#Dove Marquis

[scaryscarecrows]

Edward scoffs.

"They haven't even called a locksmith," he sneers. "You know they haven't, Penguin."

"Do I, Riddler? Do I really?" Oswald hitches around, draws himself up to what little full height he has, and jabs one angry finger in Edward's direction. "I do not stand for disloyalty. I assure you that Miss Marquis called someone the second I asked." He hobbles towards the door. "Where is that damn locksmith?"

"Traffic! There was a shooting on third, a semi blew up, it was ugly!"

"See?" He eases himself to the ground. "You never understood patience. That is the reason you perpetually fail."

"I perpetually fail?" Edward barks a laugh. "How many times have you wound up in the trunk of somebody's car?"

"Occupational hazard--"

"Idiocy hazard--"

"Why, you--"

-------

The screaming is only a little muffled by the door. Mac cringes and whispers, "So? When's the guy comin'?"

"When I call him," Dove says smoothly. "He's right around the corner, it's fine."

"You didn't call?"

"This is the third fucking time," she says, eyes glued to some cheap Tetris knock-off. "They'll sort their shit out eventually."

"What the fuck."

"Look, Mr. Cobblepot's a cockroach and Nygma's sturdy. They'll be fine." Something breaks. Sounds like glass. "Hey, go get coffee."

"But--"

"Vanilla latte, please." She gives him a sunny smile and calls, "Still traffic! There were chemicals in the semi!"

[mynameis-noe-body]

Can you do a marquis one shot where the reader works as a tailor/assistant/spy for the marquis but they’re also really innocent/upbeat . As he gets to know the reader, he finds himself going from confused that they’re so cheery to loving them as they are to corruption kink?

Thank you for your patient, anon. 🖤 I hope you'll love this.

This add to a second request I recieved.

➡️ Also cause I saw you mentioned a corruption kink, one with the marquis de framing would be fantastic 🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️

I didn't quite understand, but here is corruption kink fo you. I hope you'll love this as well.

Little dove

Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont × you (F)

Rating: Explicit

Status: Complete (one shot)

“Oh, Marquis De Gramont — what a pleasure to have you here!” you exclaimed, seeing him enter your shop. You walked towards him, holding the door open and showing him your best smile. “I just got an absolutely cheeky outfit that you will love, exactly your size.”

Vincent smiled. By now he had gotten into the habit of frequenting your shop at least once a week. He didn't lack money, nor time; he loved spending a few hours on a Saturday afternoon exploring the embellished and sumptuous dresses in your shop. And most of all, he loved spending time with you.

So joyful, friendly, sweet — a little macaron. Such a lovely pastry. You were an extraordinary creature, in his eyes. He, who had seen so much death, who had held so much power—he looked at you and found such innocence in your gaze. It was a part of you that was impossible not to love.

He cleared his throat, with a wave of his hand he ordered his second to leave the shop, closing the door behind him and leaving the two of you alone. That was his moment of pleasure.

The first time he entered your shop, fascinated by the silk garments and elegant suits, the shiny patent leather shoes and the cashmere coats, Vincent believed that he would find the usual snooty shopkeeper who would try to raise the prices by realizing his status. But no, you were there. So excited to be able to show off your best suits and dress him up like a fucking prince. Vincent had to call two of his men and a second car to be able to load everything he had purchased and take it home. You had shaken his hand, you had thanked him, you had given him a discount (even!) and you had suggested that he come back soon; you would have been happy to have such a passionate customer in your shop. Vincent might have believed it was a matter of money... but upon returning, noticing the way your gaze lit up when it met his, he changed his mind. You had fun with him. You loved your job. You were excited, happy… innocent. So pure. A sweet, little pastry, in fact.

Once, arranging the collar of his shirt while he was looking at himself in the mirror, you had asked him with a certain veiled embarrassment: “Monsieur De Gramont, forgive my impudence, but I really want to ask. What is your occupation?”

He had laughed. “Are you asking me about my job?” You had blushed, you had apologized stepping back but he had turned around, taking your hand before you could move away. "No need to be embarrassed, cheri. I find your curiosity quite... charming." Your cheeks were colored the sweetest red. He had lifted your hand to his lips, leaving the ghost of a kiss on your fingers. "I am a businessman. Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont, at your service."

He had been absolutely lovely. And he, from that moment on, had wanted in the most perverse, craziest, most intense way, to ruin you completely.

Vincent had noticed the way you watched him, so constantly attentive to every curve of his body, the way his muscles filled your clothes, stretching the fabric, wrapping it in the most attractive way. Your intoxicating gaze devoured him, and he was dying to have your hands on him, your desperate eyes, your mouth praying for his benevolence. So submissive, and desperate. Corrupted by your own will, by the desire and pleasure that only he could have brought you.

That day, without exception, you stood behind him while he looked at himself in the mirror and admired himself. But soon, his blue eyes met yours in the reflection. He smiled.

“What do you think, my dear?”

You nodded, your face bright. “That shade of red is definitely your color.”

His eyebrow rose in mock surprise. He caressed the fabric of the jacket with his fingertips, but secretly watched the way your gaze only followed his touch. Bewitching, indeed.

“I like the jacket. I love it. This scarlet is... fiery. Don't you think?” Your eyes flickered up again, and you nodded without adding anything, attempting a shy smile. "And the pants? Do I wear them well?" It was impossible not to notice the way you blushed and swallowed slowly. He bit back a satisfied grin. With his hands on the belt, he gripped it, lifting it a little. “Look at me.”

He nodded. “Maybe I should sit down, and try to feel them.”

And you looked at him. He had them so tight — you could see everything. All of it. You had to fight against your instincts and force yourself to seek his eyes again. You smiled. “I think they are perfect, monsieur.”

Vincent sat gracefully in the armchair next to him, and sighed. There was nothing innocent about his smile. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, he spread his legs. His right hand, on his thigh, went up his leg, stopped right there, so close to his —

“Sweetheart” he interrupted you, laughing loudly. You turned your eyes, deeply embarrassed and red in the face, but he seemed almost happy with your obvious reaction. “Oh, don't get all shy now, my dear.” He made himself more comfortable in the armchair, spreading his legs in an almost vulgar, cheeky way. God, he loved that game. “Come on, look at me. I know you like it. I see you — the way you look at me — and I bet you're not as fragile and innocent as you want me to think, are you?”

Now you looked at him, with your mouth slightly open and your eyes large, wide and full of bewilderment, your cheeks scarlet, your voice trembling as you stammered an apology.

He shook his head, and his face darkened. “No. I will not accept your apology” he hissed. He raised his finger and motioned for you to come closer. “Come here, little dove.”

He wanted you to stand between his open legs, and immediately his left hand grabbed your hip, while with his right he was already unbuttoning his trousers. He licked his lips like a lion at his delicious meal, hungry, ravenous. “Keep looking at me, don't look away, I know you like it” he said.

And look at you, completely disarmed, dominated by that crazy and irrational desire that he wasn't offering to satisfy, on the contrary, it was fomenting your obsession. He was a fascinating man. And a very passionate one, from what you could see. Without any shame he pulled his hard length out of his trousers, stroking himself slowly, showing you all his virility, his silky skin, his intense hardness. He was perfect.

“And I thought you were so pure, innocent” he whispered, with a certain satisfaction. "But now I see how wrong I was, you little pervert. You like watching me, don't you? Ma petite voyeur."

But his hand suddenly slipped between your legs, he lifted your skirt without shame, found your panties already so wet for him and smiled — he smiled, the bastard.

“I — oh, Marquis, I'm mortified. I didn't mean to —”

“Don't you dare apologize again. I want to hear other sounds from your mouth.”

And his fingertips pressed against the little knot of nerves, right there, causing a vibration of pleasure throughout your body. If you were honest, that exposure and embarrassment only inflated your excitement.

“You're already shaking for me.” His voice was deep, controlled. “Tell me anything you want. I want to hear you pray. I know you can. Tell me, and I will satisfy your every curiosity.”

You breathed, your sigh became labored, panting. “Please, Marquis, I...”

He laughed. His hand continued to touch his member, so hard, up and down, and you could do nothing but watch as your intimacy became wet and your hunger grew without rest. "You what, my dear? Do you want me? Is that it? Do you want my hand, my mouth?"

You nodded.

“No — no, love. Tell me.”

You swallowed, searching for a small voice in your chest. "I want you."

“What do you want?”

"All of you!" his fingers moved the panties, you finally felt his touch on you. And, hungrily, they sought the little wet hole between your soft lips. You could hear the sticky sound of your arousal on his fingers.

“Again, tell me more.”

“Your fingers, they're so — oh, oh please. Inside!”

He licked his lips. “What a good girl. You know your manners. But I don't want you so innocent darling, we know how dirty you really are, don't we?”

You shook your head, but you couldn't deny the truth to yourself.

“Tell me you're mine, tell me how much you want me.”

On the verge of tears, humiliated and excited, you nodded. “I'm yours, all yours. I — I want you so bad.”

His fingers slipped inside you, sweet and intense, touching all those perfect spots that made you moan all your pleasure. And you closed your eyes, for a moment. He stopped.

“Nu-uh, eyes on me. You like to watch. Tell me you like it.”

Yes, yes. “I love it. You are...”

“What? Don't be afraid. I want to hear everything.”

“Perfect. Your body, your...”

Oh, you were still so embarrassed. No, he wanted more. Vincent stood up suddenly, mistreated you hard, pushing you onto the chair. So, still dressed, he knelt over you, tickling your pussy lips with the head of his hard cock. You were dying of pleasure, and you looked at him excited and scared at the same time.

“I know you want it — say it. Tell me you're my little slut, tell me you want my hard cock inside you. Say it!”

And you cried, pleading. “I'm everything you want! Your whore, your tight cunt, your little slut — just give it to me, fuck me hard, now!”

And Vincent finally obeyed.

He fucked you, hard and deep, with an unprecedented ardor, grabbing your hair, your neck, biting your lips, spitting on your tongue.

“More, use me!” you begged. "Yours, only yours! I love it! Fuck my cunt — my ass. Yes, spit on my tongue, and fuck me like you mean it!”

“Dirty, dirty girl” he growled. His fingers dug into your thighs. "I knew you were a slut underneath, all mine. My little voyeur, my bad, dirty girl. That's it, take it, take it all!”

The contractions of your orgasm milked his cock, every drop of his come inside you. And you panted his name, and every dirty thing, now corrupted by that pleasure and prey to a will stronger than you. Your every word was honey. He came inside you, on top of you, making you dirty inside and out.

And looking at you like this, ruined for him, Vincent understood that you were no longer the innocent, sweet girl he thought he had met the first time.

