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thestarsarecool · 1 year

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Who The Hell Does RINGO STARR Think He Is?

Tom Hibbert, Q, June 1992

He was The Lovable One who cracked his daft mop-top jokes for The Queen. The Fab With The Big Nose who you could take home to meet yer mum and yer dad. But no more. For he just experienced a nasty charm by-pass and suffered a sudden humourectomy when Tom Hibbert innocently enquired...

RINGO, WHY do you wear two rings on each hand?

"Because I can't fit them through my nose."

Beethoven figures in one of your songs. What do you think of Beethoven?

"He's great. Especially his poetry."

How did you find America?

"We went to Greenland and made a left turn."

But that was nearly 30 years ago, innocent times when the small one – Ringo, how tall are you? "Two feet, nine inches" – with the extended nose sat with the other three before the press of the world and cracked his mop-top jokes, playing the clown and acting the goat, The Lovable One, the one you could take home to meet yer mum and yer dad. In The Great Throne Room at Buckingham Palace, October 26, 1965, the Queen asked the "Fabs" how long they had been together and, quick as a flash, came Starkey's reply. "40 years!" The wag.

It is now much later, April 1992, but that "natural" Scouse "wit" of olden times remains intact: The Lovable One clambers aboard a podium at London's Dorchester Hotel and drily announces: "My name is Ringo Starr." The assembled members of the press laugh loudly at the pithy sally; a female reporter from Belgium, in the excitement of the moment, squeaks "Yah!" It is quite like old tunes...

We are gathered here today to hear exciting news. Ringo is about to release a new LP and it is called Time Takes Time. Furthermore, his new amusingly-named All-Starr Band – featuring Dave Edmunds and Joe Walsh and Todd Rundgren and diminutive trampoline champion Nils Lofgren – is touring Europe in the summer. Cameras clack and the PR woman sternly warns us to limit our questions to "the present and the future" (ie nothing about them – The Beatles – and nothing about alcoholism, if you please). And so the probing begins as a girl from Sweden asks the occasional drummer why he is starting his tour in Sweden: "Why not?" Uproarious laughter. And a girl from Italy asks him why he is finishing his tour in Italy: "Crazy question. It may be a surprise to you, lady, but I am a musician." Hoots. And a girl from somewhere equally foreign asks him if he is "reaching out to the new generation" – "You had zis Thomas Ze Tank Engine, no?" – and he says he's just playing his kit now because he is a musician and he likes to feel the "love" flowing from an audience because it's in his blood. Somewhere along the way we learn that Ringo has absolutely no intention whatsoever of playing with George Harrison at tonight's Albert Hall concert in aid of The Natural Law Party because what Ringo's doing now is promoting his album which is really jolly good and everything so everybody should buy it...

TWO HOURS later, upstairs in a hotel suite, Ringo Starr is staring at me through his darkened spectacles. The expression on his somewhat wizened face is somewhat sour. "This record deserves to be a Number 1," he is saying. "It's a fine album." The ready quips are not dropping from the lips of The Lovable One this afternoon. His impressive nose is twitching in irritation. I have made a dreadful mistake. I have dared to ask him about...them.

He had entered the room in seemingly stony mood. He had thrust himself down upon a sofa and had glowered. "Is this yer first time?" he had muttered. Er, come again, Mr Starkey? "Is this yer first time?" My first time what? My first time in a posh suite at The Dorchester Hotel or what? "Just joking," he had muttered bemusingly. My opening question had been designed to be one of the most psychologically challenging – nay, disturbing – ever to be posed within the context of a rock interview. It was this: Have you, Mr Starr, or have you not, felt a twinge of pity ever for Pete Best (The Good-Looking One who was booted out in favour of Ringo, of whom John Lennon was once heard to remark, "When I feel my head start to swell, I look at Ringo and know perfectly well we're not supermen")? There was a pause containing the faintest twist of menace. "Crazy question," The Nice One murmured, adding a withering stare for good measure.

"Did. I. Ever. Feel. Sorry. For. Pete. Best?" Yes, that was the enquiry. "No. Why should I? I was a better player than him. That's how I got the job. It wasn't on no personality. It was that I was a better drummer and I got the phone call. I never felt sorry for him. A lot of people have made careers out of knowing, er...The Beatles."

He has said it. He has uttered that word, that thing that we are not supposed to mention because Ringo has "moved on" and is living for today and for tomorrow and not for, in the word of his old mucker in the rhythm section, yesterday. He has said "Beatles". So can we talk about The Beatles, then? Ringo shrugs his shoulders. "Sure," he grunts. So tell me about your image. You were The Goofy One. Was this an imposed personality or was it the real Starkey or what?

"That's not how I am. That was how we were in the movie, in Help! and A Hard Day's Night. That was what people felt we were like."

But didn't you mind always being given the goony songs to sing, 'Octopus's Garden' and 'Yellow Submarine' and that awful one about "the greatest fool who ever made the big time"?

"They were writing a lot heavier songs than I was and the ones they wrote for me were never that heavy, either. That's what made the combination that we were. All completely different but together we were a mighty force."

Presumably this "difference" in personalities was what made the break-up of The Beatles particularly acrimonious and acid. Discuss.

"That's stupid. We'd changed. We didn't have the time to put in all that energy. We were all married then. Most of us were married. I had children. John had a kid. George got married. So it was a natural end to it. We finished. That's it."

At the morning's press conference, Ringo had been banging on about how you can't beat the feeling of playing live, of how he's "addicted" to it, the love teeming from the audience, the "buzz", the "vibe" etcetera. But if we examine the history (and leave out the Ringo Starr and his All-Star Band jaunt of '89), we see that since '66, he has played on stage hardly at all. This is not a criticism, I was just wondering whether...

"Look, playing live is how I started," he snaps. "That's where my blood is. We played live for four years as The Beatles but in the end it was impossible because the reaction we used to get was so loud that I was turning into a bad musician because I could only keep the off-beat, so we were deteriorating. How often do you want to play stadiums? We as The Beatles lost the contact. I want to feel the love from the audience and you don't get that in a stadium. Bruce Springsteen loses the love and the audience contact and Guns N' Roses and the Stones and Paul McCartney, they all lose the love and the contact. They just forget that it's a great privilege to play to an audience, so on my tour I'm playing Liverpool and I'm playing Hammersmith and..."

And so he goes on for several weeks about all the intimate sheds he's going to bash his drums and sing that one about "You're sixteen and you're beautiful and your mii-iine," or whatever it is, in.

So stadiums are useless. I had always imagined, in my simplicity, that The Beatles at Shea Stadium was just one of the most thrilling moments in all of popular music history. Am I entirely incorrect?

Ringo tuts and he crosses his arms, a huff-orientated posture.

"Shea Stadium was brilliant," he goes. "We were breaking new ground. Of course it was brilliant. But if you see the video on Shea Stadium, you see how crazy we all were, anyway. John wasn't playing it note-for-note. John went mad. It was a thrill."

Did Ringo go mad all those years ago, what with all those American girls saying he should be President and swooning at his shaking fringe?

"It wasn't only American girls, you know," he points out, helpfully. "It was English girls and Swedish girls. So, yeah. I went absolutely mad round about 1964. My head was just so swollen. I thought I was a God, a living God. And the other three looked at me and said. Excuse me, I am the God. We all went through a period of going mad."

Presumably drugs made a major contribution to the mental mayhem.

"The drugs came later. Well, there was always some element of alcohol and amphetamine and then several other substances came into play and then The Beatles was over."

And in '68, you all went to India to "groove" with Mr Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. That was mad...

"Well, I was in hospital with my ex-wife (Maureen) delivering Jason, my second son, and I got back and there was two messages on the answerphone, a message from John and a message from George, and they were saying. We've been to see this Maharishi guy. So I said. What's that all about? so they told me how great it all was and I met Maharishi and I fell in love with Transcendental Meditation and I got to India and I took two suitcases, one full of clothes and one full of baked beans because I don't eat curry, and it was high for a while and then I thought. 'That's the end of it for me, thank you very much'..."

By this time, the drummer of the Perky Personality had embarked upon his unlikely career as a screen actor, playing a gardener who has love on billiard tables in the hippy sex romp Candy (which featured Marlon Brando as a guru personage not a billion miles removed from Mr Maharishi), and then a foil for Peter Sellers in the simply awful The Magic Christian (and then being actually quite good as a teddy boy drummer in That'll Be The Day). Ringo doesn't think that talking about his Thespian pursuits is very interesting at all because he's moved on and music's the thing, like...

"We just decided we wanted to be an actor. I'm not interested in that acting anymore..."

In the mid '70s, Starr made (along with some really dud LPs) a couple of splendid pop singles: 'Photograph' and 'It Don't Come Easy'. The man who, in 1963, said "whenever I hear another drummer I know I'm no good" (and who sits here today peering at me with a certain chill and insisting "I am the best rock drummer on earth and it's not just me saying that, many fine musicians say that" when I have never even questioned his capabilities) comes over refreshingly modest for once when I say I liked those tunes.

"Well, I just decided to make some singles because The Beatles always took so long to make albums and so I started to write but I could never finish a song. I was great for two verses and a chorus but I could never finish a song so I'd have to ask George to finish it and we'd just have rows because George would always put in the 'God verse' and I don't sing about God, so after a few smashes it all went downhill because, er, well, yer know..."

I do know. It all went downhill because Ringo was hitting the sauce with alarming abandon.

"It was my addictive personality. Suddenly you're starting to drink at nine in the morning and I was procrastinating me balls off and I was just trapped as an alcoholic, a drunk."

He was too drunk even to pay any great attention to the shooting of John Lennon, he says.

"I wasn't well when he got murdered and I wasn't well after it. I was in such great pain that I hardly noticed..."

The voice of Thomas The Tank Engine and The Fat Controller was killing itself with booze. But then – hey presto! – Ringo booked into De-Tox Mansions, USA, and everything was all right again.

"One day I had a second, maybe half-a-second, of clarity and I was in so much pain and I knew that Barbara (Bach, second wife who he met on the set of the dismal Caveman film in '81) had mentioned a sort of re-hab situation. She had a problem, too. She found this place in Arizona. I haven't had a drink or a drug since and that was October '88 and I've given up smoking cigarettes, too."

Ringo was cured of his urges by the power of love.

"It was love. It's love. And the proof of the difference in my life-style is that I've put a band together, I've made this album and..."

Ringo takes this opportunity to tell me what a great musician he is and how his new LP is really jolly good and everything until I interrupt to suggest that however good his new LP is, it can hardly hope to top Abbey Road, can it? He looks at me as if I am deranged:

"What, as an album? My album can't beat the Abbey Road album as an album?" That is, in a nutshell, what I was driving at.

"Well, the so-called B-side of Abbey Road is one of my favourite sides, the one with 'Bathroom Window' and 'Polythene Pam', but just by chance I was re-listening to Sgt. Pepper the other day and that's a fine album too and it's a bloody marvellous album, it's a bloody fine album and The White Album was great because we were like a band after Pepper and all the craziness and Rubber Soul was great and the first album which took 12 hours to put down was an achievement...So I don't know what you're talking about. That was 30 years ago, man. I'm still making records and you can hear that I'm a great musician on the new record, Time Takes Time, if you can ever be bothered to mention it. This is an actual bloody legend in front of you. I'm not expecting you to comb the bloody legend's hair but you could mention the new LP and these other fine musicians I'm still playing with."

Ringo Starr is close to rage and I don't know quite why. I decide to placate him by talking about his All-Starr Band. This ploy is not a success. What is it like working with Todd Rundgren, I enquire? Todd Rundgren's a bit mad, isn't he?

Ringo lunges forward in the sofa, almost doing himself a mischief.

"What? What? Have you met him? Why would you say shit like that? You don't even know the man. How dare you say shit like that about a friend?"

I meant "mad" as in "genius". It is a compliment.

"You're talking shit. That's like saying Frank Zappa's mad. Frank Zappa's probably the nicest man I ever met in this business. I've been in the game too long for this shit! I've done my bit. I've made a record, I've made the thing and I hope it's a Number 1 because I've done my bit, I'm promoting the thing...or I am trying to promote the thing..."

What manner of umbrage is this? Ringo Starr seems to feel – and strongly – that my failure to spend this interview discussing his new LP and the brilliance of Tom Petty and Jeff "Skunk" Baxter and Harry "Schmilsson" Nilsson and everybody else who played on it – is impudence of the first order. But wouldn't such an interview be a trifle limiting and boring and...? I am unable to make this suggestion because The Clown, The Lovable One, seen here in his updated role of Pop's Mister Crosspatch, continues to rant away...

"If you bothered to listen to the single 'Weight Of The World' you'd hear this line in it which goes...er, er...well, it says that you can't live in the past and that sums it up. Because you're living in the past. As far as this interview has been going on, it's shit because it's been The Beatles interview and you haven't even mentioned Time Takes Time or Weight Of The World. But that's OK. You've got the time. That's what you asked. I've answered your questions. And..." Ringo rises from the sofa, two feet nine inches of unbridled anger ..."That is it!" And it is. He flounces from the room, a cry of "Thanks a lot!" that oozes with sarcasm, his cheery farewell. What this man needs, in my estimation, is a stiff drink, or a cig, or both...

