. She took us upstairs to our room in her large, historical cottage. The backyard view reminded me of something out of a Jane Austen novel. I could imagine Mr. Darcy coming to our door by horseback. We had dinner at a local gastropub, just up the street. The server told us about a place to visit the following day, which we promptly agreed we’d do.

The next morning on our way out of town, we stopped by the recommendation from our server; a nature walk toward an abandoned water mill. During our walk, Rob stopped and asked that I take a picture of him in the grass. At the time, I had no idea why. Turns out he was envisioning a scenic view out of Gladiator and just HAD to reenact it. Making our way down a long drive, we saw a flock of pheasants that we thought were chickens. When we finally did make it to the water mill, we took in the beautiful views and imagined what sorts of things must have taken place throughout history here; a common thought through such a historical place. When we thought there wasn’t a living soul in site, a couple of women on horseback road passed. Such a slow, easy going lifestyle here.

Our next destination was what is known as the lake district; more specifically, a town called Keswick (pronounced Ke-sick). Keswick was by far our favorite stopping point. It had a German feel with British flavor. Lots of nature, lots of shops, and lots of kind people. This is a popular spot to visit in the summertime for Brits throughout the country. While rain was to be expected, we lucked out for the day we spent there and enjoyed a pleasant nature hike.

The day following our trip to Keswick, the weather took a turn for the worse. We were so fortunate to have such a beautiful day for our one day spent there. After our time in the lake district, our next stop was Scotland. Truly, Scotland is deserving of its own blog, so stay tuned for that next! Instead, I’m going to fast forward to when we trained back to London.

We’ve gone full circle and made it back to the city. Our train arrived at Kings Cross Station - so naturally we visited platform 9 3/4. After taking our obligatory Harry Potter photo, we decided to try to squeeze in any last minute sightseeing we may have missed. That’s how we ended up at the Churchill War Rooms. The underground tour is the original housing spot for Churchill and his men during WWII. They have kept the rooms in mostly the same condition with a full audio tour to really envision what it must have been like during the war. Trying to imagine being trapped down there while bombs continued to go off upstairs was a very humbling experience. For me, having been to the war museums in both Pearl Harbor and Okinawa, seeing the war through the British lens was a new perspective. On one of the original maps in the discussion room, you could even see a drawing of Hitler someone had done. A really remarkable site and I would highly recommend to anyone who visits London. Speaking of sights in London, did you know that all museums are free in the UK? That led us to the Natural History Museum! Among other things.

On 8/3/19, our 5-year wedding anniversary, we decided to treat ourselves to high tea. We had reservations at a delightful little spot in the city. The theme was Peter Rabbit and ohhhh was it good! We had mini-sandwiches, biscuits, jams, and treats to the max. Everything you see was edible, including the flower pots. I don’t think I stopped smiling once. When we had finished, we were stuffed beyond belief. Then the server comes over with a HAPPY ANNIVERSARY dessert. We couldn’t NOT eat it...so we stuffed our little bunny bellies. Another successful wedding anniversary outside of the states - once an accident, now a tradition. <3

If you’re considering a trip to the UK, I’d say go Nike and just do it! Some of our expectations were met and others were shattered, but that’s the joy of travelling. A place is never how you think it’s going to be, but seeking the different is what is exciting. Stay tuned for the next blog where we’ll share our adventures in Scotland - my new crush. Thanks for sticking it out and reading along!

#united kingdom #uk #travel #tea #explore #england

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