[squirrellypoo]

Currently, what are some of your favorite iwtv fics? I’m pretty caught up on a lot of mine and need some recs

Sure! I’ll try to categorise and keep most to recent/currently updating ones just to narrow down my list. These are in no particular order! (And I am terrible at connecting AO3 and tumblr usernames so forgive me if I’m an idiot and missed some)

Vampire ones (mostly Loustat)

“Love like an ache in the jaw” Post-Dubai interview Louis POV where Lestat awakes and comes back to him, with all the pain, turmoil, and love that entails.

“Assignment” Modern AU with an anxious and stressed Louis requesting professional services to lose his virginity. Alternating POV between Louis and Lestat. (ongoing) by @riley-beautrelle

“In the White Room (L’homme Lestat)” Modern vampire story where Lestat is kidnapped by a mysterious organisation and forced to become their assassin while Loumand try to help/rescue him with help from Villanelle (ongoing) by @angstosaur

“Get him back” Romcom with show!vampire Loustat kinda in that weird post-QOTD/TOTBT stage where they’re friends but not together but still inseparable. And there’s Mojo! (Series ongoing)

“Making It Work” Modern show-based Loustat are alternating POV diary entries as they try to forge new ties with Louis’s family’s descendants… (ongoing)

“Half Past Dead” Modern post-Dubai interview with Daniel interviewing (& fucking) a down & out addict vampire Lestat in New Orleans

“The Vampire Detective Agency and the case of the Mozart Murderer” Modern alternate-canon thriller with Loustat solving a murder together in NOLA (ongoing) by @angstosaur

“A favor” PL-era Louis arranges the perfect birthday celebration for Lestat - a massacre at a mobster’s decadent party by @riley-beautrelle

“Epitaph” Each daily chapter is day in the life of Daniel Molloy in Sept 1973 as his life is changed forever when he meets a man who claims to be a vampire… (ongoing, daily updates in March)

Not-quite-human AUs (just trust me)

“Come (Back) to Me” Modern painter Louis is drawn to a painting an an old chateau and time travels back to the 18th century to meet the young marquis in the portrait… by @suikamelon6

“None of them your true nature” modern AU where casino boss Louis starts an affair with the owner Lestat, despite his troubled marriage to Antoinette…

Human AU

“Did you get enough love, my little dove?” Modern human AU with single dad Lestat raising Claudia after her mother Alicia died, and anxiety-ridden Louis finds a loving home at theirs while lusting after Lestat (ongoing)

“Against All Odds” modern human AU with French exchange teen Loustat in first love then complications with Nicki at uni (ongoing) by @moderndaylestat

“I hate you but I love you more” Human AU with teacher Louis and rockstar Lestat, divorced 11 years but crashing back into each others’ lives when they’re locked in a house together. Meanwhile, Armand comes to terms with the demons of his past while he navigates his relationship with Daniel. (ongoing, nearly completed)

“Memory is a monster” Modern human AU with rockstar Lestat losing his memory after a head injury and Louis, Armand, and Daniel vying to heal/have him (ongoing) by @angstosaur

“Bubble Wrap” Modern human AU with actor uni student Louis falling for clumsy writing student Lestat as he deals with his abusive upbringing and they navigate growing up and starting their careers… (ongoing)

“Like You Mean It” Romcom modern human AU with Loustat fake dating their way through 6 weddings and denying their attraction (ongoing)

[mlmxreader]

let's talk about konigsblog. like, seriously.

if you're in the COD fandom, you probably already know exactly who they are and what level of depravity and disgust that they engage in. so let's talk about it.

for those who don't know: konigsblog routinely writes rape and pseudo-incest fic and tries to brush it off as "dark fic" and as "dead dove", whilst simultaneously trying to negate and undermine the experiences of irl survivors of incest, rape and other abuses by claiming that bc they're writing fiction, it's fine. anyone with a brain worth 2 pence can tell you that their excuses are bullshit and that they're just a fetisher who doesn't actually give a shit about the people who are genuinely hurt by such disgusting material.

now. I write dark fic routinely, I have written about topics such as trauma, heavy gore, serial killing, etc. what makes dark fic dark is the fact that it is about a topic of which you would expect in something akin to a horror film or a horror novel - something like the Dexter Morgan novel series or Thomas Harris' Red Dragon trilogy. dark fic is not, and never will be, the promotion, fetishisation and romanticisation of rape, incest, and pedophilia. the usage of "dark fic" within those circles is merely to avoid accountability and to avoid any and all criticism.

konigsblog thinks that they cannot be held accountable, as they're writing fiction, but when you look at genuinely dark novels from across the spectrum, you can see that they're nothing like whatever abhorrent fiction that konigsblog write. let me give you some examples:

in the Red Dragon trilogy by Thomas Harris, Mason Verger (an incestuous pedophilic rapist) is never written to be seen as someone who is desirable or whose actions are anything but disgusting. Hannibal Lecter (a cannibalistic serial killer) even says this openly several times that Verger is, essentially, a piece of shit.

in American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, Patrick Bateman (a misogynistic, homophobic, racist serial killer who sexually assaults several women before killing them) is never written to be seen as someone who you want to be near or want to know. he is written as a depraved, disgusting, human being, and is treated accordingly - the novel is written from his POV, but Ellis makes it clear that his actions are VILE.

in Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, the male lead (a pedophilic rapist) is routinely written in a way of which makes audiences DESPISE him and his actions as much as they do his ideology and his thought processes surrounding a child. Nabokov makes it clear that rape and pedophilia are something that should be condemned and can NEVER be something romantic or appealing in the slightest. (side note: Nabokov was a piece of shit who wanted Russia to colonise Ukraine, so he wasn't exactly a good guy anyway)

in The 120 Days of Sodom, Marquis De Sade makes it clear that the rapists and pedophiles within the novel are awful people and he makes it explicit in their actions as well as the way of which they speak; you are not supposed to side with them, or to feel anything except disgust and horror that someone can commit such atrocious acts without having a second thought. the rape scenes are written to PURPOSEFULLY make you (the reader) feel disgust and to feel hatred for these characters.

do you see the difference?

dark novels surrounding topics such as pedophilia, rape and incest are written in a way of which does NOT condone these actions and does NOT treat them as desirable or as material used for one to masturbate to. whereas what konigsblog writes is explicitly written to be the opposite - its written to be desirable, to be something that you (the reader) should find attractive and WANT, it's written for you to masturbate to.

how abhorrent can you be that you would sit there and try to condone such vile and depraved writings? how apathetic towards your fellow man can you be to engage with this?

and there's no point in saying "Well, don't like, don't read" - no. because this is genuinely harmful material of which promotes and fetishises the most abhorrent and morally bankrupt acts known to mankind. this is genuinely harmful, its not a kink that people aren't into and is tagged properly (bc konigsblog RARELY tags accordingly), it is taking the WORST thing that can happen to somebody and turning it into pornography.

if you engage with or even support konigsblog, you do not support or care for rape, incest and abuse survivors - you do not. and don't try and pretend that you do. so many survivors routinely, openly and honestly, talk about how rape pornography, especially in fanfiction circles, is abhorrent and should NEVER be celebrated, engaged with, or supported - and its a travesty that we have to keep doing it and we have to keep saying "no, stop it, this is harmful".

if konigsblog continues to produce these works, and continues to improperly tag and continues to expose these themes as desirable and attempts to normalise this - it is going to hurt people. it is going to cause someone to actually get hurt.

I'm gonna tag a couple of mutuals in this, if only so that they can add their 2 pennies as well; @mockerycrow @kivino

[autistichalsin]

Hello!! :D

Just popping in to say ILYSM (in that strange, mutuals on the internet sorta way) and that you have lots of fans who love your Halsin-posting. Your post notifications always brighten my day. ❤️

Idk why in the world you’ve got people investing their finite existence on this good Earth giving you grief. Some of your stuff might not be everyone’s cup of tea (pleasing everyone is an impossibility, after all), but it doesn’t even come close to the kinds of things my favourite hardcore/“problematic” (<= self-described, including the quotations, lmao!) Halsin/bg3 writers and artists post. And I don’t see anyone clutching their pearls in their comment sections.

Like, when I click on the profile of one of my favourite writers (which includes you! 🥰 But not this example, I love all your stuff!) and see that they’ve posted a story with a description like: “hardcore kinky stuff that you’re not into, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat”, I simply keep scrolling and maybe pick one of the hundreds to thousands of other bg3 stories I could choose from. But maybe that’s just me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(Ao3 has tag filtering, you guys, it’s amazing. Remember the fucking Dark Ages when Ao3 didn’t have that at all? How tf did we ever live like that? That’s the kind of shit you say Thanks for at family Thanksgiving. And don’t tell you guys haven’t figured out at least one of the dozens of ways to filter stuff out on godsdamn Tumblr of all places; we’ve been tweaking the etiquette of that for years!)

How utterly irrational it is for these people to look at such an openly Queer and Kinky video game — the likes of which I’ve never seen in the mainstream before (He-llo strategically advantageous BDSM scene! 🤤) — and decide that they’re going to go around policing how people iterate upon those pre-established themes. How did this fandom attract puritans of all people? [Insert “The Myth of ‘Consensual’ Sex” meme here.]

Any-hoosies, all this to say that your haters are a weird, vocal minority that are letting you live rent free in their heads, instead of doing something meaningful or joyful with their pathetic, puritanical existences. There are way more people who love the kind of meta and fics that you post.

Have a good day!! XOXO 🥰😘💋💖💛🫶🤙

Hello! Thank you so much- that means a lot to me. It's weird to think of myself having "fans" lol! Like you're not the first person to use that word but it's just. Such a weird (in a good way) concept for me???? Like!?!?!? But I'm so glad to hear you love my posts <3

Yeah, pleasing everyone is impossible, and it's weird that of all things, my extremely mild CNC kink fic has become the antis' boogeyman. Fam there is literal necrophilia kink in this fandom! (Not saying they deserve to be harassed either, of course, no one should be!) But the fic that has become the pinnacle of what's problematic in this fandom is a survivor writing about a fictional survivor using kink to reclaim their sexuality? Like. OK Jan

See, but that's the difference, you're a grown adult who takes responsibility for curating your experience, whereas others.... either don't, or they don't read it but act like the fic EXISTING is a problem. I guess some people are in for a rude awakening when they discover who the Marquis de Sade is......

God, remember BEFORE AO3? Remember FFN when half the time, the PAIRING wasn't even properly tagged bc you could only tag two characters at all, so people would by default just tag the most popular characters to appear in the story? And instead of tags, you had genres, so you had to decide if you wanted romance/hurt/comfort or friendship/tragedy or what? (I'm a certified Fandom Old- on my old account I was in the first 10,000 users on AO3).