THAT NIGHT, on stage at the Albert Hall, George Harrison played 'Taxman' and a lot of other aged songs and then announced "a blast from all our pasts" and on bounded Ringo. How could this be? Had not the man assured us earlier in the day that he would most definitely not be gracing this political rally thing with his presence? Well, there he was, anyway, and he played drums on 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' and 'Roll Over Beethoven', no doubt feeling all the love wafting up from the auditorium. Then, at the conclusion of this horrid old rock'n'roll novelty, up strode some representatives of the peculiar Natural Law Party to talk embarrassingly about this "night of magic" that the crowd had been privileged to witness. And as the spiritual oration continued, a lone cry of protest rang out from the back of the stage, a bellow of annoyance, a sharp "Shut up!" The culprit of this ill-mannered intrusion was identified only as a man with drumsticks and a great big nose…

#my articles #my quotes #ok so this is part of a whole series the interviewer did #called 'who does BLANK think he is?'#and I guess the whole point was to act insufferable and to get his interviewees to act out #thoroughly repugnant #anyway...#enjoy?#I guess?#ringo starr #the beatles #beatles

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heavyarethecrowns · 2 years

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Another excerpt about queen elizabeth and prince philip?

OK, a mixture of facts and possible antedotes, hopefully something new here for you.

Queen Elizabeth met her spouse at the 1934 wedding or Princess Marina of Greece and Denmark to Prince George, Duke of Kent, when she was only eight years old.

The British royal couple began their courtship through written correspondence in 1939

When Philip came back from WWII in 1946, he would frequent Buckingham Palace and later spent a month at Balmoral Castle, where he proposed to the then Princess - all other details have remained private.

Queen Elizabeth's father agreed, but only if the two kept the engagement a secret until after the bride-to-be's 21st birthday.

Although the King agreed to the marriage he did have worries.

"Despite Philip's British background and his fine war record, George VI was deeply worried about how British opinion, particularly its left wing, would take to a Greek Prince as the husband of the heiress presumptive.

There was also something about his daughter's brash young man with his loud, boisterous laugh and his blunt, seagoing manners that irritated the gentle King. Besides, the fellow couldn't shoot."

At the King's request, Lord Louis Mountbatten began quietly sussing out what the public's opinion of the match might be. When a poll in the Sunday Pictorial (now the Sunday Mirror) showed that 64 percent of its readership was rooting for the couple, Elizabeth finally got her way.

Prince Philip has Philip Antrobus made the 3-carat engagement ring with ten smaller diamonds around it, using diamonds from his mother's tiara.

Princess Alice of Battenberg was gifted the tiara by Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra of Russia on her wedding day.

As part of British tradition, the Queen carried a spring of myrtle from the garden at Osborne House in her white orchid bouquet.The tradition began with Queen Victoria and was carried for years up until today.

Sir Norman Hartnell had the honor of designing Princess Elizabeth's wedding gown, and he took his inspiration from Primavera, a large panel, 15th-century work by famed Italian Renaissance painter Sandro Botticelli. Specifically, according to the Royal Trust Collection, he believed that it symbolised "rebirth and growth after the war.”

Hartnell's design for the dress was not approved until the middle of August, giving him less than three months to complete the dress, which was made of ivory silk and decked out with crystals and 10,000 carefully curated seed pearls.

Although they tried to keep the wedding simple, the guest list summed up to 2000 guests

While the couple agreed to keep the ceremony itself as low-key as possible, Philip's stag party was another story. The night before the wedding, Philip hosted a bachelor party at London's Dorchester Club with media in attendance.

"An eager press had been invited, but it was meant to observe the protocol of the day, which respected the privacy of the royals. The prince's group must have been having some kind of fun, because eventually the flash bulbs of the journalists' cameras were torn off and stamped on the ground, with the groom's party moving on to the closed doors of the Belfry Club."

Because the wedding took place after World War II, it was not right for Philip's German relatives to step foot on the ceremony. Hence, his three sisters, who were wed to German princes, were not invited.

The King's brother, King Edward VIII, who became the Duke of Windsor, was also not part of the guest list after marrying Wallis Simpson.

Two hundred million listeners tuned in to hear the wedding service broadcast on radio

Princess Elizabeth’s tiara snapped just as she was leaving to go to the service. The royal jeweler was luckily on stand-by and got it fixed.

Elizabeth did her own make-up

Prince Philip asked for tea and coffee to be taken out to the waiting photographers at Kensington Palace.

The Act of Settlement, 1701. meant some changes had to happen in addition to renouncing his Greek and Danish titles, (he took on the surname of his - British - mother's family.) He was also required to convert from Greek Orthodoxy to Anglicanism.

King George made it worth his while though: the day before the wedding, he bestowed the "His Royal Highness" address styling on Philip. On the morning of their wedding, he was also given other titles: Duke of Edinburgh, Earl of Merioneth, and Baron Greenwich.

The newlyweds received 10,000 telegrams of well-wishes and over 2,500 gifts from around the globe, including cotton lace that Mahatma Gandhi spun himself.

Among the weddings loot were 131 nylon stockings, 24 handbags, 12 bottles of sloe gin, 500 tins of pineapple, and a box of apples.

The gifts given to the royal couple were used to benefit charity through a wonderful display of royal wedding gifts.

For a year, over 200,000 people swarmed St. James's Palace to have a glimpse at the presents, which were again put on display in 2007 as part of their Diamond Wedding anniversary.

#royal #question #queen elizabeth ii #prince philip #facts #antedote

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michaelmay · 6 months

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Christmas

The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say 'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze, Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze, Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad, And oafish louts remember Mum, And sleepless children's hearts are glad. And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!' Even to shining ones who dwell Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? And is it true, This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window's hue, A Baby in an ox's stall ? The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is, No loving fingers tying strings Around those tissued fripperies, The sweet and silly Christmas things, Bath salts and inexpensive scent And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells, No caroling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells Can with this single Truth compare - That God was man in Palestine And lives today in Bread and Wine.

--Sir John Betjeman

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beauty-of-emerald-gemstone · 1 year

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The Alluring Green Charm of Emerald Gemstone

Emerald is a magnificent green gemstone that has long been treasured. The Greek word "smaragdus," which means "green stone," is the source of its name. The traditional anniversary gemstone for the 20th and 35th wedding anniversaries is emerald, which is also the birthstone for the month of May.

Emerald Gemstone belongs to the beryl family, which includes many other popular gemstones like aquamarine and morganite. The presence of chromium and vanadium within the crystal structure gives emerald its beautiful and vivid green color. Emeralds with no hints of yellow or blue and pure green are the most desired type of emeralds. These precious gemstones are primarily found in countries like Colombia, Zambia, Brazil, and Zimbabwe. Giri Corporation is one of the major precious and semi precious stones manufacturers from Bangkok, Thailand who trade top Emeralds worldwide.

Emeralds, with luscious and amazing medium to medium dark green hues, add much more elegance to you and your outfit, elevating your entire look. What are the best ways to style your emerald jewelry? In this blog, we will explore the beauty of emeralds and the best ways to style them.

Emerald Gemstone with other metals:

One of the best and most opted ways to style emerald jewelry is by pairing it with gold. The rich and deep green hue of the emerald looks beautiful and complements the warm tones of yellow (gold). Just wearing an emerald-stoned gold chain or a pair of emerald earrings with a gold base, add so much elegance to your entire outfit. You can even go ahead with a gold ring with a big and bold emerald stone in order to create a statement-making look.

If you think that emerald looks good only with gold, then you are wrong. Emerald is this beautiful gemstone that pairs amazingly with silver and platinum as much as it does with gold. Emerald Gemstone is the best of all worlds! Pairing Emerald with silver or platinum adds a more modern and edgy look to your outfit. The cooler tone of the silver or platinum adds the perfect contrast to complement the warm and deep green hues of the emerald. An emerald and silver necklace or a pair of emerald and silver earrings can add so much sophistication to the entire look.

Emerald with other gemstones:

Emerald can also be styled in an avant-garde aesthetic, by pairing it with other gemstones like turquoise, or lapis lazuli. The bright colors of these gemstones along with the green color of the emerald create a unique blend of colors. It adds a pop of color to your entire look. You can style emeralds with other gemstones like Sapphire, Ruby, Amethyst, Topaz, and many more, in many ways, such as a bold cocktail ring or a stunning necklace.

Emerald and Diamond

Emerald and diamond are some of the most popular gemstones worldwide, and when they are combined, they create a breathtaking look. The bright and sparkly white of diamonds is the perfect company to complement the vibrant green hue of the emerald.An emerald and diamond ring is a timeless and classic piece of jewelry that has been worn and adorned by everyone.

One of the iconic emerald and diamond rings belongs to Princess Diana that she wore at a ball held at the Southern Cross Hotel in Melbourne in 1985. She once again wore this ring on 11 November 1993 while attending a state banquet hosted by The Yang Di-pertuan Agong of Malaysia at The Dorchester Hotel in London. Princess Diana’s ring had an emerald cabochon and diamond that was not aligned but were at an angle to one another, similar to the style of a bypass ring.

Emerald and Sapphire

Sapphire is another stunning gemstone that looks great when paired with emerald. The deep blue color of sapphire creates a beautiful contrast against the vibrant green of emerald. Celebrities adore this combination. The Blue Sapphire has the power to change luck in a snap while Emeralds are great at attracting fame and wealth.

Emerald and Ruby

Emerald and ruby are two of the most popular gemstones in the world and together they create a striking look. The rich red color of ruby creates a beautiful contrast against the vivid green of emerald. Emerald and Ruby when worn together are known to bring abundance, fortune, and luxury.

Emerald and Amethyst

Amethyst is a beautiful gemstone that looks great when paired with the emerald. The deep purple color of the amethyst complements the rich green color of the emerald, making the both a perfect match. Both the gemstones are worn together to balance a strained relationship and maintain harmony within.

Emerald and Opal

Opal is a beautiful gemstone who's iridescent color complements the beautiful and rich green color of the emerald. This pair can be styled in so many different ways such as a fun and beautiful pendant or a pair of delicate stud earrings.

Coordinating Emerald jewelry with the outfits:

Emerald Gemstone is magnificent gemstones known for its striking beauty and exceptional green hue. When this jewelry is styled perfectly, it adds so much beauty and elegance to your entire look. When planning and putting together your outfit, it is crucial to know what the main color of the outfit is. Emeralds are known to complement a wide range of colors when paired and styled correctly. You can choose your outfit with the help of the color wheel. Complementary colors are opposite to each other in the color wheel. The color opposite to green is red. If your outfit has red or any shades of red, then the stunning green hue of the emerald will complement the entire look.

You can also go ahead and use the monotone color wheel which includes green and all shades of green. A stunning combo includes emerald jewelry and a magnificent green dress or pantsuit.

Shop now! with the stunning Emerald Gemstone, it can be styled in many ways, whether for classic and elegant look or a more modern and edgy look.

#emeraldgemstone #giricorporationgemstones #gemstonetraders #semipreciousgemstones #preciousgemstone

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petnews2day · 1 year

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Juvenile to be charged in animal abuse incident captured on doorbell video

New Post has been published on https://petn.ws/hFIhI

Juvenile to be charged in animal abuse incident captured on doorbell video

DORCHESTER COUNTY, S.C. (WCSC) – The Dorchester County Sheriff’s Office says they have identified the juvenile involved in an animal abuse incident over the weekend. The Ring doorbell video, which has been circulating on Facebook, shows two juveniles walking up to a home at Bob O Link Court in Ladson. The video shows one of […]

See full article at https://petn.ws/hFIhI #PetCharitiesNews

#Pet Charities News

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golfuk22 · 2 years

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Slower start to the morning. After Simon taken to train station, Jim+Colin+I headed to Preston Beach for a bumpy swim as the wind was getting up. Coffee at beach then Colin to train station. Home for a snooze.... then after lunch I headed for a wander. Dorchester has a history that goes way back to pre Romans and through every stage of history.... Maumbury Rings.... has been repurposed by each different era.... from a prehistoric henge, to Roman arena, to defensive fort in the English civil war to a place to hold executions. Dorchester also has some treelined walks for getting about town. And it's claim to literary fame is Thomas Hardy.... with 'The Mayor of Casterbridge' massing reference to many town features/buildings. Strangely couldn't find it in the local Waterstone bookstore. A coffee catchup (and for me goodbye) with Sally. Then a chilled evening doing Netflix (watched movie 'The Guard'). May have been the first day of this holiday without alcohol....

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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

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winged cupid painted blind // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: I’d really love something based on love story by Taylor Swift. The lines “We keep quite cuz we’re dead if they knew” and “take me somewhere we can be alone” stick out to me // I was thinking that the reader could be from a family that isn’t well off and her and Anthony meet at a ball somehow. They create a ruse that she’s from a well known family so that the gossips in the ton don’t attack her because Anthony has fallen in love with a “commoner.” All the Bridgertons are in on the ruse and at the end of the story Anthony proposes - @whovianwholikesgirls

A/N: Why is it that every Bridgerton fic I write, I end up writing thousands and thousands of words? This is long and I am sorry for that! As always, I hope I have done your request justice and that I hope you like!

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, class divides, pining, mutual pining, lots of fluff, dancing, kissing, happy ending, Anthony in love.

Word count: 7.7k

Madame Delacroix’s took up the central property on the most prosperous street coming just off of Grosvenor Square. The most popular modiste in London, many of society’s richest families flocked to her door in order to claim their own dress made by the talented seamstress.