Yeah, people really are missing the point of this game- and it's no coincidence most of these folks are younger. (And a lot are exclus too; I've seen them get angry at the BG3 characters being canonically pan, saying that "pansexuality is a made-up Tumblr sexuality). So... totally blind to the interwoven history of queerness and kink. Not surprising.

Thank you so much for this kind message, anon, you cheered me up a lot. <3 I hope you have a great day!

[thewhumpcaretaker]

HALLOOOO wjat are some heartbreaking/or just upsetting headcanons you have on john wick characters? (the amount depends, it could be one or more!!)

Take a seat. This gets DARK.

TW: murder, suicidal ideation, animal death, childhood trauma, BDSM, dead dove do not eat

John

John was suicidal after Helen's death (this is nearly canon).

John has complex-PTSD and a trauma-bonded sort of relationship to The Director due to the way he was raised. He can't let go of his familial feelings towards her, despite the fact that she brought him into the assassin world and forced him to do terrible things. But he hates her for it at the same time.

John was forced to kill animals as practice before he began killing people. This started quite young.

John can't bring himself to do anything that even seems like hurting his partner in the bedroom, because it reminds him too much of the very real assassinations he's carried out (I know this is contradictory to the yandare/dominant John that we usually see but this is soft-John).

Helen

Helen is an orphan. This would give her and John something to initially bond over.

Helen is also no-contact with her adoptive family because she grew up in some form of severe dysfunction. Notice that no one is talking to John at her funeral, and none of her family members are ever mentioned. John would definitely try to support her relatives after her death if she were close to them, and vice versa, but we never see anything like that. So they can't have been close, in my opinion.

The thing that caused the rift between Helen and her family was really severe, perhaps even a homicide. This would give Helen a reason to want to understand and accept John despite the fact that he is an actual murderer. She has spent a long time trying to understand why people kill, how they get involved in organized crime, etc. Just trying to understand why.

Helen has a phobia of needles and IVs. Her illness was very difficult for her because she needed transfusions, and John donated blood to her because she felt a bit better about the process if the blood was coming from him. They have matching blood types.

Gianna/Cassian

Cassian was in love with Gianna, and she felt the same way, but she hadn't yet accepted her feelings for him. Shortly before her assassination, he asked her to run away with him, but she was too attached to her position in the High Table.

The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont

All of your headcanons are now my headcanons - look what you did to me evren.

Also s/he has panic attacks.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Day 23 - Halphas

Race: Fallen

Alignment: Neutral-Chaos

April 22nd, 2024

The Lesser Key of Solomon is a common source for demons throughout the SMT series, and for good reason- our favorite Goetic grimoire remains as the biggest still remaining demonic compendium out there, having 72 Marquis of hell to summon to assist in one's daily life. The demons of the Ars Goetia are varied and strange, but one sticks out as a personal favorite of mine- the regal Stock Dove, Halphas.

Listed as the 38th demon within the Ars Goetia, Halphas, also known as Malthus, is known as a "Great Earl," referred to as follows.

"The Thirty-eighth Spirit is Halphas, or Malthus (or Malthas). He is a Great Earl, and appeareth in the form of a Stock-Dove."

While, as with many goetic demons, the description of Halphas is vague, his reign seems to paint a picture of him being well versed in battle and blades, as his domain resides over the stocking of weaponry and sending people out to battle, almost like a tactician. He can also apparently build up towers, likely alluding to an ability to erect massive buildings from the ground in only an instant, owing to his immense demonic power- as a duke of hell, after all, his strength is nigh-unmatched. With a rule over 26 legions of spirits strong, the demonic warlord this bird turns out to be stands in quite interesting contrast to the typical representation of peace that a dove represents.

Design wise, the feathered cap and ruffled frills around the neck paint the image of this bird being some sort of great rich royalty, something supported by its reign as a Great Earl, and the gold blade he wields also gives way to the idea that this bird is a marquis of warfare. Overall a fantastic design filled with unique symbolism, and a personal favorite of mine.

[imundus]

im not sayin i will ( i probably will cause i have a weakness for strong demon bitches ) but if i did url for Shax from good omens?

[tridentarius]

the fact the dark romance genre now just attracts all the corny ‘dead dove do not eat’ ppl who going on about ‘dark fiction’ and being so subversive like they’re the marquis de sade when they’re literally just talking about their misogynistic fantasies of women getting raped hello! you have warped all your teehee fantasies over actual crimes like pedophilia/SA/abuse or any other nasty non-consensual trope into being ‘dark romance’ under a wattpad looking cover and it’s never even about cannibalism :/ boooooo! you guys are not even original. I need to kill the dark romance/NA book genre bc it’s just abt bad smut, they should not be allowed to waste paper.

[scaryscarecrows]

Any hurt/comfort fic in your scaryverse?

Loads. The below is 'Where Do You Think You're Going?' from Why Do They Kick Me?, but there are others in that collection and scattered throughout both volumes of Cigarette Smoke & Snark.

The rain’s coming down in sheets and Dove hates it, especially here, where there’s a crap-ton of ‘hitchhikers may be escaping inmates!’ signs.

She’ll be home soon, all done and over from delivering some handsomely-paid-for evidence that while the Riddler may be a criminal, he didn’t commit that crime and therefore is unlawfully detained in Arkham. He’ll be out by tomorrow and probably right back in on Tuesday, because Batman, but whatever, he’ll have a week. Maybe.

She kinda wishes she’d taken up Charlie’s offer to come with her, but it hadn’t been raining then. And it hadn’t been meant to take this long.

Between the rain and the darkness, she has no warning whatsoever before there’s a flash of color in her headlights. She hits the brakes and is like…eighty percent…sure she doesn’t hit them, but if it’s an inmate and they find out she didn’t stop, she’s screwed.

She rolls down the window. A bit. Sees nothing, and opens the car door, leans out and remembers too late that her umbrella’s in the backseat.

Oh, well.

The rain’s coming down in icy daggers and she knows it’s going to turn into snow later. She doesn’t see any color, at first, and figures maybe it was nothing-a misplaced jack-in-the-box, maybe-when she finally spots another flash of yellow on the side of the road.

It’s barely yellow, more grungy brown and now muddy to boot, but it’s there and it only takes a few seconds to register it as Robin-yellow.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes, sloshes through the mud and prays to anyone listening that she didn’t just kill Batman’s missing kid. “Oh, my God…c’mon, Robin, wake up…Jesus Christ, please don’t be dead…”

She didn’t kill him, anyway. She can hear him wheezing from here and when she gets closer he stirs, forces himself onto his back and tries to crawl away before going still, eyes closed and arms curled over his head.

“Fuck.” She crouches down. Partly it’s dark, partly it’s raining and partly he’s a muddy (bloody) mess, but she can’t make out what could be broken, ripped open…nothing. His limbs are all there, that’s the best she’s got. “Fuck, kid, okay…”

No way Joker let him go. No way. Dove knows he’ll come looking, if he isn’t already. She can’t just leave him here, the clown’ll be furious, he’ll kill him.

“Okay, Robin, okay, it’s gonna be okay, I’m gonna get ya somewhere safe, huh?”

She gets her hands under his arms and he jerks his head, coughs and whimpers, “Please don’t do it again.”

Jesus Christ--what was that?

She doesn’t know what idiot insisted on letting the woods around Arkham grow this wild. Crane may have been crazy and evil, but she’ll give him credit, the few escapees he had during his tenure were caught and dealt with very, very quickly, in no small part due to the lack of fucking trees. But whoever’s in charge now (they rotate so quickly…) either doesn’t have the budget or just doesn’t care, because they’re dense and dark and there could be anybody in them.

But right now, she doesn’t see anyone. She thought that was movement, but she was apparently mistaken. Or someone else is escaping, someone who just wants to get moving.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Robin’s shaking in her arms, hands clawing weakly at hers, and it doesn’t matter. They gotta go.

“Shh, shh, baby,” she soothes. “You’re gonna be okay. Think you can stand up?”

“Please, m’sorry…”

Probably not, then.

The mud is probably the best thing that could exist right now: it makes dragging him to the car a lot easier than it should be. She’ll worry about the upholstery later. For now, she’s good to lay the seat down and cover him with her coat before cranking the heater and flooring it.

And hope to God that flash of white out of the corner of her eye was an orderly.

* * *

Robin spends most of the ride either unconscious or otherwise unresponsive, but he perks up a bit when they hit midtown. Well. It’s all relative; he burrows into her coat and opens his eyes, anyway. Doesn’t react when she tries to talk to him, though. Just sits there, face tight and resigned.

Hospitals are out of the question. It’s easy, ridiculously easy, to get in there; murder a nurse and pop right in. Richardson does it all the time. She’ll call Jim, when she gets home, get him to get Batman and that shouldn’t take long at all. It’s safer. He got out of…of wherever he was (Arkham?), he can hold on until Batman can come and get him.

He’s capable of getting up, of letting her half-carry him into her apartment’s elevator, but he ends up on his knees before they’ve even hit the second floor.

Here, in the harsh lights, he looks awful; bloody and bruised and scared. He’s favoring his left ankle, trying to keep it away from the rest of his body, and Dove does not wanna know. 

His head’s slumped towards his chest and when she reaches down to lift it, see if he’s drugged, he flinches and whispers, “Please don’t hurt me, m’sorry, I won’t run again.”

“No, no, honey.” Maybe drugged, or maybe just sick; his skin’s burning under her fingers. His eyes are glazed over, pupils blown wide, and she doesn’t think he’s seeing her. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m gonna get you cleaned up a bit, try to get you home, huh?”

He doesn’t seem to understand.

“M’sorry,” he whispers again, a few tears carving tracks through the blood and dirt on his cheeks before hitting her palm, and she lets him go, watches the floor count go up. He wobbles a bit, fingers tensing against the carpet, and she’s not sure if she should try to steady him or not. She’s gonna go with not; they’re almost there and so far he hasn’t put up a fight.

She’d like to keep it that way.

Whatever’s up with his ankle, he gets to his feet when she tugs on his arms, shuffles down the hall with her and manages to stay semi-upright while she gets her door open. 

“Okay, kid, okay.” There. Door’s locked again, deadbolt ‘n all. “Let’s just…shower. C’mon, just a few feet, that’s all.”

She doesn’t even try to get his costume off, not now, not like this. It’s easier to just half-help, half-haul him into the bathtub and let him sink down, trembling and clearly trying not to cry.

The warm water makes him jump, at first, but he stays still after that, fingers knotted under his knees. The gunk that comes off him is reddish-brown and after a few minutes she can make out marks from barbed wire, and gashes in his uniform. He’s still and silent, gazing blankly at the rubber bath mat under him, and only flinches once when the water hits what turns out to be a ragged slash near his inner elbow.

“M’sorry.”

“Shh, don’t be sorry, sweetheart, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He’s quiet, after that, and she resolutely does not think about Joker’s ‘conditioning’ methods.

Once he’s sodden, she shuts the water off and nudges his head up, rubs a warm washcloth across his face. He sits there and lets her, doesn’t even try to struggle, and honestly…honestly, it’s unsettling. What happened to the boy that straight-up asked Penguin about the bottle in his eye socket?

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs, thumb rubbing dried blood off his cheekbone. “Okay, there we go… there you are.”

Sheesh. He looked bad before. Now? Without the excuse of grime? Those bruises are dark, like Harley’s can be, and the ones just under his jaw look like someone was trying to force something (pills food worse?) down his throat. He looks at her, still blank, before dropping his head back down and trying to hide a shiver.

“I’ll turn the water back on in a minute, but I wanna at least get your cape off, maybe the rest of this, huh?”

That rouses him a little more, makes him try to pull his head away and maybe try to get up, but he’s too unsteady to do much besides wobble.

“No, no—”

“Just to get you cleaned up, you’re a mess.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t fight her when she fumbles for the clasps on his cape. There’s nothing to do with it but toss it in the trash can; Batman wants it, he can come and get it.

She’ll worry about the rest of him later. Right now? Shampoo.

He cringes at the splop-splop noise it makes leaving the bottle and tries to pull his head away from her hands. But not for long-when her fingers dig into his scalp he stills, breath hitching in his throat.

“S’okay, kid, s’okay. Just gonna get some’a this crap off’a you, huh? Just a bit?”

He doesn’t answer her, just plunks his forehead against his knees and starts to cry.

* * *

He protests, once or twice more, when she gets him undressed the rest of the way, but once he’s out of the tub and in a shirt and some old sweats of hers he’s quiet again.

She has no idea what to do with him now. Call Jim, maybe. But first, bed.

Whatever kept him up and moving before-stubbornness, desperation, adrenaline-is spent and he doesn’t even try to help when she pulls him up. Surely he should be heavier than this, it shouldn’t be this easy to drag him around.

But it is this easy, and she’s almost grateful Cobblepot made her help him dump bodies in the river back in Ye Olde Days of his career. Almost.

She gets him tucked up in bed with a mountain of blankets on him and now he comes to life a little, blinking rapidly at the dim lighting and scrubbing his hand across his eyes.

“Where am I?”

Confusion is…an improvement.

“You’re okay, kid.” Well. All things considered. That ankle’s half-broken, not healing right, and even ignoring the cuts and bruises and fuck those are electrical burns what the hell, the rasp to his breathing is probably Really Bad. “You’re safe, you…you nearly got run over, but, y’know…”

More blinking, and that expression that people get when they’re trying to make sense of things. Then, “M-Miss Marquis?”

It’s something!

“Yeah,” she says gently. “Yeah. You’re okay, kiddo, I’m gonna…I dunno, I’ll get a hold of Jim or something and he can call Batman and he’ll come get you.” Robin coughs, tries to lever himself upright and she moves to prop him up. “Okay, honey, okay, there we go…think you can take a drink? That sound good?”

“Mm-mm.” He starts trying to go back down and she lets him, tugs the comforter back up to his chin. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, kiddo. You came outta nowhere.” She wonders where her phone is. “What about somethin’ to eat, huh? Couple’a crackers, maybe?”

“Mm-mm. M’sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Jesus Christ, he’s just a kid, no older than Charlie’s daughter. “Don’t be sorry, hon, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. Yeah?”

He just looks at her with wide, shiny eyes and whispers, “He’s gonna come for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, he is, he’ll be here just as soon as he can—”

“No.” He swallows, fingers creeping up to tighten around the edge of the comforter. “Not. Not Batman. J—”

His voice catches in his teeth and he squeezes his eyes shut, bunches the blankets into his arms like a makeshift teddy bear. Outside, the rain turns into hail, slamming against the patio with a determined TAPTAPTAPTAP!

“Shh, shh.” There’s two furrows running down from under his eyes, bruised and ragged. Fingernails, and she can just see those boney fingers, pale and heavy-knuckled, digging in and dragging downwards. “Don’t worry, honey, he won’t come.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Nope.

“Try to sleep, Robin,” she says. “I’m gonna call Jim, okay?”

He doesn’t answer. She goes, gets her phone out of her purse and tries to do exactly what she said she would, but Jim’s phone goes straight to voicemail.

Okay. Harvey, then…no.

No answer.

This might be a little bad. She knows, logically, that there’s plenty of cops who won’t hand the kid back over, but she doesn’t know who they are and she does know, because Harley had mentioned it not three weeks ago, that ‘Mistah J’s got ears all over this town!’

A side effect of watching people’s children sleep, she imagines.

Okay. She’ll try again in a little while. Everything’s fine. It’s Gotham, they’re busy. Maybe Batman’s there!

All the same, she triple-checks the windows, and the door, and kills all the lights before grabbing a water bottle and a box of Wheat Thins and going back in the bedroom. Robin’s not asleep. He’s still half-curled in the blankets, staring at the window with frightened eyes.

“No answer, but he’s probably busy.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I hope so.”

“F’you want, I got these.” She holds up the water and the crackers and he shakes his head. “Try to sleep, hon, there’s probably just been a drugs bust or somethin’.”

“Don’t go.” His voice is barely audible over the hail. “Please. I’ll be quiet, I promise, just…”

“Shh.” She sits down on the other side of the bed. “This okay?”

“Yeah. T’anks.”

“Go to sleep, kiddo. It’ll be okay.”

He yawns and suddenly he’s moved and is now both burritoed in blankets and curled tightly against her side. She doesn’t know how that happened. She blinked, that’s all.

Whatever, it doesn’t matter. If it keeps him calm enough to sleep, he’s fine there. She turns her phone to vibrate and opens up the internet. This is fine. This is going to be fine.

Hopefully.

* * *

Robin doesn’t move from his blanket cocoon even after two hours. Hell, he doesn’t even move in the cocoon; just stays balled up with his head pressed against her side. Even asleep, he doesn’t look calm, not even close, but he does uncoil a little bit when she risks reaching down and pulling a few strands of hair away from his mouth.

Outside, the hail has only grown worse and she hopes the Joker is out in it, because it 

might hurt him and the mental image of a giant hailstone smacking him in the mouth is funny.

Neither Jim nor Harvey has called her back and she’s just about to try again when Robin suddenly starts coughing.

“Come on, kiddo, wake up.”

Shaking him makes him scrunch into a ball, arms over his head.

“Please—”

“Robin.” She gives him a little nudge. “Wake up, sweetheart, you gotta sit up.”

He eventually pulls himself up a little, arms falling to cradle his ribs.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She reaches over and picks up the water bottle, cracks the seal and winces when his eyes light up.

“S’safe?”

“Yeah, just water. You gonna try?”

“Uh-huh.” He takes it, clutches it to his chest and drains it in about forty seconds. “T’anks.”

“Sure. You hungry?”

He makes a face and mumbles, “No.”

“Okay. Try to go back to sleep, huh? You don’t look so good.”

He returns to his ball-shape, arms curled in front of his chest, and doesn’t move even when she re-tucks the comforter around him. She’s just about to text Jim instead when the phone lights up. There. All better.

“Hey, glad you got back to me.”

“What’s going on?”

“You need to send Batman to my apartment. I…I sort of nearly hit Robin with my car.”

“What?” There’s the sound of running feet in the background. “Where?”

“Not too far from Arkham. He’s…I didn’t hit him, anyway, but—”

“Shit.” A car door slamming. “Shit, Dove, you need to get outta there.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m just leaving Arkham, the Joker’s God-knows-where, he murdered his way out not three hours ago.”

Well, shit.

Robin stretches out a teeny tiny bit and presses his head against her hip with a soft sigh. He’s not hearing this, then, he’s gonna calm down, he’s gonna sleep.

And that’s fine.

She ruffles his hair, still damp and warm and just covering a couple of contusions around his ears. Joker doesn’t know where she lives, she’s mostly sure, they’ve got a window before he tracks her down--

--but that flash of white, earlier.

Oh, my God.

He could be anywhere. Could be hitchhiking, could be on the roof, could not even care. He’s unpredictable enough that he might not care, but Dove doubts it.

“Get Batman here,” is all she says. “Door’s locked, windows are locked and we’re up high anyway. The kid’s hurt and he’s sick, I don’t even know if he can walk.”

“Hrm?”

“Shh.” She presses the phone to her shoulder. “Jim just wants to meet us at the precinct, you’re not up for that. That’s all.”

“Oh.” A yawn, a wet cough and a groan of pain. “T’anks.”

“Mm-hm. We’ll see you soon, okay, Jim?”

“But—”

She hangs up on him. Robin burrows under the blankets a little more and mumbles, “I didn’t think I’d ever…I don’t even know how long I was there.”

A month and a half since Batman shattered a window, dangled Cobblepot over Main Street and demanded information he didn’t have. If Robin was missing before that, Dove doesn’t know.

“Couple'a months.” Too long. “Do you remember how you got out?”

“Th-there was a doctor. He brought her down to look at me because I couldn’t. He’d.” He swallows and tries again. “I can’t scream without coughing, an’ ‘e wanted to fix me. Said I was boring like this.” That’s not surprising. “He kidnapped her or somethin’, I don’t know, but she had to lemme go to look at me better an’ I just headbutted her and ran for it an’ she’s prob’ly dead cause’a me an’—”

“Shh, shh, baby.” She’d be dead anyway, so she wouldn’t tell. “It’s not your fault, honey, it’s not your fault.”

 “Yes it is—”

“Robin.” She makes him lift his head and look at her. “It’s not your fault. Listen to me, okay? It’s not your fault. It’s not.”

Next thing she knows, she’s got an armful of shivering kid and he’s sobbing into her shirt.

“M’sorry, m’sorry—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” Um. This isn’t. This is bad, what is she supposed to say, what the hell. “It’s not your fault.”

“Mm—”

“Just try to calm down, okay? Breathe with me here, c’mon.”

That’s a little difficult, what with the coughing and all, but eventually he manages to calm down, at least a bit.

“M’sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, kid. Don’t. Okay? C’mon, just lie back down—”

He shakes his head and tightens his grip and whispers, “Please.”

She’s not heartless, okay? She tried, because good employees are heartless, but she’s shit at it and the only reason Penguin keeps her is because by the time he figured it out, she had his backup e-mail passwords.

“Okay. Okay, kiddo, okay.” She moves so she’s propped against the headboard and he’s not about to knock her over and pulls the comforter up to wrap around his shoulders. “Okay, honey, you’re okay. It’s over. It’s over.” Well, providing the Joker doesn’t come knocking on the door, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Just try to sleep, okay, Robin? It’s all over.”

“You promise?”

Uh, sure?