Anthony sighs as he climbs down from the carriage. His mother must be in a particular benevolent mood to send him to pick up her newest dress from the modiste. Anthony would much rather be spending his day at his club, but he finds himself ringing the modiste’s bell for service.

“Monsieur Bridgerton!” Madame Delacroix smiles, delighted at the sight of the Viscount. “How can I help you?” She asks, her smile turning flirtatious.

Anthony responds with his own flirtatious smile. “I’m here to pick up a dress for my mother.”

“Of course, of course,” Madame Delacroix sings, “I have it over here. I finished it last night. It is divine!”

“My mother will surely thank you,” Anthony states earnestly, his gaze dancing around the room filled to the brim with fabrics and ribbons, models and hoops.

“No need,” Madame Delacroix, “The Bridgertons are my best customers.”

Anthony takes the offered box, marvelling at the lightness of its weight. For all the skirts, for all the numerous pieces of fabric that go into making a dress, Anthony will always remain shocked at the featherlight weight of it.

“Will Lady Bridgerton be wearing this to the Hastings’ ball tonight?” The modiste asks, her tone light as she tries her best to keep the burning curiosity out of her voice.

“Most likely,” Anthony smiles, tipping his head in goodbye.

The modiste calls out her goodbyes as Anthony walks out the door. He doesn’t pay much attention to where he is going; only knowing that he needs to turn left in order to reach his carriage. The very thought has him rushing, safe in the knowledge that the quicker he got his done, the quicker he would be at his club.

It’s that self-indulgent thought that had Anthony distracted enough to walk into something hard.

“Oh!” A feminine voice gasps as Anthony catches her elbow whilst keeping a tight hold on the dress box.

“My apologies,” Anthony offers, steadying the unknown woman.

“You’re forgiven,” She murmurs dryly, turning her attention back to the seamstresses window.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, Lord Bridgerton.”

“My pleasure, Miss…”

“(Y/L/N).”

“My pleasure, Miss (Y/L/N),” Anthony repeats, adjusting the dress box in his hands. He goes to say something else but notices her slyly counting the money in her purse, watching her frown when she realises she cannot afford the prices set by Madame Delacroix.

“Have a nice day, Lord Bridgerton,” Miss (Y/L/N) remarks, stepping away from the Viscount to begin her walk home. She didn’t need a Viscount to be witness to her money troubles; she had thought she had enough, but the prices must have been increased since the last time she had wandered past the window. It would be another two weeks of saving before she could afford a new set of ribbons; it wasn’t worth it at this point, she sighed to herself.

“You too!” Anthony shouts to her retreating figure, feeling upset on her behalf that she could not afford the ribbons she was so dazedly admiring. Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling, Anthony climbs into the carriage, thinking of the young woman all the way home.

-----

“Jayne!” (Y/N) laughs, “Slow down! I’m going to lose a shoe.”

“Alright, Cinderella,” Jayne snickers, slowing her pace as she climbs the winding staircase to the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

“Have you ever seen such a home?” (Y/N) gasps; eyes widening as she takes in the grand structure. The brickwork is immaculate; many red bricks painted black to give the impression of a crosshatch pattern spreading across the building. This is only highlighted by the many windows; all seemingly lit by a countless number of candles and sconces.

“(Y/N)!” Jayne shouts, “Stop admiring the building! We have a dance to get to.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” (Y/N) laughs, hurrying after her friend who has already handed over their invitation.

Jayne grips (Y/N)’s hand tightly as they enter the ballroom together. The event is in full swing; the dancefloor already full with couples dancing a quadrille.

“Would you dance with me?” The handsome brunette asks of Jayne, staring at her hopefully. Jayne casts her gaze to (Y/N), not wanting to leave her friend, but wanting very much to dance with the handsome man.

(Y/N) nudges Jayne forward, answering for her. “She would be delighted.”

Jayne sends her a thankful smile as she joins more and more couples on the dancefloor.

The drinks table isn’t busy at all as (Y/N) wanders over. She makes sure to keep an eye on Jayne, watching her dance with what looks to be a Rokesby. (Y/N) shakes her head fondly at her friend; ten minutes into a ball and she’s already caught the attention of a member of one of the richest families in England.

Turning her attention away from her friend, (Y/N) reaches for a glass of lemonade when her hand brushes with a man clearly wanting the same glass. (Y/N) pulls her hand away, not wanting to cause any trouble at a ball she wasn’t even invited to.

“My apologies,” She murmurs, grabbing another glass from the many.

“You’re forgiven,” A voice drawls. (Y/N) glances upwards through her lashes to find Anthony Bridgerton watching her with a confused expression.

“Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) greets, curtseying lightly at the sight of her superior.

Anthony nods. He remains silent as he stands next to her; it’s not an awkward silence, rather, one where (Y/N) can practically hear the cogs and gears winding in Anthony’s mind, trying to figure out where he knows her from. If he knows her at all.

“I met you this morning,” Anthony recalls suddenly, snapping his fingers together when he remembers why he recognises the woman standing next to him.

“You almost knocked me over,” She states wryly, lifting her glass to her lips to take a tentative sip of the lukewarm lemonade.

“I believe I apologised for that, Miss (Y/L/N).”

“Call me (Y/N). And I forgave you,” She states simply, “But It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you forget it, however.”

“I’d be disappointed in you, if you did.”

(Y/N) laughs. The very sound music to Anthony’s ears and he briefly wonders whether he could have the sound imprinted on his brain; to hear her laughter for an eternity.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asks, taking a pull of his lemonade before wrinkling his nose. Too sweet, not sour enough. “Are you here with your parents?”

“I wasn’t technically invited,” She confesses to the Viscount in a conspiratorial whisper. Anthony’s eyes widen when her words land, “What?”

“I came to chaperone my friend, Jayne. You may know her, she’s Lord Dorchester’s daughter.”

Anthony nods; he knew the man well, drank with him a few times at his club – dreadfully dull with a fascination for military history. Much like many of the men of his father’s generation.

“Anyway,” (Y/N) continues, “Jayne wanted to go, but needed a chaperone as her mother has taken ill – nothing serious thankfully. I was the next best option so here I am.”

“Here you are,” Anthony parrots, enunciating every syllable as his eyes pour over her figure. “If you weren’t invited, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a governess for Lord and Lady Saville,” She answers proudly; a happy smile on her face as she thinks of her students.

“I hated my governess,” Anthony confesses with a laugh. “I don’t care much for Latin which she knew so she would make me do double the work.”

(Y/N) snorts. “Latin is a very useful language; it’s a good skill to have.”

“I know that now,” Anthony gripes, “I just didn’t know that at ten years old.”

Silence descends between them. Again, not uncomfortable, but a natural stopping point in their conversation. After all, titled gentleman such as the man stood beside her didn’t speak to her occupation outside of a brief conversation about their child’s progress in their education.

(Y/N) places her finished glass of lemonade back on the table before smoothing out the deep blue skirts of her borrowed dress. She clears her throat, ready to make her excuses and check on Jayne when Anthony speaks first.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a governess, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Call me Anthony, please.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re supposed to dance with someone of your own class, Anthony.”

“I don’t want to dance with them. I want to dance with you.”

His argument is straight to the point; no beating around the bush that (Y/N) finds it hard to find fault with it. Instead, she sighs, “One dance.”

“One dance,” Anthony promises, holding out his hand for her to grasp.

She didn’t expect to find herself the centre of the Viscount’s attention, but she cannot bring herself to mind much. Not as he holds out a hand for her to take; not as he leads to her to the dancefloor and not as he settles a palm against her lower back. The feel of his hand feeling so right that she loses the power of speech.

The music begins and (Y/N) travels to a new place entirely. The room melts away; the couples, the families. They all disappear. The only two people in the room are her and Anthony; his blue eyes fixed on her as they start to circle the room in waltz. There’s no need for conversation; all words passed by looks alone.

When the music dies and the room fades back into view, (Y/N) only wonders whether she would feel like this again, whether they would be anyone to make her feel like this again. As Anthony bows and kisses her hand, (Y/N) has her answer.

----------

He doesn’t stop thinking about her. She left soon after they finished dancing; her friend finding her and asking whether she was ready to leave. Anthony wanted to argue; wanted to reach for (Y/N) and pull her back to his embrace where they could dance the night away.

Anthony returned home and went straight to his room. He undressed mechanically; still thinking of her as he slipped between his sheets and tried to fall asleep only to find that sleep was a fickle friend that would not be granting him a visit tonight.

He remains awake; thinking of every aspect of her. He didn’t think he would see her again after the modiste; it was a shock to find her at the ball, but he took the opportunity with both hands to find that he had quickly become infatuated with her.

Could this be called love? Anthony rolls over in bed; tangling himself up in the sheets as he runs a hand up and down his bare chest, thinking the question over and over.

He felt as if he had hit by the arrow of Cupid; as if he had handed himself over voluntarily to be pricked with one of the god’s arrows. He’s never felt like this; no woman had ever kept him awake at night in such a manner.

Groaning, Anthony reaches for the pillow on the other side of the bed, hugging it to his chest. All the while, he dreams it was her body he was pressing close to.

The day after the Ball, Anthony strides from his study to his mother’s drawing room. There, he sits next to his beloved mother, and asks her to gather his siblings for a family meeting.

They arrive one by one. The youngest arriving first; a simple call from the bottom of the stairs has Gregory and Hyacinth rushing to the drawing room, each one adamant that they didn’t do it, but rather their sibling. Anthony shakes his head in exasperation, not wanting to know what they were referring to and instead, asks them to take a seat on the pale blue couch in front of the window.

Over the course of an hour, Anthony’s family arrive. Each one just as curious as the last, each one just as questioning as the last. “Why have you gathered us here, Anthony?” Daphne sighs, her hand resting on Simon’s knee.

“I’ve met someone,” Anthony announces. He frowns at the shocked gasps from Daphne and Eloise; was he really so incapable of finding himself a wife? He ignores the jibes from them both, turning to face his dear mother.

Violet Bridgerton sits in her favourite chair; the one next to it empty as it has been for the last decade. Edmund Bridgerton died so suddenly, and their love was so strong, Anthony knew that there was no recovery from it. “Do we know her?” She asks; her face showing the happiness she feels for her eldest son.

“No,” Anthony sighs, settling down next to his youngest sister, Hyacinth. She offers him a sweet smile as he sits; Anthony cannot help but return the smile and ruffle her hair. When the moment is over, Anthony focuses his attention back onto his family who he finds is watching him intently. “She’s a governess,” He admits, straightening in his seat.

“A respectable profession,” Eloise states with a smile. Anthony feels a rush of affection for his sister; he had always been wary for her outspokenness, but right now, he could thank her heartily.

“What’s the problem, Anthony?” Eloise continues, crossing her ankles, leaning forward in interest.

“I think she may have feelings for me as well, but she’s hesitant to act on them because of our differences.”

“Differences?” Hyacinth questions curiously; unaware of such class differences at such a young age.

“(Y/N) is a governess. I am a Viscount,” Anthony explains, “It would be the subject of gossip for years to come should anything happen between us.”

“So we come up with another story,” Francesca suggests, shrugging her shoulders as if her suggestion was always the answer.

“Another story?” Daphne wonders, eyes glancing between her husband and her family.

“We create a ruse,” Francesca explains to her elder sister. “A story for (Y/N) and Anthony to follow when out in public.”

“Do you think she would go along with this?” Benedict asks; his tone wary as he thinks of the possible implications this could have for his family.

Anthony remains silent, tapping a finger against his cheek as he thinks of whether (Y/N) would follow such a ruse. “Why don’t we ask her? I can send a summons.”

Violet, who had been watching the whole exchange in silence, nods. “Send her a message asking her to come as quick as she can. Tell her it isn’t an emergency, but that you would like to talk to her.”

Anthony nods; rushing from the drawing room to his study to pen such a message. After that, he calls on one of the footmen, handing them the letter and the strict duty of delivering this to (Y/N) personally. The footman nods; his face serious as he takes the letter from his employer’s hand, all but sprinting out of the door.

Anthony returns to the drawing room; taking his seat next to Hyacinth.

“Did you send the missive?” Violet asks. Anthony nods; doing his best to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. “I sent it with one of the footmen,” He answers, “It shouldn’t be long now.”

His family all nod, breaking off into separate conversations whilst Anthony remains stoic and silent. His leg bounces repeatedly; the only outward sign of his anxiety. Internally, he nerves were fraught. He couldn’t help but wonder whether this was all too much; he knew from their first meeting that Anthony would do anything for her, but if (Y/N) didn’t return such feelings then it was all for nothing.

Worries and thoughts continue to plague him as Anthony catches sight of Daphne leaning into Simon. It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony cannot miss the devoted smile that crosses Simon’s face when he feels his wife press against him.

Longing breaks within Anthony’s chest, spreading through his body, leaving behind an ache that he doesn’t know how to heal.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” introduces the Butler, breaking Anthony’s longing in half.

He stands all too fast, appearing all too eager. Anthony shoots a glare in his brother’s direction when he hears their sniggering.

(Y/N) rushes into the room; her eyes filled with panic when she finds herself in front of the whole Bridgerton clan. “Anthony?” She whispers; her eyes finally meeting his from across the room.

“(Y/N),” He breathes, “Thank you for coming.”

“You told me not to worry, but you sounded so urgent.”