“Yeah, I promise.”

“’Kay.” He yawns. “Night.”

It takes him about fifteen minutes to finally conk out, but conk out he does, still shivering in the blanket. Dove kind of wants a sign to inform any rampaging Batmen that he put himself here, that she hasn’t hurt him, so please don’t fly in and kick her in the side of the head or anything.

Hopefully someone gets here soon.

* * *

She’s startled out of an accidental sleep by a knock on the door. Jim, must be Jim. Or Harvey. Whoever.

Another knock. Okay, okay, hang on.

She moves the kid so he’s half-propped on pillows to help him breathe and stands up, grimacing at the pop-pop! from her knees. Ow. Ow, she regrets her life choices.

“Hrm…?”

“Shh, I’ll be right back.”

But he’s already awake, eyes alert and locked on the direction of the front door.

“Who is it?”

“Probably Jim. I’ll be right back, okay? He can carry you if he really wants you at the precinct.”

“’Kay.”

More knocking. Good God, Jim, give her a…damned…minute?

Jim does not have green hair. Green hair like the hair visible through the peephole. Green hair on a white face.

Shit.

She’s not home, is her first instinct. She’s not home, she’s at work or on an errand or some other non-home activity. Robin? Who’s that? Ain’t that a bird?

She’s about to run with that, tiptoe back to her bedroom and barricade the door and hope to God that he’ll go away, when the knob rattles and he sings out, “Yoo-hoo! Anybody hoooome? I seem to have lost my dear pet bird!”

Okay. Okay. Maybe she can get him to go away. She’s…interacted with him, a few times, at the Iceberg, and he’s always been civil. Careful wording is her one great skill, and it might work now.

Or at least buy her some time. Better, she thinks, to try and get this to go her way rather than have him break in.

She fumbles around until she comes up with the butcher knife she keeps by the door for emergencies, triple-checks the chain latch, and cracks the door.

“Hello?”

People forget, sometimes, that the Joker is a tall man. He rivals Crane, easy, but while Crane is unassuming until he wants you to look at him, the Joker is impossible to ignore. Especially up close. That grin of his is cheerful from a distance, even just from behind a bar, but now? Now it’s manic and angry, a chimp’s smile.

“Helloooo!” But his voice is always cheerful…up until he’s mad. “My bel-ooo-ved songbird flew away from me this evening!” His hands are still in his pockets. That means nothing. Nasty things can be found in the Joker’s pockets. “Have you seen him? I’m soooo worried.”

She’ll bet. Batman’s going to be furious when he sees the state of the kid.

“I haven’t seen anything,” she says, fakes a yawn. “I just got home a little bit ago, went to bed.”

The teeth glint. An elbow twitches. And then he moves, upper body lunging forward like a snake’s and a hand jamming in between the crack of the door, fingers scrambling for the chain. She throws her weight against it, slams it against his arm, and he curses at her, those purple fingers abandoning the chain in favor of her neck.

She remembers the knife. It’s heavy and clumsy in her hand, but she slashes at him anyway, tip gouging a chunk of flesh out of the back of his hand before he yanks said hand back and the door slams shut. She throws the deadbolt and rushes to the kitchen, snags a dining chair and wedges it under the knob. Outside, there’s nothing but silence.

Door as secured as it can be, she grabs another chair and retreats to the bedroom, barricades that door too. Robin’s sitting up, hands twisted into knots in his lap.

“He’s here.” God, he’s so resigned already. “He came.”

She hates to scare him, but it was impossible to miss that ruckus.

“Yeah.”

He tries to get up and can’t, ends up desperately muffling his coughs in a pillow.

“I’ll go. Just. Just can I have s-some pills o-or something, I can’t do this again, I can’t—”

“Shh, shh.” It’s quiet out there. That can’t be good. “Don’t be silly, it’s gonna be fine. Batman’ll be here any minute.”

He’s silent after that, eyes glued to the door. Dove rifles through her dresser until she comes up with the pistol she always carries at work and sometimes carries the rest of the time, checks the bullet count. Fully loaded. Six shots. No more security deposit, but hey…

She doesn’t notice, at first, the movement outside. The hail is still pounding down, after all. But then there’s a rhythmic shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits! against the glass.

She’ll tell the police, later, that he had a tommy gun and looked like he was going to shoot through the glass. She has no idea if that’s true; all she can think of are all those people who laughed themselves literally to death, and that like hell is she gonna be one of them.

Six shots. The first two break the glass but don’t hit him, but the next four do, driving him backwards and--

--over. Down. Gone.

Not even one last cackle. Just a pair of fallen novelty teeth on the cement, getting knocked around by the hail.

Said hail is now trying to come in, and she wraps Robin in the comforter, guides him to the living room to lie down on the couch and locks her bedroom door, just in case. The kid’s staring at her when she comes back, shiny-eyed and a little awed.

“He’s gone?”

The fucker lives through everything.

“I think so, kid,” she says tiredly. “I think so.”

* * *

Nightwing’s the one that comes, at least at first. She’s surprised to see him; last she heard, he was over in Bludhaven, making a nuisance of himself.

“Nightwing.” God, it’s been so long since he did handstands on Penguin’s Very Expensive Barstools. He’s gotten so big. “Been a while, kid.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” He crouches down, hand half-reaching towards the kid in her arms. “Jesus Christ…”

“He’s sick,” she warns. “I think broken ribs, definitely broken ankle. Lotta cuts ‘n bruises.”

“Better than the alternative.” His fingers drop against Robin’s spine. “I thought…Little Wing? C’mon, buddy, wake up. Time to go home.”

Robin doesn’t stir other than to burrow deeper into the blanket and murmur something unintelligible. Nightwing doesn’t push, just lets his hand fall flat between the boy’s shoulders.

“Where was he?”

“I found him outside of Arkham. Nearly hit him, to be honest.” She gives him a little shake. “Wake up, sweetheart, Nightwing’s here to take you home.”

“Hrm…’Wing?”

Nightwing grins, relief clear on his face.

“Hey, brat. You awake?”

“Wh’re’s B?”

“On his way.” Sure enough, there’s a VROOM! a block or two over. “You ready to go home?”

“Sleepy.”

“I know. I’m gonna pick you up, please don’t bite me.”

“Once,” Robin grumbles, but he doesn’t protest when Nightwing hoists him up, arms tight, and cradles him against his chest.

“I gotcha, buddy, I gotcha…Thanks, Miss Marquis. For, um. Y’know. Everything.”

She stands up, feeling things snap and crackle.

“Take him home. And be safe, both of you. I mean it.”

“T’anks,” Robin squirms a bit, one hand falling towards the floor. She gives him a smile, stands up and cracks her spine.

“Feel better sweetheart.”

He nestles against Nightwing, and then they’re gone. Jim gets up there five minutes later, wide-eyed, and says, “Holy shit, Dove, what did you do? ”

Penguin does this all the time. She’s seen him do it. She shrugs, sinks back to the couch, and says, “He would’ve killed us both if I let him in. I thought he had a gun.”

Not that he needed one, as many an Arkham guard’s obituary can attest.

“Jesus Christ.”

Yeah. Jesus Christ, indeed.

THE END

[what-if-nct]

Taeyong: Johnathan get in here right now.

Mark: Oooh he said your full name that means you're in trouble.

Taeyong: You too Marquis.

Johnny: Oooh that means you're in trouble too.

Taeyong: Why is there a seagull in the house?

Mark: You mean that water bird?

Taeyong: Yes, the water bird.

Johnny: You see what had happened was.

Taeyong: You both know only ducks, Chickens, swans, pigeons, and doves are allowed in the dorm. No other birds especially Seagulls, one stole my reeses once, it was my last reeses, do you know how hard it is to get reeses?

Doyoung: Now you two have to go to the states to get Taeyong a year supply of reeses.

Mark: Why?

Doyouung: It's going to be the only thing he can think about all week.

Taeyong: I had plans for those reeses.

[danceswithdarkspawn]

WIP Wednesday

bouncing back and forth today between The Queen of Swords and RTM. political intrigue is hard.

Leliana watched the people watching the Inquisitor as she made her way down the floor. Various marquis and lords, dithering ladies cooling themselves with dove feather fans. A sea of false frozen faces, pressed vests, and revealing necklines watching the oddity that walked with rehearsed steps towards their doomed-to-die Empress.

Everything was too much.  The grandeur of it all made her teeth ache.

The lights were too bright. The heat was too stifling. The string quartet sounded like dying darkspawn, regardless of the melody it played. Innumerable voices speaking in hushed whispers, low like the thrum of insects, grated against the inside of her skull. 

The almost-militaristic uniform felt stiff despite the fabric otherwise being rich. Josephine had insisted the Inquisition attend the Winter Palace in attire that ‘denoted their status as an organization, but remained formal enough for the occasion.’ 

It was a shame, Leliana thought sourly, to be so confined in a place like this, where formal attire spoke more than words could.

And yet she couldn’t disagree with dear Josephine for practicality’s sake; she was right, as she was usually when it came to more intricate court affairs. After all, why hide behind a physical mask when everyone in Halamshiral already knew who lay in wait behind it? Why not flaunt the Inquisition’s power, its status?

Not that one of those garish porcelain masks would have helped her any; everyone knew who she was. The only mask Leliana could hide behind was her own, and that was slipping as of late.

Eons passed since she was last here, but she despised this place a little more each time she stepped across its threshold.

Too many eyes as she made her way out of the vestibule and into the ballroom, as she descended the stairs to the floor to join her fellow advisors, awaiting announcement to the court. Leliana offered Cullen a curt smile as she took her place between him and Josephine. She quietly scrutinized the way he fumbled with the sash around his coat, but at the same time reached up to tug at the silk cravat that hid the evidence of her betrayal.

Inquisitor Trevelyan descended the stairs opposite the ones Leliana had, having been the first to be announced to the court. She, too, wore the same attire as the rest of the Inquisition, save for House Trevelyan’s crest which was stitched into a pocket just below the collar. Josephine had fussed over the young leader’s unruly pale hair, finally straightening and securing it in a typical Orlesian braid. It wasn’t the most elaborate thing, requiring some practicality should the Inquisitor undoubtedly find herself amid conflict over the night’s affairs. Then again, elaborate was never a word that described Inquisitor Elisabeth Trevelyan.

It was a blessing that Elisabeth was accustomed to some courtly intrigue, though Ostwick’s breed of courtly affairs paled in comparison to that of the grand Orlesian Game. Long hours were spent within the Ambassador’s office back at Skyhold, holding lessons in diction, etiquette, dancing—anything that could help acclimate her to such an event. She took to it like waterfowl, but she was a gosling on a lake full of swans.