“We wanted to talk to you,” He explains, gesturing to his whole family. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

(Y/N) sits; her mind running a thousand miles a minute as she finds herself being watched by every Bridgerton/Basset in the room. The room is silent; too silent – no-one dares broach the subject first. They don’t want to anger Anthony or ruin his chances with (Y/N).

“Whatever is the matter?” (Y/N) finally asks, breaking the silence.

“We’ve come to understand that you and Anthony have feelings for each other,” Violet states quite plainly.

(Y/N) fidgets, somewhat uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I guess you could say that,” She offers, smiling smally at the aforementioned man.

“We also know that you’re worried about the differences between Anthony and yourself,” Violet continues to which Eloise huffs, crossing her arms in anger at the state of the class differences within England.

“It’s not so much worried,” (Y/N) explains, “It’s more resigned to the fact.”

Violet nods, understanding where the young governess is coming from. “Francesca,” Violet starts, nodding to the brunette sitting by one of Anthony’s brothers, “Has come up with an idea that we would like to run by you.”

“Oh?”

“It would mean that you and Anthony would be able to begin a courtship.”

(Y/N) feels herself flush; her face heating with how open the Bridgerton family were about their emotions. Their family unit so healthy and happy that everyone felt at ease to talk about whatever was on their minds.

“What did you have in mind?” (Y/N) asks, turning to face Francesca who responds with a large smile.

“We’re going to create a backstory for you. Not something terribly complicated, but something that you and Anthony can follow whilst out in public.”

“Okay…” (Y/N) whispers hesitantly, “What’s the backstory you’ve created?”

Francesca begins to look sheepish. “I haven’t thought of that part yet… I didn’t think Anthony would go for the first part.”

(Y/N) laughs; a light and airy sound that has Anthony straightening in his seat, smiling automatically. “Why don’t we come up with it together?”

“So you’re willing to go along with it?” Anthony asks; his voice unwaveringly hopeful as he refuses to look at anyone but (Y/N).

Something in his face has her nodding. “For as long as you’ll have me,” She answers earnestly, almost breathless when Anthony smiles widely in return.

“This is what I’ve thought of so far,” Colin announces, breaking the moment between Anthony and (Y/N).

The family turn to Colin to find him sat forward on his seat, an eager look across his face as he begins to lay out his plans. Anthony smiles and nods; happy with every word leaving his brother’s mouth.

(Y/N) cannot help but feel an ounce of doubt; not so much at the plan, but for longevity of it. How long would it be before Anthony realised she was not worth it? How long would it before the class difference between them became too much? She dreaded the day but knew it would be upon her before she realised.

----------

The annual picnic in Hyde Park drew in every affable family in London. After all, it was another excuse for mother’s to parade their daughters to the many eligible gentleman. For the gentlemen, it was a free lunch with whichever gazebo they chose to throw themselves upon.

The Bridgertons had been attending this picnic for many years; their station in society meaning that they were personally invited by the monarch. Violet took pride in her set up, making sure her cook’s famous biscuits were on display and that there was plenty of tea to go around. She also ensured that her family had the perfect view of the Serpentine; not too close for her children to fall in, but not too far for it to be out of sight. It was not a sorry affair.

(Y/N) had joined the family happily; talking briefly with Colin and Eloise before Hyacinth monopolised her attention. (Y/N) didn’t mind; she had taught many young girls the same age as Hyacinth and found them all a delight to educate. Hyacinth would be no different.

It wasn’t long, however, before Anthony joined her side. His hand settled comfortably on the small of her back, liking the way that she stepped closer to him, as if wanting to be in his presence all the time.

“Did you have fun the other night?” Anthony questions, thinking back to Daphne’s ball when (Y/N) had smiled at him as he lead her across the dancefloor.

(Y/N) smiles. “I did. I had a lot of fun.”

“How are you feeling about our ruse?” Anthony queries, catching sight of Lady Featherington marching across the many blankets in the direction of the Bridgerton patch.

“Confident,” (Y/N) answers, “Why do you ask?”

Anthony smiles; shifting his position slightly so he can hear every word of the conversation about to happen. He ducks his head, his mouth close to her ear as he answers, “Because it’s about to be put to the test.”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington calls; her gaudy green gown shimmering in the sunlight as she teeters her way to the matriarch of the fine family.

“Lady Featherington,” Violet greets, her voice as polite as ever. “How are you?”

Lady Featherington smiles at Violet; her gaze glancing around the colourful blankets and gazebo set out for the Bridgerton family to remain comfortable as the picnic progresses. Lady Featherington smiles when her eyes find the figure she was looking for. (Y/N) stands to the side, wrapped up in a conversation with Anthony that certainly looks to be a private one.

Lady Featherington nods towards (Y/N); the fascinator attached to her threatening to slip into her eyes. “You have a new addition to your family, Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington states; no infliction of a question but one inferred all the same.

“(Y/N) is a distant friend of the family,” Violet answers breezily, “She hails from a wealthy family just outside of Leeds.”

“Leeds?”

Violet nods. “Yes, Leeds. It’s just over 20 miles outside of York, perhaps you’ve been?”

Lady Featherington smiles tightly at Violet. She smooths down the green panels of her dress. “A handful of times, Lady Bridgerton. After all, my side of the family hails from Manchester. The two aren’t so far removed.”

“Of course,” Violet appeases, “How does your family fare? I’d heard your mother was ill.”

Lady Featherington continues to smile graciously at the Dowager Viscount. Her eyes are brimming with warning and curiosity, but her smile is forced. “Mother is doing much better, she travelled to the coast. The latest journals are saying sea air helps with fragile conditions.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Lady Featherington nods her thanks to Violet before making her excuses. Violet’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she watches the notorious gossip walk away from her gazebo. Lady Featherington’s shoulders are tight with displeasure as she marches back to her own plot.

Violet returns to the stitching in her lap after a brief glance towards her youngest children. Gregory and Hyacinth occupied with Benedict and Colin as the older of the set teach their younger siblings games from their youth. Violet smiles at her children; content to return to the pattern at hand, the Dutch Tulips would not stitch themselves.

“What was Lady Featherington talking to you about?” Anthony asks. His face the very picture of innocence as he breaks his mother’s concentration and grabs two biscuits – one for him, the other he hands to (Y/N).

“She was fishing for information on our dear (Y/N),” Violet comments, observing her stitching to ensure it remains straight. “She didn’t find out a thing other than what we discussed.”

(Y/N) lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet waves away her gratitude with a dismissive hand. “You’re making my son happy; I’ll protect that and you with all that I have.”

(Y/N) flounders for a moment at the quick acceptance by Violet. She smiles at the matriarch; whispering her thanks to Violet, ducking her head as she tries to come to terms with rush of emotions coursing through her body.

Anthony returns his attention to the conversation; his mind no longer focused on way to distract Lady Featherington. He flashes a smile in (Y/N)’s direction; his heart racing when she sends her own smile back.

“(Y/N) and I are going to promenade, mother. You’ll be fine without us?”

Violet snorts. “Yes, dear. I have my seven other children to keep me company.”

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly at his mother. He presses a sweet kiss to her cheek before offering (Y/N) his arm.

They amble along the path; all the while aware of the maid sent by Violet shortly after they departed. Violet trusts (Y/N) implicitly, but she knows the reputation of her eldest son. The poor opera singer being prime evidence of his abilities to break hearts as quickly as he mends them.

“You look beautiful, by the way. In case I haven’t told you,” Anthony flirts, a handsome smile spreading across his face.

“You haven’t, but I’ll take the compliment now.”

Anthony laughs, throwing his head back in delight as they both pause their walk. “You are though,” Anthony murmurs, reaching out to brush a finger down (Y/N)’s cheek, “You’re beautiful.”

(Y/N) averts her gaze; her cheeks flushing from the unexpected compliment. Anthony glances on either side of them, catching sight of the maid only a few feet away, doing her best to nonchalantly follow them. Anthony turns his attention back to the woman in front of him, desperate for a moment alone with her. A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“Follow me,” Anthony repeats, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He gestures to a faint path; one less travelled. “Do you trust me?”

(Y/N) answers by taking his outstretched hand, letting herself be led down the lesser known path.

Their pace slows when they are certain they have lost their chaperone. (Y/N) feels a twinge of guilt as she thinks of the poor maid who was only doing what she was asked by her employer, but then she catches sight of the unbridled glee on Anthony’s face and her guilt is quickly replaced by anticipation.

“Where are we going?” She asks; her voice jostling slightly as she tries to watch Anthony and not trip over any loose twigs or stones.

“Nowhere in particular,” Anthony confesses, “I just wanted you to myself for a little bit.”

His pace slows; they’re a good distance away from the picnic party, they wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Anthony wonders as he comes to a stop. His hands settle on her waist and she has do all that she can to focus on the conversation and not the fact that she can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her dress.

“You can tell me anything.”

“I like spending time with you. You make me…” Anthony trails off as he thinks of the word, “Happy. Yes, you make me happy.”

“You make me happy too.”

“If you want me to stop,” Anthony whispers, bending to press a line of kisses from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, “You need to tell me now.”

“Don’t stop,” She whispers, fisting her hands in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him forward.

Anthony kissed her carefully, as if afraid he would ruin her from the very moment their lips touched. What he didn’t realise, however, was that he had ruined her from the instant they met. He might not have realised it, but she knew. She knew that from that one conversation, that one touch to her elbow, she would be ruined for other men.

His mouth is gentle, hesitant. By the way he groans low in his throat, Anthony does not expect (Y/N) to react the way she does. Gasping against his mouth, pressing herself against him as her lips open under his. The kiss becomes hurried; oxygen becoming a distant thought of the past as (Y/N) tastes the lemon biscuits Anthony had stolen from his mother’s table.

Breaking the kiss, the couple each suck in ragged breaths. Shy smiles break out across either of their faces, not having expected such a thing to happen to between them. A short laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he keeps (Y/N) wrapped up in his embrace. Neither of them feel the need to say a word; happy to let the time pass between them in complete silence.

“We should probably get back,” (Y/N) eventually murmurs against Anthony’s cheek, the slight stubble scratching her skin.

Anthony releases a choked sound. “I don’t want to,” He confesses, “I want to stay here with you.”

(Y/N) pulls back, brushing a gloved hand against Anthony’s cheek. He leans into the touch; finding himself enraptured by the woman in front of him. “I want to stay with you too,” She whispers, “But your family will be looking for us.”

Anthony sighs, breaking the embrace entirely. He holds her hand; tangling their fingers together. If he could, he wouldn’t let go of her at all. He would keep her with him at all times; he likes to be in her presence, doesn’t want to be without it. However, society and duty calls, and he must return. However, he would be damned if he was to let go of her hand before then.

“Alright,” He concedes, beginning the walk back to the picnic.

The walk is quiet, but comfortable. Their hands remained tangled even as they arrive back to the Bridgertons. His brother’s throw Anthony a knowing glance which Anthony ignores. He knows his mother will have a strict word with him later, but he has more pressing matters on his mind – his future and the woman now sitting with his youngest siblings.

He’s found his forever; he just needs to keep it.

-----

“Miss (Y/L/N),” the Butler begins, interrupting the governess as she marks her student’s latest set of handwriting, “A Viscount Bridgerton to see you?”

“Oh!” She gasps, standing from her seat far too quickly. The inkpot on her desk spills, sapphire blue ink spreading across the multitude of papers thrown about her desk. As she watches the puddle grow, she begins to feel a deep sense of dread spread through her being.

“Shall I show him in?” The Butler asks, also watching the ink stain spread.

“Have you already made Lord and Lady Saville aware of his presence?”

“Yes, miss. They’re the ones who told me to fetch him to you.”

“Then yes, show him in please,” (Y/N) answers, staring forlornly at the ruined paper and wasted ink. The Butler makes a sympathetic noise before opening the door further for Anthony to enter.

“Darling,” Anthony greets. He goes to speak further but spies the growing blue stain. “What happened here?”

“I stood up too quickly,” (Y/N) complains. “It’s gone everywhere, and I can’t afford another bottle right now.”

“That’s no problem. I’ll get you a bottle.”

(Y/N) fixes the man with an unimpressed look. “No you won’t. I don’t want you buying things for me.”

“It won’t be bought. I have a stock of ink back at Bridgerton House due to the amount of correspondence I have. You can have a couple of pots; I will not miss it.”

“Oh… well, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Anthony smiles. “Now that’s sorted, I came here to ask you a question.”

“You have?”

“I have. Would you attend the Shakespearean ball? With me?” His voice has a note of vulnerability in it as he voices his question.

“What?” She asks, “As in arrive with you, on your arm?”

“Yes,” Anthony states slowly, “You would come with me and my family.”

She begins to pace the room; her hands wringing together as she tries to calm the pounding of her heart and mind. “Are you sure this is the path you want to go down?” She asks Anthony; her voice begging for a truthful answer.

“What do you mean?”

“This is getting very serious very fast, Anthony. This plan isn’t going to work forever; the ton will find out that I’m a governess and the ruse will be over. This could ruin your entire family, Anthony.”

“Hey,” Anthony hushes, interrupting her pacing. He reaches for her hand with one hand whilst the other cups her cheek. She automatically leans into the touch, sending a thrill through Anthony’s aching soul. “Nothing’s going to happen,” He reassures with a gentle tone, “Should anything happen, we can do damage control.”

“I don’t want to be the ruin of your family, Anthony,” (Y/N) whispers, her eyes lined with unshed tears. She could never forgive herself if the Bridgertons were socially injured by her lack of money relating to her lack of status. (Y/N) could not help the hand of cards she was dealt at birth, but society dictates her station, and hers was so far below Anthony’s it was any wonder that he noticed her in the first place. It was a dream to be accepted by his family; she didn’t want to be the cause of their ruination.

“You aren’t going to be the ruin of my family,” Anthony assures, brushing under her eyes with his thumbs to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “You’re going to be the making of it. I want you in my life, (Y/N). I want to see where this goes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I haven’t felt like this for a long time, I want to see where this feeling takes me.”

“Okay,” She concedes, doing her best to stop the tears falling, “I’ll go to the ball with you.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

The smile that spreads across Anthony’s face makes it all worth it. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then another to her nose, to her cheek before finally kissing her in earnest. She hums against his mouth; getting lost in the feel of him.

“It’ll be worth it,” Anthony whispers. “All of this is worth it.”

“You’re worth it,” (Y/N) states quietly, pulling him back in for another kiss.

----

Lady Danbury was one of two women in London that could throw a memorable ball. The other being Violet Bridgerton. For her theme this year, Lady Danbury had chosen the works of the Elizabethan bard, William Shakespeare. For what could be more romantic than dressing as characters immortalised in his plays and sonnets?

Anthony would not tell (Y/N) one whisper of his costume; kept it a secret from her despite her barrage of questions. As revenge, she kept quiet about her costume, refusing to tell the man the colour of her dress.

The two walk into the ballroom with (Y/N)’s hand resting on Anthony’s forearm; her nerves rattle as she walks further into the room. She knew she had no reason to be nervous; Anthony and his family would protect her from whatever form of gossip falls her way, but she could not help the turning of her stomach as she walked passed many disappointed mothers who had hoped Anthony would pay their daughters the slightest bit of attention.

The music is loud; the laughter lightening the atmosphere and the dancers in full swing as (Y/N) begins to feel comfortable. Having taught many a child Shakespeare, (Y/N) spent a lot of time trying to decipher the characters in attendance tonight. She had already seen three Violas, four Benedicks, and six Olivias.

“I have to go talk to someone,” Anthony says apologetically, interrupting her guessing game, “I won’t be long. Will you be okay without me?”

(Y/N) nods. “Go. I’m sure I’ll find someone to talk to.”

Anthony presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, whispering as he does so, “A marvel amongst women.”

“You’re nothing but a flirt,” She laughs, batting the love of her life away. “Go talk business.”

“As you wish,” Anthony laughs, mock-bowing before leaving (Y/N) to wander the ball alone. Moments pass before she finds someone she recognises. “Colin,” She greets happily, “Who have you come as?”

“Romeo Montague,” Colin answers, stretching his arms wide to show off his rather fetching garb.

“How wonderful,” She laughs, watching the Bridgerton strike a pose in his costume.

“Who knows,” Colin teases, “Maybe tonight I’ll find my Juliet.”

(Y/N) laughs once more, batting the man away when he wiggles his eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner. “Off with you,” She snorts, “I’m sure there are plenty of ladies for you to dance with.”

Colin departs with a bow of his head. (Y/N) rolls her eyes at the antics of the younger man; Colin knew full well of the line of ladies waiting for his signature of their dance cards, but something warms in (Y/N)’s chest when she watches Colin walk straight to Penelope Featherington.

“They’d make a fine pair if he would pull his head out,” A voice full of humour sounds from behind her.

(Y/N) startles. She turns to find Anthony watching her; his lips curled in a manner that suggested he was holding back the laughter he so desperately wanted to let out.

“You made me jump,” She hisses, batting his outstretched hand away.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Anthony coos, pulling (Y/N) into his embrace by pulling on one of the many skirts about her waist. (Y/N) flushes at the term of endearment, but also at the many pairs of eyes now watching the young couple.

“You’re forgiven,” She sighs. “Who have you dressed as?” She asks, changing the subject.

“Ferdinand,” Anthony answers, “From The Tempest.”

“How odd,” (Y/N) muses, “I’ve dressed as Miranda from The Tempest.”

“‘Admired Miranda!/ Indeed the top of admiration, worth/ What’s dearest to the world!’”

“Only you could quote Shakespeare from the heart,” (Y/N) states wryly.

Anthony preens, puffing out his chest slightly. “All the Bridgertons can. We would do dramatizations of the plays.”

“Of course,” (Y/N) laughs, picturing Anthony as a young boy, dressed in breeches with a make-do ruff around his neck. The very image brings a fond smile to her face.

“What are you smiling about?” Anthony questions, wanting to be privy to the thoughts running through her mind.

“You,” She flirts, hooking her arm through Anthony’s as they start to take a turn about the room.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Anthony states pompously though his heart races at her words.

Her laughter chimes as Anthony steers (Y/N) around the room, pausing only to grab two glasses of lemonade from the drinks table. She sips at it delicately, not risking a spill of a single drop on her outfit.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Anthony murmurs into her ear. “Truly. I would have been lost without you.”

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” (Y/N) teases, enjoying the blush that begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. She briefly touches a gloved hand to his cheek, smiling fondly at the brunette. “I’m glad I came too.”

Anthony clears his throat; clearing his throat of the emotion clogging it up. He takes her drink from her, placing it on a nearby table. As ever the gentleman he was raised to be, Anthony bows towards the women he vows is the love of his life and offers his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

“Always,” She answers with a breathtaking smile, taking his hand to be led onto the dancefloor for the start of the new song. Couples on the floor take up the position of the quadrille as upbeat music sounds through the hall.

It’s hard not to smile as Anthony takes her hand to begin the first steps of the lead couple. The first dance figure is performed before copied by the other couples in their square.

Anthony keeps a tight hold on her as he begins the next set of dance figures; spinning (Y/N) out before drawing her back in. Laughter falls from her mouth, setting his heart alight with the love he feels for her.

She catches the eye of Lady Featherington through one of many of Anthony’s spins. The Lady smiles knowingly, raising her glass to the young woman spinning in the arms of the Viscount.

(Y/N)’s breath freezes in her chest; she makes a choked sound and her steps falter. Luckily, no-one but Anthony seems to notice, but he recovers his hold on (Y/N) fairly quickly. It’s the end of the song; couples slowing on the floor, the audience beginning to clap their approvals.

“Darling?” Anthony calls quietly, breaking her out of her reverie. His hand remains in her hold; refusing to let him take even a step without her.

“Take me somewhere we can be alone,” She pleads, suddenly overcome by the sheer amount of people milling about the hall.

Anthony doesn’t need to be told twice, leading (Y/N) away from the dancefloor with a guiding hand on the small of her back. Anthony catches Benedict’s eye as he leaves the hall; his brother offers him a single nod to which Anthony relaxes – Benedict would make sure no-one would follow or interrupt, there was something important Anthony had to do.

The night air is cold against her heated skin as she inhales hurried breaths. The stone of the railing is cool under her fingers as she grips the stone tight; needing something to tether her to this place. It feels like a dream; a total dream that she would find herself costumed as a character from a Shakespeare play brushing elbows with some of the most powerful people in the country.

At this time of night, the gardens are dark, but she can still make out their heavenly fragrance perfuming the air, providing the perfect backdrop for this night.

“Are you alright?” Anthony asks, removing his jacket and settling it over her shoulders.

(Y/N) pulls his jacket tighter around her; inhaling the comforting scent of musk and sweet orange washing over her. “I’m fine now, it got to be a bit too much in there.”

“That’s an understatement,” Anthony murmurs, “I saw Lady Featherington.”

(Y/N) cringes internally. Her face is a mask of polite interest as she murmurs, “Oh? You saw that did you?”

“She only acts as if she knows everything, darling,” Anthony reassures, settling his hands on (Y/N)’s waist, desperate to be touching her.

“I know,” She murmurs, but his words do nothing to settle the panic tying her chest into knots.

“We’re fine,” Anthony promises; hands rubbing up and down the sides of her bodice. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” She repeats, sighing heavily, leaning back into his embrace. His chest is strong against her back, but she doesn’t get long to admire his strength. He turns her in his arms, peering down at the expression on her face.

“You’re who I love. I couldn’t give a damn what the rest of London society thinks.”

“I love you as well,” She answers, a small smile on her face, letting his words wash away any and all of her worries. “You do have a way with words.”

“Flatterer,” He teases, dipping his head to kiss her.

(Y/N) gasps at the first press of Anthony’s lips against hers. She had kissed him before; a hurried meeting of mouths before their chaperone caught up to them. This kiss differed from that; languid, unhurried. Anthony took his time to memorise the feel of her lips against his; the small whimpers sounding at the back of her throat.

Each brush of his lips against hers spoke of what he found it hard to put into words. He had never been a wordsmith; could never write poetry or recite the romances of the past, but with every butterfly kiss placed on her lips in time to the shuddering of her heartbeat could Anthony translate the sheer scale of what he feels for her.

She reaches up to cup the back of his neck, fingers carding through the dark brown locks. Anthony’s grip on her waist remains firm as he presses her further into the railing. The gentleness of Anthony’s kiss soon turns to a burning passion as his hands splay across the small of (Y/N)’s back, pressing her to him.

As Anthony’s kisses begin to travel the expanse of her jawline, (Y/N) is suddenly grateful for the railing behind her. If he was to let her go now, not only would she feel the keen absence of his touch, but she would surely sink to the floor. The feel of his mouth, pressed hot against her, has her knees feeling unsteady.

“(Y/N),” Anthony whispers, nuzzling the side of her neck, “(Y/N)…”

“You keep whispering my name,” She murmurs into the night air; her ragged breath leaving behind white plumes.

“Marry me,” Anthony all but pleads, pulling back from (Y/N)’s neck to gaze into her eyes. “Marry me and always be mine.”

It seemed that time had stopped and lost all of its meaning; there was no party, no gardens, no laughter of lifelong friends. No. In this moment there was only Anthony.

“Yes,” She whispers, laughter beginning to fall from her mouth as fresh as a morning rainfall. Once it starts, she cannot find it in herself to stop. Tears soon join the laughter as a smile breaks across Anthony’s handsome face. “Yes,” She repeats, “I will marry you.”

********

Bridgerton taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley @spideysz @iammirrorball

taglists are open! drop me an ask if you would like to be added!

#anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #anthony x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton imagines #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagines

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apoemaday · 2 years

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Christmas

by John Betjeman

The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say “The church looks nice” on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze, And Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze, Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says “Merry Christmas to you all.”

And is it true? And is it true, This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window's hue, A Baby in an ox's stall? The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is, No loving fingers tying strings Around those tissued fripperies, The sweet and silly Christmas things, Bath salts and inexpensive scent And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells, No carolling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells Can with this single Truth compare— That God was man in Palestine And lives today in Bread and Wine.

#poetry #John Betjeman #christmas #a personal favorite

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thepriceisrizzoli · 3 years

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hello yes it’s me trying to write again

I’m working on a new not yet titled fic and am here to gauge interest and hype myself into writing more of it. for your consideration:

jane has Issues post hoyt

maura is pilot maura, new on the job

jane/dean/maura energy from the pilot except delete dean and aim them at each other

they aren’t friends right away

ace jane / queerplatonic rizzles or something to that effect

so it’s not smutty

here’s a first chapter preview. are we into this?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Whoa. That the new M.E.?" Frost juts his chin.

The first person Rizzoli's eyes fall on must be the one he means. She attracts the eye, standing out with the electric aura of a celebrity in a crowd of average slobs.

Everything about her drips wealth. Blonde hair highlighted, cut and styled so immaculately as to almost be severe, as if there’s a salon chair in the Mercedes she just emerged from. Blood-red overcoat and black stilettos in a squalid Dorchester alley at 2AM. Her look could be summarized as I could kill you, get away with it, and make the cover of a magazine in the process.

It's not like there's a second person around here who might fit the little nicknames that've been floating around the precinct - Rich Bitch, Her Majesty, Queen of the Dead.

"Must be."

"Wonder where she just came from," he says as a uniform scurries to lift the tape for her.

As they watch her making her way toward the body, Rizzoli tries to figure out what strikes her as odd about this woman. It's that she's alone. She's certainly attracting attention, but usually somebody who looks like that comes with an entourage.

"Poor thing. We must've interrupted a photo shoot," she mutters, turning back to the blood droplets at evidence marker 6.

Her fingers worry absentmindedly at the sleeve of her own plain black overcoat where it's just beginning to fray. It isn't shabby. She's just had it a while.

"Hey, Sinclair," she says to a passing evidence photographer, "Can you make sure this blood gets-"

"Hang on," he says breathlessly, not breaking stride from his jogging beeline to the doctor. Rizzoli watches him arrive at her side and eagerly brandish his camera, awaiting her orders to photograph something she points at.

"Oh, brother," she grumbles.

"Well.. we oughta..." Frost begins to suggest, shrinking a little at the expressionless look his partner turns onto him. "I mean, to get the time of death and all."

They already checked out the body before the M.E. got here. Pretty fresh; two shots; wedding ring; no wallet. Once they ID him they'll look at the wife first, but it's not going to be the wife, at least not directly. Not many women would set foot here at night, even armed. This'll be a guy shooting a guy over money or drugs. The most boring murder.