Leliana watched the people watching the Inquisitor as she made her way down the floor. Various marquis and lords, dithering ladies cooling themselves with dove feather fans. A sea of false frozen faces, pressed vests, and revealing necklines watching the oddity that walked with rehearsed steps towards their doomed-to-die Empress.  

It could be any of them, Leliana thought. A grand masquerade, held under the auspices of a peace talk? Every bard in Orlais should be here. The Nightingale would have been shocked if a representative of the Antivan Crows were not in attendance.

This was going to be a long, irritating night.

[carmenvicinanza]

Rosa Bonheur

https://www.unadonnalgiorno.it/rosa-bonheur/

Rosa Bonheur, artista francese del XIX secolo, autrice di memorabili ritratti di animali, è stata la prima donna insignita della Legion d’Onore sebbene la storia dell’arte tenda a dimenticarla.

Dichiaratamente omosessuale, libera e indipendente, è stata tra le prime donne a indossare i pantaloni. Per farlo, doveva chiedere un’autorizzazione alle autorità che, ogni sei mesi, era costretta a rinnovare.

Nata col nome di Marie Rosalie Bonheur, il 16 maggio 1822 a Bordeaux, era la figlia maggiore del pittore Raymond Bonheur e di Sophie Marquis.

Ai suoi tempi le donne non potevano frequentare le Scuole di Belle Arti e il padre fu il suo maestro e quello dei fratelli e sorelle.

Invece di andare a copiare i quadri del Louvre preferiva stare in campagna e frequentare le fiere di animali che adorava.

Espose per la prima volta nel 1841, a diciannove anni al Salon di Parigi. A ventisei vinse la sua prima Medaglia d’oro, tra artisti come Corot, Ingres e Delacroix.

Per trovare l’ispirazione girava per i mercati di animali e i macelli indossando pantaloni, coi capelli corti e un sigaro in bocca per confondersi tra la folla.

Il suo quadro Aratura nelle campagne di Nevers, del 1949 è oggi esposto al Museo d’Orsay.

La fama internazionale era arrivata con La fiera di cavalli, arrivata al Metropolitan Museum di New York nel 1887, ancora oggi uno dei quadri più apprezzati della struttura.

La sua fortuna artistica è stata molto legata al mercato inglese, era molto apprezzata dalla regina Vittoria, e a quello statunitense.

È stato un raro esempio di artista che è riuscita a guadagnare in vita con le sue opere. Riuscì infatti a comprare il castello di By, a Thomery, vicino Fontainebleau, dove allestì il suo atelier e organizzò gli spazi per i suoi animali. Ci viveva con il suo primo amore, Nathalie Micas, anch’ella pittrice, conosciuta quando aveva quattordici anni da cui non si separò mai sino alla morte di lei, avvenuta nel 1889.

Allevava animali esotici e coltivava le sue passioni, musica, letture, teatro, ma anche sigari, caccia, cavalli. Sezionava i cadaveri degli animali per studiarli meglio.

Riceveva scrittori come Victor Hugo, Gustave Flaubert, i musicisti più famosi dell’epoca, Georges Bizet, Jules Massenet, Charles Gounod, appassionata d’opera, si recava spesso Parigi per assistere agli spettacoli.

Anche Buffalo Bill, che aveva conosciuto quando aveva visitato l’accampamento del Wild West Show, lo spettacolo che portava in giro per l’Europa, dove aveva visto per la prima volta i bisonti e altri animali esotici. Dal loro incontro nacque un celebre ritratto a cavallo dell’ospite americano, che le aveva donato un abito dei nativi visibile ancora oggi nella ex dimora dell’artista.

Nel 1865 è stata insignita della Grande Croce della Lègion d’Honneur dall’imperatrice Eugénie, moglie di Napoleone III, che aveva visitato il suo atelier e insistito per poterle consegnare la più alta onorificenza francese.

Anni dopo la scomparsa di Nathalie, si innamorò della per la pittrice statunitense Anna Klumpke, con ha vissuto fino alla morte e che è diventata la sua erede universale.

Ha lasciato la terra il 25 maggio del 1899 nel Castello di By. È sepolta a Parigi nel cimitero di Père-Lachaise.

I quadri, gli acquarelli, i bronzi e le incisioni presenti nel suo studio, così come la sua collezione personale, furono venduti alla galleria Georges Petit, a Parigi, nel 1900. Oggi il suo atelier è aperto al pubblico come Musée de l’atelier Rosa Bonheur a Thomery.

La sua biografia è stata scritta, nel 1908, da Anna Klumpke, la sua ultima compagna.

Nel 2022 per il bicentenario della sua nascita è stata allestita una mostra al Museo di Belle arti di Bordeaux e successivamente al Musée d’Orsay.

Nel suo castello, ora ribattezzato Château Rosa Bonheur, l’attuale proprietaria si batte per far riscoprire l’opera della pittrice e valorizzare la dimora che contiene molti documenti d’archivio ancora inediti rimasti conservati nei solai e magazzini e che, poco a poco, vengono studiati per arricchire la conoscenza di una donna emblematica della sua epoca la cui memoria non deve andare persa.

Si stima che al momento della sua morte al castello fossero presenti circa 4.500 opere. Grazie alle lastre fotografiche di Anna Klumpke, scoperte nei solai, si è potuto ricostruire in parte un inventario delle opere scomparse. Le immagini sono state il cuore dell’esposizione Le Musée des oeuvres disparues  che presentava un centinaio di opere inedite della pittrice rivelandone aspetti meno conosciuti come le caricature, la pittura storica e paesaggistica, le illustrazioni di leggende inglesi.

Nel castello dove ha abitato è possibile dimorare e godere del meraviglioso giardino dove teneva i suoi amati animali.

[cicaklah]

picard thots 3x05

wanging on about star trek under the cat

🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈

poor picard, forever alone until the last two weeks when TWO lady loves come back into his life and say 'oh yeah turns out we could have been in love but you fucked it up without realising it'. (not to ignore his current lady love who is the only one with the spine to let him NOT fuck it up without realising he is fucking it up).

(I can't believe we are STILL paying for patstew feeling emasculated in the early 90s. the male ego: not even once.)

Ensign Ro is one of those characters that TNG fans have Strong Feelings about, and I am one of those, because I love Bajorans and Cardassians as the true ds9 stan I am. I love seeing Michelle Forbes in things. I hope she was paid a lot to come reprise the character she's seemingly spent her whole career running away from. I suppose that, and the fact that this is a show named after Picard, that the focus will always be on her relationship with Picard. It was the most interesting part of what we got about her, along with our general introduction to the Bajoran faith and people, but we had 7 years of development of them and none of her, I always assumed she was killed when the marquis were slaughtered by the dominion as a favour to the cardassians. Lucky escape, though of course she got killed off. she had her story beat: time to die. (cash that cheque, never look back).

Anyway, not that Picard would have ever done anything with her, due to being Noble Space Coastguard Man who outranks her by about 40 years, but I quite pruriently like the wow wrong bad hot of that dynamic, in a dead dove way. Like as usual I wish we could spend more time in these characters' heads, because god I love people who fail at starfleet more than anything, they are my favourite characters in any show. The dysfunctional relationship between starfleet and those within it is fruit ripe for picking. Picard breaking the rules to sleep with Ro would be absolutely out of character in the most delicious way, to the point I kind of want to write it. Like that is tragedy, highest nobility and loyalty to an institution vs the desires of the human flesh. Genuinely the best. Awful dysfunctional relationship between man who projects wildly onto a younger woman and the younger woman who clings to older man in authority as symbol of the authority she is a bad fit for. Neither of them ever actually engaging with each other as people, therefore doomed to failure.

At the ~ revelation ~ that omg changelings are EVERYWHERE, when Ro says starfleet is corrupted to the highest level I went "what, AGAIN?" Its been 2 years since Romulans took over the top level of starfleet, and now its changelings. I mean, I still think the changelings have been there for twenty years, since the attempted coup in homefront/paradise lost.

I wish this series was...25% less ambitious prestige tv.

Anyway, glad that Jack said something to his mum that he's fucked and seeing things, but all this red and doors and stuff is synth-as-fuck, and honestly it makes no sense for Jack to be a synth even in this series. They can't do synth stuff without agnes and they ruined agnes by making her borg. it makes me miss narek, my problematic fave though. god, remember season 1? seems so long ago.

(IMAGINE IF SEASON 2 HAD BEEN ABOUT REINTEGRATION OF SYNTHS INTO SOCIETY AND EXBORGS AND JUST IN GENERALY NOT WHATEVER IT WAS GDI)

all these close ups of Jack's eyes is really highlighting that he is DRAMATICALLY miscast as a 23 year old, its just funny now. Man has more eye wrinkles than I do and I'm 36.

as we are introduced to more older characters the more I am changing my mind on gates mcfadden's face lift, I think its so uncanny it keeps throwing me out of her scenes because I keep analysing her face. can't do anything about it, and she does look good...if REALLY uncanny.

Worf and Raffi continue to be good, if a little boring. The timelines are converging. It was nice to see Charlie from Fringe as a Vulcan gone bad though. Been a little bit of a fringenaissance on TV this year, with anna torv in tlou and Charlie in this. more of that please. they deserve better.

I still like Shaw, but I like the bad apple captain trope best of all. Remember when we had Lorca and I got so excited about how Disco was going to be a show about actually working under one of the Bad Captains of the Week from TNG era?! Maybe I'm getting it.

(I also think that there's interesting things to unpack about Shaw and Seven's relationship that PERHAPS I might also write something about because mmmm he's a dick, she's bullheaded, what the fuck is she even doing in starfleet other than falling into the trap that so many failed fleeties have before, deconstruction of the protagonist hero trope, seven deserves better but how can she get better when she is in the military, which cares not for individuality?! Like the dichotomy of man who after trauma finds peace in conformity and playing by the rules, vs the woman who knows that conformity is seductive and ends up seduced by it again, and ends up in this job that she is ill-suited for even if she is technically good at it, because she is essentially self-harming by joining the military, the acceptable collective????

failed fleeties, my absolute fucking favourites. Right in the vein, please.)

anyway are we half way through? I think we're half way through. Wonderful.

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

Not BTS related.

You said you read i don’t know what kind of book you enjoy reading. I also enjoy reading w lot (im broke buying books). Something that bothers me is how people treats problematic books. I don’t know if you have heard of All for the game trilogy/captive prince trilogy(both touches really really hard topics). But i can’t understand why people says the books shouldn’t exist? That the authors are problematics for writhing about such topic? And your in the wrong if you voice your liking to them/recommend them? And i started feeling bad for liking/enjoying them. Why does writing about thing like violence/ the r word thing and others bad? Im trying to understand people point of view and i don’t wanna feel bad for enjoying someone that people says is bad. Does that make me a bad person? I think im struggling

Reading is fun to me but i feel bad for enjoying some books. You totally don’t have to answer that.