"Mm-hm." He falls in step with her as soon as she moves.

When the detectives approach, they do so silently and from behind the doctor's back - and yet she somehow senses to rise and turn to them.

"You must be Detectives Rizzoli and Frost." She strips the nitrile glove from her right hand. "I'm Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

Rizzoli almost does the yeah, yeah, speed it up gesture with her waiting hand by the time she gets to the word Examiner.

"Evening, Doctor."

"Barry Frost," her partner adds, all teeth, sticking out his own hand. "We've been looking forward to working with you."

She shoots him a sideways glance. Easy, bud.

"Likewise," Dr. Isles answers him calmly, though with her eyes on Rizzoli.

"Time of death?" She asks, slipping her cold hands into her coat pockets.

"Liver temperature indicates death occurred between 10 and 11 PM. The gunshot wounds would appear to be the cause of death, but we'll know more tomorrow." The doctor picks up her bag and turns to one of the techs, discussing removal of the body while the detectives give the area another looking over.

"I'll begin the autopsy tomorrow morning at 9." The detective wasn't planning on looking up, but something in the tone that lingers after the doctor's voice demands it. She appears to have been addressing her specifically, and adds with completely unwarranted silkiness, "Come if you like."

Refusing to appear thrown, Rizzoli holds the eye contact impassively until she is gone - then narrows her eyes at the empty space.

"Just me, or.. ?"

"Nope," Frost answers from behind her, hitching his pants to squat and examine some shell casings.

Deadbolt. Chain. Keys, badge, wallet on top of the piano.

Rizzoli reaches her hand down for a lick, before remembering in stark silence that there hasn't been a dog in this apartment for months.

Jo Friday was sort of a "maybe caring for an animal will cure your PTSD" gift from Korsak. It was nice coming home to something living, but her schedule wasn't fair to the little mutt. She gets more attention now at her mother's house.

The bathroom light makes her wince, and she squeezes toothpaste on her brush with a squint. It's the one act of self care she promised herself she wouldn't skip no matter how bad things are.

Washing her face she'll skip, though, because it'd get her sleeves wet, and she's too cold and tired to take her coat off. She wasn't wearing makeup anyway.

She pulls the tie out of her ponytail. Her hair is long and flat and oily, thanks to yesterday's plan to wash it tomorrow. One of these days she needs to go get a real haircut again. She's been trimming it herself, and it looks that way. It's not the cost, or even the small talk. She doesn't like people close to her face with shiny sharp objects.

But who cares if she looked like shit? The other cops had been unshaven, rumpled, half-asleep. Nobody looks amazing at a 2am crime scene.

Well. Almost nobody.

The case seems safe to close on Dr. Isles being into women, and it seems an awful lot like she assumes that's mutual. She certainly wouldn't be the first.

Despite every piece of valid circumstantial evidence that twenty years of rumors have been based on, Rizzoli isn't.

The man she was seeing most recently (no longer recent at all, actually) jealously referred to her job as "her husband" after it caused her to postpone the same date too many times. In the middle of yelling at him, she realized he had a point, and they went their separate ways. Her quest for a relationship had been on the back burner to begin with, but at that point, she switched the flame off entirely.

That's the first reason why you never see her with a man. The second is that three years ago, Charles Hoyt killed her.

No, she didn't die like with a funeral. But something about who she was got irreparably broken. Eventually she realized that if she was ever going to escape the endless loop of emotional crises and mandatory therapy, and get back to work, she would have to let go of who she used to be. She would just have to abandon herself, still pinned to that dank basement floor, and go on like her own ghost.

Fourteen months of panic and anxiety and all it took was one decision to just... be someone else. There was an eerie sense of power in the immediate calm it brought her.

She boxed up all the Jane things her apartment - the pictures on the walls, the family photos, the fly ball she caught on her 22nd birthday, grandma's bundt pan - and moved. The new place has generic decor, solid colors, sparse surfaces. It looks like the set of an apartment. Anyone could live there.

She did the same with her personality. She's not Jane anymore. Just Rizzoli. Blank, generic. Safely empty. Like if anybody tried to touch her, their hand would pass right through.

Rizzoli is nobody, apart from being a homicide detective. Having emptied her life of everything else has made her the absolute best one around. The only downside is the way that tends to result in recognition. She told the Lieutenant that the attention is a punishment, not a reward, and that if they want to decorate her, they can mail her that shit. He didn't like that, but what's he gonna do? Fire her?

Personal relationships of any kind are off the table. Not women, not men, not anyone. Not friends. It's easier and safer not to know anyone.

If that blonde doctor has something in mind, that's just where it'll have to stay: in her mind.

Phone and gun go on the nightstand. Rizzoli rolls on top of her unmade bedsheets, fully dressed. She sleeps in her clothes most nights. It's easier to fall asleep knowing she can get up and fight. Pajamas and bare feet are weak.

She stares up at the slats of light that the gaps in her blinds throw across her ceiling.

Gaps are dangerous. This one, between getting into bed and falling asleep, is the most dangerous part of her day, because unoccupied minds can wander.

Sometimes, late at night, unoccupied, alone and in the privacy of her own home, she's tempted to be Jane again, just for a minute. But then all that same old bullshit would start up again.

She forces tonight’s crime scene into her mind and visualizes it until she falls asleep.

#ok sharks who's ready to invest #fanfic #rizzles #rizzles fanfiction #gotta hurry or i'll be late for the rizzlessaince #be honest is qpl or half ace rizzles going to make people not read it #this wouldn't be my usual fluff/smutfest #my stuff

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jackoshadows · 2 years

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Samwell Tarly is a rather important character in ASoIaF. His similarities to Samwise Gamgee, Frodo’s loyal friend in LOTR, has already been pointed out.

Q: It's not really a question, but I've noticed a great similarity between ASOS and Lord of the Rings - the two Sams, Samwell Tarly and Samwise Gamgee. In particular, in each series, a Sam made a desperate attack on a hopelessly superior force (an Other and the huge spider Shelob) to protect a defenseless companion (Gilly and her baby and the bound Frodo). Would you care to comment?

A: There are a number of homages to LOTR in my book. I am a huge Tolkien fan.

Q: By the way, I hope Jon Snow isn't ASOIAF's Frodo. Jon's my favorite character, and I wouldn't want him to end up like Frodo, sick and scarred inside from his burden.

A: He's taller than Frodo - SSM, 2001, GRRM (🤣🤣)

But Samwell also has similarities to Loial from The Wheel of Time for example. The bookish character who may end up writing about the stories of his friends and those he knew. Sam may end up penning A Song of Ice an Fire, writing about the heroes who fought in the Long Night and were instrumental in the saving of Westeros. Like Glydayn who wrote Fire and Blood and Targaryen history.

In Wheel of Time Loial tries his best to always travel with the Ta'veren because that’s where the story happens. And interestingly we see GRRM start to do the same thing with Sam. He spends most of the books with Jon Snow at the heart of the main conflict on the wall and figuring out about the Others.

GRRM then has him meet Bran Stark, travel all the way to Braavos to say hello to Arya Stark, talk with Maester Aemon about Daenerys Targaryen, go to Old Town and is responsible for Marwyn going after Daenerys. Samwell may very well end up meeting Daenerys and Tyrion once they get to Westeros and even mediate the meeting between them and Jon Snow.

Sam the Slayer is also the only character to have killed an Other. There is every chance that he will also encounter Euron Greyjoy - another major antagonist - when he attacks Old Town. Maybe he even helps thwart Euron’s attack considering there are hints that Sam will be involved in the battle there.

Besides all this, Sam is important to GRRM as a character. He is one of the characters GRRM spontaneously talks about. He loves writing for Sam

GRRM interview:

So if Martin were on the show, which character would he be?

"I would probably be Samwell Tarly. I love Sam, too. He's a great character," he said. "Tyrion might be who I want to be, but Sam is probably closer to who I actually am. The fat kid who likes to read books and doesn't like to go up a lot of stairs."

Both Sam and Tyrion love books mirroring GRRM’s love of books.

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one." - Jojen Reed

GRRM was bullied as a kid:

Q: When you look back to George as a little boy, looking out on Staten Island, did you know little King Joffrey on the street?

A: Oh there were a number of them, yeah. I was the shy kid, I was the smart kid. There were also always bullies in school. People made life miserable for the smart kids and the shy kids. So I think little Joffrey was partly made up of all the bullies I knew in my life. -SSM Apr. 2014

------------------------------

Tommy’s me . . . but no more than all the others. Robb is me in "Song for Lya," as Dirk is me in Dying of the Light . . . though Arkin Ruark and Jaan Antony in that one are both me as well. Abner Marsh is me, as his proud sidewheeler Fevre Dream is the excursion boat to Far Rockaway, only the passengers drink blood instead of Kool-Aid. Sandy Blair is J-school me, Peter Norten is chess club me, Kenny Dorchester is me trying to lose weight. Holt in "The Stone City," he’s the kid lying in the grass, staring up at distant stars. Trager is me on a dark night of the soul, bleeding poison from three wounds named Josie, Laurel, Rita. Jon Snow has me in him, and Sam Tarly. The women too, Lyanna and Shaara, and the girls, Arya and Adara . . . Daenerys Stormborn, searching for that house with the red door. And Tyrion Lannister? Oh, yes. The Imp is me in spades, the horny little bastard - GRRM

I see Sam Tarly as being in the thick of things when important stuff happens in the last books. He will be most probably be instrumental in helping Jon Snow bring everyone together and provide them with the information needed to tackle the threat from beyond the wall.

#Samwell Tarly

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broadstbroskis · 3 years

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the countdown | kevin hayes

a/n: @hockeynetwork ran another wonderful fic exchange this season! i had the lovely @fanfics-for-the-hockey-fan and one of the questions i asked you was for your favorite tropes. you gave me “families are super close and have a bet going on who realize they are in love with each other first.” this is...not quite that 😂 but similar and i hope you enjoy anyway 💚

8:43 pm

Olivia slams her car door shut and checks her watch, swearing as she jogs around to the passenger side to gather everything she’s brought. Besides her activity ring judging her for not meeting her goal, she’s late and she’s going to take so much shit for that.

She practically jogs to the door (or, well, as best as she can in her high heeled booties), plate of her famous chocolate chip cookies in hand, and then stops abruptly right on the front porch when the door opens before she can do it herself.

There goes her hope of just sneaking in.

It’s Jimmy. Of course, it’s Jimmy, with that classic Hayes shit-eating grin on his face as he greets her, even though this isn’t even his fucking house. “Livvy! Rolling in 45 minutes late even though you’re the closest one here.”

“This is honestly so rude of you.” She complains, even as she pulls him in for a hug. She wouldn’t have expected any less from Jimmy, who gives her just as much shit as her own older brother does and always has, ever since they were all kids growing up together in Dorchester. “This is how you treat me, after I show up here with cookies I made especially for you?”

His eyes light up, like she knew they would, even though they both know they’re not just for him. But her chocolate chip cookies are a big hit with all of them, and instead of calling her out on it, he reaches for the plate. “I’ll just take those from you now; put them somewhere safe.”

Olivia laughs. “Nuh-uh. Lemme in; it’s cold as fuck out here.”

Jimmy finally steps aside so she can follow him in the doorway, and only then does Liv hand him the plate of cookies, so that she can take off her coat, revealing the sparkly tank she’d dragged out of her closet just for the evening. “Where’s the champagne?” She pouts, as he leads her on a familiar route deeper into the house. “You came to greet me at the door and didn’t even bring me bubbly?”

“Kristin probably drank it all already.” He jokes, which is straight blasphemy, because she knows his wife set aside at least two bottles just for the two of them to share the minute she walked in the door.

“My girl would never!” Olivia says confidently, and sure enough, the second the two of them walk into the family room to join the rest of the families, his wife is holding up two flutes of champagne with a large smile on her face.

“Livvy!” Kristin cheers and Liv finds herself being pulled into the blonde for a hug and a glass of champagne being thrust into her hand before anyone in her own family can even say hello to her. “You’re here, finally.”

“Oh my god!” Olivia takes a sip of her champagne and rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Every person in this room has been more late to something than I am right now! Jack’s never showed up to Thanksgiving on time or without a hangover in his life and nobody says shit!” She deflects to her younger brother, who holds his hands up innocently.

“We’re not talking about me right now, Livvy.” The grin on Jack’s face widens, somehow. “We’re talking about you lying to all of us.”

She’s absolutely taken aback by that because she hasn’t? She’d panicked in the group chat earlier about getting stuck on a call at work, and then stuck in traffic, which set her back getting ready to come over here and meet all of them. She would have been on time. She’s always on time. “What are you talking about?” She frowns, as a tall person drops an arm around her shoulders and squeezes. “I haven’t lied to anyone.” She looks over at Nolan and pulls a face at him, and then laughs as he deadpans one back to her.

She’d been sure that her long time best friend’s roommate had hated her when they first met, but Kevin had been quick to assure her that was just how Nolan was. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that was true. Beneath Nolan’s resting bitch face that put hers to absolute shame, was an absolute sweetheart; she hated having to admit she was wrong to Kevin.

“To anyone?” Jimmy and Mike, Liv’s older brother, are looking at each other with this ridiculous look of both disbelief and mocking. “Not lying about anything?”

“You saw me literally last week?” She addresses her brother. She’d gone home for Christmas; they’d sat with all their cousins at their grandmother’s and had a great time, just like always. “What the fuck are you on?”

“Olivia!” Her mom snaps, half-heartedly, not even looking away from the conversation she’s having with Liv’s dad and Kevin’s parents.

But Mike merely grins at her. “I don’t know, Liv.” He says, as she’s lifted off the floor and twirled around. “You tell me.”

But she can’t really hear anything he says after that, too busy laughing and shoving at Kevin, trying (unsuccessfully) to get him to put her down. He does, finally, but leaves his arm around her shoulders, even when she tries to shove her shoulders against him in retaliation (a wildly unsuccessful attempt, he goes absolutely nowhere, she really just ends up bringing herself closer to him). “Here’s my girl!” Kevin cheers, shaking her enough that she almost spills what’s left in her champagne glass (and she would have killed him for wasting such a commodity). “ I told you to take off today.”

“Ugh, I wish I could have.” Except they have this huge launch in the first week of the year and they’re still putting finishing touches on, so that was absolutely not happening. It’ll be a miracle that they finish on time as it is. She’s going to pop so much champagne once this goes off.

Kevin, who’s definitely familiar with this work project that she’s been bitching about for months now, laughs; he knows she couldn’t take off earlier, even if she’d really wanted too, and he squeezes her shoulders once. “A few more days and you’re done. Forever.” She clinks her glass against his beer in a cheers. Bless. “Thank god.” He continues. “I don’t like the person you are when you’re 3am deep in emails, Livvy.”

“Lies.” She elbows him, the only time she can really get some leverage against him, when her bony elbow manages to find the spot just under his ribcage. “You love me all the time.”

“Well that’s cute.” Mike says, in that dangerous voice that Liv always finds hard to read. “Just the nicest couple of liars.” And it’s the way he says couple, that really does it for her, but it goes right over Kevin’s head, if the way he just leads her to the kitchen to put down her cookies and get a plate of food, is any indication.

-----

9:23 pm

“Okay, spill.” Kristin says, the second she manages to get Liv alone, not a terribly easy feat, as Liv’s been doing everything she can to avoid that.

“Spill what?” Kristin’s got that look in her eyes, like she’s not going to let this go...whatever this is.

“Whatever’s going on with you and Kev.”

Olivia blinks. “There’s nothing going on with me and Kev.” Except that’s maybe not exactly true. It’s not a lie- there’s definitely nothing going on between them. They’re still friends, definitely still friends. But...there’s definitely not nothing between them either.

There’s too many late nights on one of their couches, spent doing absolutely nothing but talking. Too many lingering touches that don’t lead anywhere. Too many glances across a crowded room where she feels like a magnet is pulling her there in the first place, and then can’t seem to pull herself away.

So like. There’s not nothing. But nothing’s changed; they’re still goofy Kevin and organized Liv, best friends taking on the world (in Philly, now; together again, finally).

“Bullshit.” Kristin calls her out, but Liv’s saved by the arrival of one of Kevin’s sisters, who tries to wrangle them in for a picture before they all become too messy later.

It’s an easy reminder though, of how well these people all know her. So it’s probably time to lock it down for the night.

-----

10:05 pm

It’s quiet in the kitchen, where Olivia has made herself busy cleaning up after stopping in the bathroom. She’s gathered up leftovers of anything that needs to be put away, separated into bags and containers for everyone to take home, and then started on the dishes, when suddenly she feels a finger poke her side, before an entire arm wraps around her stomach.

“Stop that.” Kevin murmurs into her ear, trying to tug her away. “They’ll still be dirty for us tomorrow.”

“It’s fine.” She fights against him. “The whole thing took me like, five minutes.”

“You’ve been gone for fifteen.” Kevin says, wrapping his other hand around her waist and lifting her away from the sink. “And that’s not the point.”

He sets her down on the other side of the counter; the sink’s not even in reach anymore. She gets her revenge by wiping her wet hands on his henley, but Kev doesn’t even blink, still staring down at her. “I was almost done!” She protests.

“We can clean the kitchen tomorrow.” Kevin says calmly. “Come hang out with us. I know you’ve got this thing about cleaning and order and shit but I swear to God, Nols and I are not going to fight you on this; you can put everything back wherever you want to put it tomorrow.”

Liv bites her lip so he won’t see her laugh, but of course he knows and a grin immediately stretches across his face. “I’m going to hold you to that.” She says. “I’m finally reorganizing your spice shelf.”

“It’s chaos and we like it that way.” Kevin grins and it’s only when she shakes her head, and the ends of her hair actually hit his face does she realize how close he is.

“It’s anxiety-inducing,” She corrects, smiling right back as Kevin brushes her hair back from her face. “And I don’t know how you two ever get any food made here.”

“Meal service.” Kevin shrugs, but his voice is almost overshadowed by the sound of a gasp behind her.

When she and Kevin both go to look though, the hallway is empty, and Liv shrugs right back at Kevin, before they both grab fresh drinks and join their families again.

-----

11:18 pm

Once Nolan eliminates her from the annual beer pong tournament (fuck him AND his bony elbows that were definitely over the line), Liv drapes herself over her mom’s shoulders and squeezes. Across from her, the Hayes’ both laugh, and her dad just rolls his eyes fondly, but Olivia knows her mom and knows she doesn’t care.

In fact, she welcomes it. Her mom squeezes her hand and she’s grinning, always happy for these moments with her children. “Tough loss, kid.”

“It’s fine.” Liv says, not at all bitter. “Nols is a cheating cheater who cheats. Kev will avenge me.” He’s already up by three cups; it’s looking pretty good.

There’s more laughter, and then her mom is squeezing her hand again. “We’re really happy for you, you know.”

Liv’s a little tipsy, so she doesn’t really question the strangeness of that statement. She kisses her mom’s cheek and hugs her again. “Love you guys too!” She says, and then goes back to watching Kevin clean up for the rest of this game.

-----

11:55 pm

With five minutes to midnight and Kristin crowned as this year’s beer pong champ, the attention turns to the countdown and a flutter of activity toward preparing their traditional midnight champagne toast.

Olivia accepts her glass from her mom and then wanders off to find her phone quickly, dead set on getting a picture of the toast for an instagram post in the morning. It’s still in the kitchen, where she’d left it when cleaning earlier, and she grabs it off the counter, ignoring most of the messages on there in favor of checking the one from Kristin (what she could possibly have to say when she’s literally across the room…).

It’s not actually a text; it’s a picture. A picture of Liv and Kevin, right after Kevin had beaten Nolan at beer pong. She’d thrown herself at him; he’d lifted her up in celebration, both of them laughing and cheering. They look happy and perfect and like something...it’s practically a boyfriend filter...except it’s two of them, her and Kevin.

Definitely not nothing.

“Whatcha looking at?” Kevin’s voice surprises her; she’d been so focused she hadn’t even heard him come up to her.

Liv’s so not the risk taker in this friendship; Kev’s the one dragging her out to new places and new things while she’s the one telling him to take a step back and think things through. And yet, even though it’s the scariest thing in the world to show him, it somehow doesn’t feel like she’s diving in headfirst at all as she tilts the screen a little for him to see. “Kristin sent me this.”

Even though he’s standing right next to her, Kevin still takes a step closer and his free hand, the one not holding his flute of champagne, slides around her waist. “Hey!” He grins, squeezing her gently. “It’s us!”

“Yeah,” She says, much more quietly. “It is.”

He’s quiet for a moment then, but doesn’t move away either. “It’s a good picture of us.”

“It is.” She repeats, agreeing.

“That’s not why you showed me this, is it?”

“No.” Liv swallows the lump in her throat nervously. “It’s not.”

“Livvy.” Kevin says gently and that’s it. That’s all it takes for her to open up.

“I’m so tired of this, Kev.” She shakes her phone, like that’s going to explain everything. “This-this in between thing. This more than friends, but not quite more. I hate it here! I hate looking at this picture and seeing what Kristin sees but knowing that what she sees is wrong. I hate the uncertainty, I hate feeling like there’s this thing but then neither of us does anything, so it just lingers.” She takes a breath, set on continuing, but Kevin jumps in before she can.

“You just hate not knowing something.” He grins.

“Kevin.” Liv snaps crankily, but before she can say anything else to him, he’s pressing her back against the counter and kissing her.

She’s vaguely aware of her champagne crashing to the ground, never more thankful for the fake plastic flutes that their moms always insist on, but Liv really can’t be bothered, even by spilled champagne, as she grips Kevin’s hips to pull herself closer and sinks into a truly amazing first kiss.

“Aw, hell yeah!” She hears from behind her, and pulls away reluctantly, noting the equally annoyed look on Kevin’s face. “I knew it, let’s go!”

It’s Jimmy, looking entirely too pleased to find his brother making out against a counter than he eats off all the time. Actually, it’s all of them- Jimmy, Kristin, Nolan, her brothers, Kevin’s sisters, their parents. All staring at them with bright grins on their faces and bickering.

“I told you-”

“We all fucking knew-” Jack shoves at Mike.

“-they’ve been together for ages.”

“Hey, back up! Just because they were making out now, doesn’t mean they’ve been together for ages; I had New Year’s in the pool!” Nolan pouts.

“I’m sorry,” Liv says, apparently sounding terrifying enough that every one of them stops talking. “There was a pool?”

Every one of them freezes, but for barely a moment, before they’re all talking over each other again and bumping into each other in their haste to back up. “Come on, we’re not even going to ask when this happened?” She hears Jack complain. “There’s $500 on the line here!”

“It’ll stay that way.” Kevin calls and Liv buries her face in his chest to hide her laugh. “Not telling you now!” A few groans echo back into the kitchen as he looks down at her to confirm her agreement. “We’re not telling them...ever, right?”

“Oh, it’s you and me to the grave.” Liv confirms, pulling him down for another kiss.

#kevin hayes imagine #kevin hayes fanfic #hockey imagines #hockey fanfic #hockey fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagines #my hockey fics

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927roses-and-stuff · 3 years

Text

Miracles in Gotham Chapter 5: Tales of the Misguided Serpent

I really am sorry it's taking more than five chapters for them to actually get to Gotham, by the way. I know most fics will usually have them there by the first chapter. I just like having a lot of build up for the plot and future subplots, so please bear with me!TW: Explicit minor character death and violence in war. Mentions of PTSD, depression, anxiety, and self-harm.

Hey guys! Thank you so much for reading this story and (hopefully) enjoying it so far! I realize I don’t say it enough, but I truly appreciate everyone who took the time to read this fic, and knowing that there are people who enjoy it are part of my inspiration to write more. As always, an extra thank you to @ozmav for the AU, and @mystery-5-5 for helping me through the writing process (and dealing with my rants).

There will be mentions and allusions to real life events and locations associated with World War II. I don’t mean any disrespect, and any character mentioned and associated within the story is purely fictional. This is not meant to be an accurate depiction of WWII or war in general, nor is it meant to be a mockery of what actually happened. There will also be brief mentions of PTSD, depression, and anxiety symptoms and self-harm. These are all based on research from sources that my therapist has given me (i.e. Centre for Clinical Interventions) and my own personal experiences.

Lastly, Alfred is in his mid-teens here (because he would fake his age to get into the army) and he isn’t the all wise and knowing Alfred Pennyworth we know and love just yet. And we all know how Master Fu loves giving Miraculous to unqualified, unprepared owners XD.

P.S. Not me making Sass oblivious to human stuff because I don’t know a lot of war stuff.

If you want to see more, follow: #miraclesingotham or ask to be added to the tag list.

Tag list: : @northernbluetongue @zerotosiki @spicybelladonna @my-name-is-michell @legendaryneckjudgestudent @lokiifriggasonn

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“Tell me everything you know about this Alfred Pennyworth and your time with him, Sass. I need to know if he can help before considering everything.”

The snake kwami merely nodded. “Of course, my Guardian.”

“Alfred Pennyworth was one of the best snakelets I have ever known, even if in the end, he did not believe so. If given the time, perhaps, he could have mastered the Snake Miraculous in all of its power, despite his young age. I think he would’ve been only a year or two older than yourself...”

August 1943, Northwest Europe

“Alfred Pennyworth, I am Sass, kwami of the Snake Miraculous, of Intuition. I will grant you the powers of Second Chance, so long as you promise to use your powers for good.”

The snake kwami held out his hands gracefully as he finished introducing himself to his new owner. The current Guardian had told him of his duties before he was handed to the young man in front of him. In times of war, a little intuition could go a long way.

As Alfred continued to remain unresponsive, Sass began to worry. Alfred Pennyworth was a young man with sharp eyebrows and dark, piercing eyes dressed in a camouflage dark-green military uniform complete with the green beret covering his scalp . Sass noticed the tiny tremors of his shoulders and his tightly pressed lips, although it would be unnoticeable to the untrained eye. They were in a dimly lit room, although it was strangely quiet for times of war, as the Guardian had relayed to him.

It had been perhaps the strangest experience that Sass had encountered with a human, although he didn’t have that many to rely on. The young man continued to stare at Sass, and in all his infinite patience, Sass floated in place, and entered a meditative pose above the box he had just come out of. From the little he knew of humans, they were often slow, narrow-minded creatures who needed more patience than most kwamis were willing to give.

However, despite the strangeness of it all, Sass felt a warm kinship with the still man in front of him.