I never heard of that trilogy, but I did look it up to see what it's about. But since I didn't read the books, I'm not going to form an opinion on it, so I will use my reading experience and the authors that I read to try and explain my point of view on this debate.

There are many aspects to be taken into consideration, but I will try and keep this brief because I'm not a literary critic and this blog is not really the place for it. First, what we have to aknowledge is that there is a difference between the author and the narrator, even when it's a first person pov. Opinions expressed in the text do not automatically mean that they belong to the author. This is fiction we're talking about. Nabokov wasn't sexually attracted to 12 year olds just because he wrote Lolita. That's one thing. A second would be that even in the case of ''problematic'' authors, a word that I wish wouldn't be used at all, as readers we are able to get informed and understand that some of their views that do transpire in their texts regarding their racism, misogyny, classism, elitism and so on can be analyzed through a historical lens. We are all products of our times and some people are ahead of their time, but not the majority. We live in a world now in which being politically correct is a given, or ''woke'' and we think that this is how it's supposed to be, but perhaps in 50-100 years later, society's views could be completely different, perhaps more evolved than now, or will take a different shape. What I'm trying to say is that we shouldn't completely dismiss such authors, but instead, knowing their background will help us in having a broader perspective. Should we all stop reading Virginia Woolf because of her antisemitic views and completely disregard her literayr style that has had such a big influence on the 20th century literature? My own opinions on books and authors are mostly formed around two theories: Barthes with the author is dead line of thinking and historical criticism when the case requires it.

Now, I believe that so called problematic aspects can be divided into two categories. One would be made out of issues that I talked above, and the other one involves mature categories, such as violence, abuse, heavy sexual themes that are seen as toxic, anything that in fanfiction terms would end up tagged as dead dove don't eat, etc. To me, this is slightly ridiculous and I'm putting this mildly. Just because I read books that deal with that, it doesn't automatically mean that I condone it.or maybe I do like that in fiction, so what? Characters and stories should not be pillars of morality, especially given that morality as well is quite a subjective thing, influenced by religion, culture and the specific time we're living in. Should I feel bad that I read Marquis de Sade, Michel Houllebecq, some Murakami? Am I a bad person for liking John Fowles's The Collector because it's about a guy who kidnaps a woman because he's obsessed?

I think that reading and specifically talking about books should always be a nuanced discussion. We shouldn't just put some authors in a pile and say we don't need them anymore because of reasons. How would we learn anything if we think like this? And what's the point of fiction if people aren't allowed to explore even darker themes and not be judged by it? I think this is the effect of the ''problematic'' labels that are used nowadays, YA books that are slowly being cricitised through a moralistic lens and the influence of the tagging system in fanfiction which is used for helping people navigate triggering topics. I am personally against that because never in my life when I bought a book by an author that I was interested in, have I felt the need to know if it has a happy ending, if someone is violently tortured or the sex scenes are humiliating for a character. Good stories make us think, challenges us and stand out due to their literary style. Those are the criteria that I usually have in mind.

My advice to you is to do a little research on this topic, see what's the current debate from all sides and then try and see if your current opinions are challenged by that in any way.

[mt-musings]

To Inherit the Night - 14

She cried in the carriage. She cried for the two days it took them to reach the city, until her eyes burned and she she had no tears left. The carriage driver never said a word, though she was sure he could hear her.

They were real tears, but usually she would have pushed them down, never would have cried in front of someone she hardly knew—now she’d use it as a pike. 

After all, she was sure the carriage driver would talk about the battered peasant girl Marquis Vestra paid to have delivered, a peasant girl who sobbed for the entire journey. And when she arrived with red-rimmed eyes and a dress that made her look even thinner than she was, the servants would whisper and soon everyone would be talking about the poor girl Marquis Vestra dragged to Enbarr. 

Hubert she would have to be careful with, but he’d spent the entirety of their time at the academy underestimating her—all she had to do was play into his preconceptions, his assumptions. 

He’d probably force her into his service, make her spy for him, assassinate rivals, pave the way for a new Adrestian Empire with blood and crushed bone. Then she could be selectively defiant, purposely incompetent as long as it was believable, just really gum up the works, all while hopefully funneling information out to her birds and by extension to the Alliance. 

Of course, that was assuming he didn’t just throw her in a cell to rot. For most people that would be a worst case sort of situation, but for her it might be best. It’d be easy for her to slip out whenever she wanted with her shadows, easy for her to case half the palace while she was at it. Even if they cast Silence on her, or put her in some sort of anti-magic cuff she’d be fine, because none of that worked on whatever it was she could do. She wasn’t eight anymore, she’d long since figured out how to break out of any bindings.

As long as he didn’t drug her unconscious and bleed her.

Then her power would drain away with her blood. 

The thought was enough to make her nauseous.

It was a possibility—Hubert was working with Arundel, after all, and he’d do anything to secure Edelgard’s victory and her blood would go a long way towards that.

Still, it was a chance she’d have to take. 

She really was a wretched thing, to know without hesitation that she would allow herself to be used for such destruction if only it saved her brother. But the world didn’t matter without him in it, wouldn’t even exist, for her, had it not been for him. 