Sass was unsure of how long it had taken for Alfred to be shaken out of his stupor, but he soon closed the box carefully and addressed him.

“Hello. You’re the friend Mr. Fu told me of?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yesss,” Sass nodded. “Master Fu is the current Guardian of the Miraculous. You must be someone special for him to entrust you with me, and me with you.”

Alfred nodded slightly. “Yes, he mentioned that you would help me in my times of need.”

“That is correct.”

Sass watched as the young man bit his lip in thought and lightly traced over the marks on the box. “Sass, was it?”

“Yesss.”

“...I am Alfred Pennyworth.”

“I am aware.”

He looked up from the box and lightly cupped Sass in his hands. Alfred’s eyes squinted at him, his eyes roaming over his tiny form suspiciously. Sass stayed still for him, not feeling uncomfortable at the human’s scrutiny. Humans were suspicious of the unknown, Sass decided. They were wary even when there was evidence to say otherwise.

When Alfred seemed satisfied, he spoke again. “Why would Mr. Fu give me a tiny snake?”

Sass frowned. “I may be tiny, human, but I am powerful. With the bracelet you hold in that box, you will be able to turn back time for an unlimited amount of times within an allotted 5 minutes after the first reset. With my help, you are able to directly change events around you as they happen, for as much as you wish.”

The young man’s eyes widened and gulped; Sass was unable to determine if it was out of terror or fascination.

“Why would he entrust me with such a power?”

“The Guardian’s mind works in mysterious ways. Perhaps, he wanted to give you a chance to see in yourself, what he saw in you.”

His breath hitched, and he gulped again. “And what if I don’t like what I see?”

Sass floated upwards to meet Alfred’s eyes. Yellow eyes met dark brown as he spoke. “That will all depend on you.”

For the next few months, Sass watched as Alfred Pennyworth trained with his fellow soldiers as part of the Achnacarry in Scotland and eventually recruited to the No. 47 (Royal Marine) Commando based in Dorchester once the new year came. It had been the longest that Sass had interacted with any of his holders. He took to hiding in the pockets of Alfred’s uniform, although he often wished he had another place to hide when Alfred and the other humans were training with ringing, deafening gunshots, the thundering footsteps of a hundred men caused tremors within the soil, and the hoarse shouts and screams of soldiers in a stimulated battlefield. When the soldiers were off-duty, Sass liked the chatter as Alfred and the others conversed with one another, their different tones whether morose or jovial, since it helped him drift off to sleep in Alfred’s warm pocket.

In what little downtime that they had, Alfred liked to ask Sass questions about the Miraculous, what they did, their purpose in the world, the limits of his own Miraculous, and always, why he was chosen to bear such a great responsibility. Sass always told him what he could (although being inactive for so long left him little knowledge of other holders), and always repeated what he had told Alfred the first day they met. Sass liked being with Alfred. He was intelligent, curious, logical, and sensitive to information. Despite the grim circumstances that surrounded their partnership, he was glad that Master Fu had chosen Alfred Pennyworth.

It had been nearly a year since Sass and Alfred met when the No. 47 Commando received their first operation on June 6, 1944. Alfred often told him stories at night of his family, his home, and his surroundings. The night before as they were preparing for battle, Alfred had shared his worries with his fellow soldiers and Sass. It would be the first time they would be in a real battle, outside of Achnacarry or Dorchester. As the Commando arrived at the battlefield the day after, all the soldiers were crammed onto a ship. It had only taken a few hours to arrive at the outskirts of where they needed to be. Only a few miles from the shore, and already the sounds of battle rang throughout the ships, and the soldiers prepared to join in. Some would join as soon as the ship hit shore while others would stay behind to make sure that their ship didn’t sink and attack the opposing army from the water. Alfred was one of the soldiers that would be fighting the moment they hit shore, so he made sure to find an empty space to transform. Sass found himself and Alfred cramped near the ship’s engine, where Alfred was already fiddling with the Snake Miraculous.

“I won’t look like a circus act when I transform, will I, Sass?”

Sass shook his head. “No. Make sure to imagine yourself as you are, and the Miraculous will conform to your desires. You might find that your clothes will feel scaly as a side effect. Either way, your clothes will protect you from most impacts, although I’m not sure about bullets.”

Alfred smiled. “I see. Will I be able to talk to you when I’m transformed?”

“No.” Alfred’s eyes widened. “Fear not. I will still be with you, as a part of you, but we will not be able to interact as we are now nor will I be conscious when you are transformed.”

Alfred took a shaky breath. “Alright. Thank you, Sass. Anything else I need to know?”

“Use it wisely. Seeing that many possibilities will take a toll on you. You will most likely witness one moment in time in different ways. Others may not remember the other timelines, but you will. Do not forget that.”

Alfred gave a curt nod. “This is it, then?”

“Yessss, I wish you luck, Alfred.”

“As do I,” he chuckled. “Sass, scales slither.”

As Alfred called out the last words, Sass faded into unconsciousness. He had faith in Alfred, and hoped he would work well with the Snake.

______________________________________________________________________________

When Alfred de-transformed, Sass noticed the light in his eyes and the way he clutched tightly onto two soldiers a few years older than him. The battle was over for now, Sass mused, so Alfred must be relieved that he was safe and alive. Later in the safety of his barrack, Alfred recounted the battle in hushed whispers, how many times he went back to save just one more life (“To think, who might’ve remained dead if you were not with me,” he said, rubbing Sass’ head affectionately with his finger), or to take one more shot he missed the first time. Sass asked him the precise number of times that he went back in time during those allotted 5 minutes that he had used “Second Chance.” Sass asked him who he had saved, how, and whose lives were lost in return. Alfred answers both questions enthusiastically with a significant amount of detail, that Sass allowed himself to feel content. Alfred had saved lives, had done his part for his country.

Sass was proud of his snakelet.

As time went on, battles were waged and the war raged on all over Europe. Sass didn’t understand human battles, but he made sure to stay by Alfred’s side for all of it.

It was about half a year in that Sass noticed the changes that Alfred is going through. Like every soldier, he is marred with scars, had a more gaunt, more sickly frame that came from eating smaller rations and sleeping less, and dark circles under his eyes that emphasized how haunted he was. Yet, Sass noticed that Alfred was overextending himself. In every offense, Alfred volunteered to be in the frontlines. In every battle, he took the time to transform, which meant Sass was also often exhausted after every battle and struggled to eat the already miniscule portions Alfred spared from his rations. After every battle, Alfred was jumpy, going from soldier to soldier and striking up conversation whenever he could, visiting the infirmary and muttering apologies to the wounded soldiers. It took Sass a while to realize that the former had been people he had saved, and the latter were the people that he couldn’t or those that he almost hadn’t.

Nights were always the worst. In the daytime with the rush and hustle of war battles, there was not a lot of time for Alfred to do anything but act and fight, especially when he transformed with Sass. But at night, when there was a semblance of silence in his own corner of the barracks, Sass comforted Alfred through the tears, the nightmares, the bloodshed, and other horrors he witnessed. When Sass couldn’t comfort him, Alfred retreated to the arms of Leo Dupain, a soldier a few years older who knew of Alfred’s real age, and the person who Alfred recounted saving the most during his resets. He had sandy brown hair, olive green eyes, a square-like jaw with a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. Sass listened to their hushed promises of returning to the motherland and settling down somewhere in the countryside far away from the influences of war and its politics. Sass watched as both Alfred and Leo drifted to sleep, holding each other like they were each other’s only anchor to the physical realm. Sass watched as Alfred woke a half hour before the crack of dawn to visit the infirmary before beginning his training, never looking back. Each time, Sass noticed that Leo searched for warmth that had previously been there.

Sass knew that witnessing all of Time’s possibilities was a heavy burden for anyone, much less a child. Alfred related to him about comrades who had died from gunshots, from being trampled on, or thrown overboard. If not them, it was the patients in the infirmary, the ones who had fallen trap to insanity or those who had lost a part of their physical bodies forever. Alfred was inconsolable. By December of 1944, Alfred had anxiety, insomnia, and an unhealthy attachment to the Snake Miraculous.

During that time, Sass tried to teach Alfred how to be more responsible with the Snake’s power, how to use each return more efficiently, and especially, how Alfred didn’t need to use the Miraculous for every injury that his comrades endured. Sass had relayed stories of other Miraculous heros: Heracles, Hippolyta, Joan of Arc, others unrecorded in history who had struggled to learn the same lesson: that Alfred was not a god and he couldn’t save everyone.

But war was brutal and without mercy, especially to those with kind hearts.

Everything came to a head when Alfred failed to save Leo Dupain before he could reset. Sass was thrown onto the ground as the transformation wore off, gunshots blazing in the background as Alfred’s screams pierced his tiny ears. Sass slowly shuffled to Alfred’s side, and climbed into a nearby pocket.

“Leo, Leo!” Alfred cried, grabbing the heavy body of Leo Dupain, whose leg had been blown off by a nearby explosive. Blood spilled forth from the wound, and Leo breathed in shallow gasps, as his body became limp. Alfred was soon covered in his blood and from the dust and dirt around them. Frantically, he tried to find spare cloth but was futile in his efforts. Sass could feel the tremors from Alfred’s body as he held onto Leo Dupain like a lifeline. Other soldiers had heard his cries and clambered to them, grabbing Alfred forcefully out of Leo’s arms and into safety,

“He needs me! Stop! I need to save him!”

“Leg’s been blasted off, can’t do much for ‘im now but fight,” a soldier- Gabriel Ackles- muttered. He had been one of the soldiers Alfred saved a week earlier from a headshot.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Alfred ranted hysterically. “I was supposed to save him; he wasn’t supposed to get hurt. He’s going to die…”

SLAP

Alfred stood stunned as Gabriel stood before him, red-faced and fuming.

“We are in battle, soldier! Get it together! You wanna help Dupain, Pennyworth?!” Gabriel didn’t wait for an answer before shoving a long gun of sorts into Alred’s hands. “You go out there and drag every Nazi motherfucker to hell or die trying! You got it, soldier?!”

Sass watched as Alfred’s eyes dimmed into a stormy grey and stared at the gun in his hands. A second passed and with trembling hands, Alfred was marching back onto the battlefield, gun ablaze. Sass tried hard as he could to use whatever remaining energy he had to protect Alfred, but the amount of resets during Alfred’s transformation had exhausted him and he fell unconscious to the sounds of war.

When Sass regained consciousness, it was to Master Fu’s face. A chill ran down his spine as he fluttered around frantically searching for Alfred. They were in an empty room that only had a few books, two futons and the Miracle Box. There were two double doors that separated their room from the outside world and another, smaller door that led to the rest of the building.

Where were they? Why was he here? More importantly, where was Alfred?

“Do not bother, Sass,” Master Fu said in a tone more morose than he had ever heard. “Mr. Pennyworth has returned you to me. It has been several months since you were inactive.”

Sass deflated and floated down to the ground beneath him. “Where is he now, Master?”

“I am unsure.” Master Fu looked out of the large double doors. “I am afraid that I have placed too many expectations on young Alfred. When he helped us escape London, I had given you to him as a token of gratitude and friendship.”

“Master?”

Master Fu sighed and turned back to look at Sass with teary eyes. “I could not have foreseen that I had cursed more than blessed him, Sass. He had refused to give you back at first, and it was only yesterday, a month since I last saw him, that you had returned to us.”

Sass couldn’t speak. He had really liked Alfred Pennyworth. He was a good man- one of the best. But, even he couldn’t deny the madness he had endured during his time as one of his snakelets. If kwami had hearts, Sass knew it would be obliterated by the news.

“I see, Master,” was all Sass said before Master Fu renounced him and his Miraculous.

Present day

“And that was the last I heard of Alfred Pennyworth. The next time I appeared in this realm, it was to Luka Couffaine.”

Marinette wiped away a few tears that had sprung up during Sass’ story.

“Do you think he would have anything to do with the Miraculous after all he’d been through, Sass?”

Sass bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Perhaps. He had many questions I could not answer. I am not sure if his trauma overrode his curiosity. I know he had been planning on studying the Miraculous more before Leo Dupain had died.”

Marinette played with her hands as she mulled over Sass’ response. Something about his story caught her attention.

“Leo Dupain? As in my granduncle, Leo Dupain?”

Sass blinked, yellow eyes trained on her. “Perhaps.”

“If they're the same person, then he’s still around,” Marinette mused, thinking of the one-legged elder from her early childhood that made her laugh with his silly jokes and warm cuddles. “I never really kept up with him since my grandfather kept us away from Papa’s side of the family. He was funny, though.”

Marinette entered a silent trance, going over all the new information she had received so far, while the kwamis waited with bated breaths. Alfred Pennyworth had deeper ties with her than she had previously thought. In another world, he would’ve been another distant granduncle. However, would she risk going to him in this world when the Miraculous had already scarred him so deeply? But what if he didn’t know about her granduncle? What if he spurned her away despite that? What if he didn’t? What had Master Fu seen in Alfred Pennyworth that he had practically given away one of the Miraculous to his care? How would she explain everything that had happened since their last argument?

What other choices did Marinette really have?

“Marinette?” Tikki asked, the only kwami comfortable enough to break her train of thought.

She sighed, not liking her decision one bit, but she was desperate, and in some ways, this would be beneficial for both Alfred Pennyworth and her.

“Looks like we’re going to Gotham City.”

______________________________________________________________

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