She’d burn it all to the ground herself, if she lost him. Because she was a monster, the like of which even she didn’t yet know. 

~~~

Edelgard had warned him about his chosen course of action with the Savage Mockingbird’s lovely little dove. 

“She will not bow to the rules of your games so easily, Hubert,” she had said with a raised brow. “You would have much more luck pursuing her affection in a more traditional manner, lest she resent you.”

“I—I do not want her affection. I am simply mitigating a threat to the Empire and ensuring another ring of spies.”

“You could ensure the same without insisting on marrying her.”

“Perhaps. Though the issue of her bloodline would remain.”

“Or is it simply the fact that you can’t bear the thought of her with someone else?”

He hadn’t said anything to that, the answer plain even to himself. He’d convinced himself that he’d be fine with her hating him, as long as she was safe. Right up until her carriage pulled up outside the palace. 

She wore a simple, patched dress, half of her hair braided back from her face and tied with a ragged violet ribbon. There was a fading bruise on her jaw and and her face had sharpened in the last four years—judging from the way the fabric of her dress hung from her frame he’d guess she’d skipped more than a few meals. But she still had the same shock of white hair, the same mismatched eyes—eyes that burned with a barely concealed fury, red-rimmed from crying. 

She ignored the hand he offered to help her descend from the carriage, leaping to the cobblestone with little regard for decorum. 

She’d suffered, in the time they’d spent apart, and suffered greatly. It wasn’t unexpected, but it was hard to stomach the reality of it in front of him. 

She glared at him before turning to the carriage driver and thanking him, forcing a smile until she turned back to him, looking at him with the same sort of disgust as one might a cockroach. 

“If you have harmed a single hair on his head—“ she began, voice trembling as she spoke. 

“He is unharmed, as promised. I am true to my word, Cecily, in case you have forgotten.”

“Take me to him. I won’t agree to anything until I see him.”

“As you wish,” he said, leading her into the palace. He could practically feel her rage roiling off her, see it in every tensed muscle. He was quite sure she wished nothing more than to throttle him. 

She followed him silently through the halls of the palace, ignoring him completely as he carefully unlocked a door and held it open for her. 

Yuri sat on the narrow bed, his usual flippancy replaced with resignation.

She darted to his side as soon as Hubert opened the door. He couldn’t help but see the hopelessness in the other man’s eyes, resentment flashed his way as she threw her arms around him.

“Yuri! I’ve been so worried—“

“You shouldn’t have come, you know it’s a trap.”

“I don’t care. I could never leave you here—“

“He’s just exchanging one hostage for another. Cecily—“

“Don’t, don’t you dare. It’s my choice.”

“Cecily—“

“I won’t hear it, Yuri. Not after everything you’ve done for me.”

Hubert knew he deserved both their ire, had expected it, but he hadn’t expected the look of pure devastation that flashed across Yuri’s face as Cecily buried her face in his shoulder. He’d always been so good at schooling his expression, at keeping up his perfect little facade. It was the first time he’d seen it slip.

It was gone a moment later, replaced by loathing as his eyes flicked to Hubert’s face. 

“This is low, even for you,” he said, venom dripping from his words. Hubert stared back impassively, an art he’d mastered at an extremely young age. He felt it crack just a little as a ragged sob escaped her chest, the sound muffled by Yuri’s shoulder.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” he said, checking his pocket watch. “Then we’ll talk terms.”

Neither of them answered him, so he stepped out into the hall, leaning against the wall. He should be listening to what they were saying, he knew, but he needed a moment to settle himself. 

He’d thought, maybe upon seeing her, that he’d realize that he’d made whatever affection he held for her larger in his head, that it was magnified by nostalgia. Or maybe he’d hoped. Instead, he found himself discomposed at the sound of her grief, a disconcerting fact considering the amount of traitors and spies he’d heard cry and beg for their lives and felt nothing but disgust. 

Having her near was dangerous, should anyone realize that she could be used against him, harmed in order to harm him. But the alternative would allow Arundel to capture her, torture her, do every awful experiment—

No, he could shoulder her ire, her hatred, her grief and hold it against his soul. He could prevent one atrocity, then, and she in turn could help him exterminate Arundel and his ilk from the face of the earth come war’s end. It was all for the greater good, for Lady Edelgard’s dream.

And perhaps a little of his own selfishness. 

He took a deep breath and turned back to the door, to the voices that had raised behind it.

“You can’t Cecily, you can’t, I won’t let you—“

“You’re not letting me do anything, it’s my choice and only my choice.”

“It’s not, it’s not, you know it’s not.”

“He said he would execute you, Yuri!”

“And you should have stayed far away! You know—you know who he’s working with, you know what they’ll do—“

“I don’t care. I don’t care, I could never leave you here, leave you here to die—“

“And what do you expect me to do? You expect me to leave and let them do whatever awful thing they have planned?”

“Yes! Yes, I do, because I can bear it. You know I can, and everyone needs you. I need you out there.”

“Do you think I need you less? You’re a damn fool—“

“Maybe I am. But it’s my choice and you won’t make me change it.”

“I’m not—I’m not writing your name in my book, Magpie, I’m not—“

“You know they don’t want me dead. Not right away.”

“There are things worse than death! What they’d done to you when I found you—“

“I survived, Yuri. I always do. Just—please understand. I have to. You’re the only family I have left. They’re not getting you, too. Please, please let me be selfish.”

Hubert pushed off from the wall, opening the door once more. They both turned to look at him, Cecily’s face slicked with tears. She’d always been so guarded with her emotions, hiding everything under a smile but now—there were breaking points for everyone.

He knew that better than most.

“I believe it’s time we ironed out the details. Cecily, if you’ll come with me,” he said stiffly, ignoring the murderous look Yuri shot him. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Cecily stammered, hugging him so tightly it must have hurt. “I promise, I promise everything will be okay.”

“Cecily, please don’t. Please—“

“It’ll be okay,” she said, stepping away, smiling at Yuri even as her lip trembled She turned away before he could see the fresh wave of tears rolling down her cheeks, the way her smile crumpled as she held back a sob. Hubert stepped wordlessly into the hall, locking the door after Cecily followed. She trailed behind him, silent, her head bowed, but he could hear her uneven, stuttering breaths, hear how she tried to force them to even out, how she held them when she couldn’t, until she needed the next breath. 

He’d done that. He’d done all of that. 

They thought he was going to hand her over to Arundel, that he was going to torture and experiment on her, possibly until it killed her, and she’d still agreed. She’d come willingly, without an ounce of hesitation. 

No wonder her eyes had been red when she arrived.

He led her to his office, shutting the door behind her before crossing to his desk and pulling out a sheath of documents. He slid them across the desk towards her along with a quill and a bottle of ink, pretending not to see her surreptitiously wipe the tears from her cheeks as she tried to compose herself. 

“I don’t intend you harm, nor do I intend to allow anyone else to harm you,” he said, keeping his eyes on the documents on the desk. “But you simply cannot be allowed to continue as you have. You’ve caused me quite the headache.”

She turned towards him, her face impassive even if it was still clear she’d been crying. She approached the the desk as if expecting to be struck, eyes scanning the documents. She froze when she reached the contract, her already pale face whitening. She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking and you really intend to send me to the front lines. That you intend to make me spy for you. That you intend to lock me in the dungeon and forget about me.”

“I am not.”

“W-why?”

“Isn’t marriage how most political alliances are ensured? The Empire could use the Savage Mockingbird’s network of spies and I need you to stop with your little extermination project. In return they are spared criminal prosecution and you live in relative comfort.”

She made a face, before turning back to the documents, taking a shuddering breath. She stared at it for a long moment, though he could see she wasn’t reading it.

“House Vestra has no Crest,” she said evenly.

“I am well aware,” he replied, raising a brow. She searched his face, something about her expression unreadable, though there was a flash of something that passed too quickly for him to place. Then she turned back to the contract. 

She shook as she stared at the document, biting her lip. He didn’t think she was really even seeing it, not with the way her eyes seemed to stared through it. 

“And if I sign it, if I agree, then Yuri goes free?”

“He works for the Empire, obeys Imperial commands, checks in when he’s supposed to.”

“And if he changes his mind, after? You won’t hurt him—“

“If he falls in line he’ll be well-compensated and have relative freedom. If he deserts, I will ensure he never sees you again. Otherwise you will be able to see each other at my discretion.”

She made a face, staring off into the middle distance as she seemed to war with herself over something. It was a full five minutes before she finally spoke. 

“I—I want something else, if I sign. I want Yuri to go free and I want something else.”

“And what would that be?” He asked warily. He’d expected her to contest the terms, to want to secure herself money or property or some semblance of independence. She’d never been materialistic, but he expected her to lash back at him in any way she could. And it wasn’t as if it would be that different from any other sort of noble marriage agreement. 

She pursed her lips, curling and uncurling her hands into fists, looking as though she might burst into tears again. 

“There were people in Abyss we got out before you attacked the monastery. People who had nowhere else to go. Urchins and…war-orphans. My work paid for them, and if I can’t any longer—I want you to find someplace decent for them to live, far away from Arundel’s lands. I promised those kids they’d never go hungry. My last purse won’t cover more than two months, for all of them. I—that is my price, that you bring them to safety and keep them housed and clothed and fed.”

He was taken aback for a moment, a rarity. 

He searched her face, her agonizing and fear entirely explained. What she was asking—she was handing him a pronged collar when he’d simply asked for a lead, and she knew it. 

She’d always had a soft heart. It was a terrible trait in an assassin. 

He wordlessly took the contract and added a clause that he would personally take responsibility for the denizens of Abyss as the Marquis Vestra and that he would see them housed comfortably, clothed, and fed. He turned it back for her to read. He watched her eyes flick over it, check the wording twice before she nodded.

She stared at him for a long moment, something hollow behind her eyes, before she took a deep breath and signed the bottom of the document. 

“Is that all?” she asked quietly. 

“It should be sufficient,” he replied, putting the papers back into the drawer. “I’ll see you to your chambers.”

“M-my what?”

“The chambers that you’ll stay in until we are wed.”

“Can’t I go see Yuri? We barely spoke.”

“Your next visit will be based on how cooperative you both decide to be.”

“And what exactly do I need to do to be cooperative?”

“If you do as I say and do not create a nuisance of yourself.”

She stared at him looking so utterly lost. It made his chest ache.

Still, he motioned for her to follow him, leading her through a maze of halls. Usually guest chambers would be in the eastern wing, but he had secured chambers off the Inner Gardens, near his own chambers and far, far from where Lord Arundel stayed when he came to the palace. 

He unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow her entry. It was a small suite, as far as those along the Inner Gardens went, with only a small sitting room, bath chamber, and a bedchamber, but it was the most easily protected and out of the way enough that no one had any reason to even pass by. There was a small balcony where she could enjoy the gardens, though she had no access to them, with a pair of lounge chairs on it. 

Cecily stood in the middle of the sitting room, just staring, for a long time. When she finally spoke it was barely more than a whisper.

“Am I allowed to roam the castle, or do you intend to confine me to these rooms?”

“Until the wedding you will stay here unless you accompany me somewhere at my request.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “Will my bag be brought up?”

“I will see that it is, along with some entertainment. If you are hungry I can have the kitchens send something up, otherwise dinner will be brought at six.”

She shook her head, still looking dazed. He frowned, but didn’t press the issue. 

“There will be a guard stationed outside your door around the clock. If you should need something, knock and they shall see it fetched. Do you require anything before I take my leave? I have important business to attend to elsewhere.”

She shook her head again, shoulders curling in as she continued to stare. Hubert left without saying anything further, locking her in before flagging down a palace guard to stand watch until his own agent relieved him.

He kept a brisk pace until he reached his office and closed the door, locking it behind him. He leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

It would have been better if she’d stayed furious with him. He wished she’d screamed at him or tried to hit him or anything besides the resigned desolation she’d met him with. 

He’d broken her. 

~~~

He’d made sure he could see her rooms from his. She kept the curtains shut tight, but he could see her sitting on the little balcony, her feet propped up on the rail. He’d been watching her off and on for over an hour since he’d retired to his study to finish his reports as he usually did in the evening. She’d originally gone out to smoke, a habit she must have picked up since he’d last seen her, and she’d just sat on the railing itself, staring up at the black sky.

The city lights blocked out all the stars. 

She’d stayed, though, after she’d finished, occasionally shifting position as she stared into the darkness. He’d thought at one point she might have been reading something, but she’d left no light on in the sitting room behind her to illuminate anything, hadn’t even bothered to light the fire.

She hadn’t eaten, either. Her dishes had returned to the kitchen untouched. 

He’d address it if it became a habit. For now he’d let her be, let her adjust as best she could. He looked up at a knock on his chamber door, tearing himself away from his voyerism. He crossed back through his sitting room to answer the door, fully annoyed at being interrupted.  He swore if it was Ferdinand—

“Do you have a moment?” Edelgard asked.

“Of course,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “I’ll make tea.”

She nodded, crossing to sit on one of the couches in front of his coffee table, directly in front of the white pieces of his chess board. He watched her consider the pieces a moment as he made tea before resolutely making her move.

They often played as they talked, something they had begun doing as children. They were evenly matched, simply trading victories when they didn’t end in stalemate. He enjoyed it, though they had been playing so long they both knew what the other would do practically before they did it. Somewhere around Edelgard’s thirteenth birthday the whole thing had become rather mindless, something to do with their hands, an excuse to sit for an hour in quiet conversation, conversation no one would expect was plotting revolution. 

“I heard Cecily arrived,” Edelgard said as he set the tea service down. He considered the board a moment before making his move and turning back to the service to make her cup—a splash of milk and far too much sugar. 

“She did,” he said, setting it by her elbow as she countered his pawn.

“And?” she asked pointedly. “What happened? How is she?”

“Half starved to death and covered in bruises. She agreed to the terms without a fight.”

Edelgard furrowed her brows. “That seems odd, considering her reaction in the Tomb.”

“She’d come under the assumption that I planned to give her to your uncle for further experimentation. So I suppose marriage to myself is preferable to indefinite physical torture, though only just. She did suggest I instead throw her in a cell and allow her to starve to death.”

“You know that I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I do.”

“She’ll come around. Did you explain anything to her?”

“She could hardly look at me. I considered it cruel.”

“Well, you did hold Yuri hostage.”

“Yes, but I expected her to be furious, not—“ he broke off, shaking his head.

“Not what?”

“She was desolate. Broken.”

“You threatened to kill her brother and she assumed you meant to imprison and torture her, Hubert. I told you it was a terrible idea.”

He said nothing, pretending to concentrate on their game. He could already see he would lose. 

“Have you at least tried to explain any of it to her?”

“She will only think I’m lying. If she will listen at all.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh? Did you forget what she did when the Church assigned us to hunt down Sylvain’s older brother?”

Both she and Miklan had been covered in blood by the time the Professor and the rest of the class had caught up to her. She hadn’t even bothered to unsheathe her sword, instead somehow leaping on his back and clinging on as she plunged one of her tiny throwing daggers into whatever flesh she could reach, so long as it wouldn’t kill him quickly. She hadn’t stopped when he’d plunged the Lance of Ruin into her shoulder and he doubted, had the professor not dealt the decisive blow that knocked her from his back, that she would have stopped until he resembled hamburger meat or transformed into a demonic beast beneath her.

“That was entirely different.”

“Because he’d actually killed her mother, rather than just allying with her murderers?”

“Because she hated Miklan.”

He huffed a laugh, utterly devoid of humor. “I can assure you, she loathes me.”

Edelgard appeared unconvinced. “If you only explained to her the reality of it then perhaps she would realize we are all of the same heart when it comes to my uncle’s ilk.”

“I think it best if I leave her be, for now.”

“You mean to leave her in those rooms without company?”

“I’m sure she’d prefer it to mine.”

“Or the solitude will drive her to desperation.”

Hubert flicked over his king, conceding the match. Edelgard gave him a piercing look. 

“This would all be much simpler if you only admitted your affection for her and explained the danger you’re attempting to mitigate.”

“Or she’d use it as a knife to drive into my back.”

Edelgard gave him a look, brow raised. “I think she’d at least have the decency to stab you in your front. She was sweet on you, after all.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said, trying not to think of the way she used to smile at him, crooked and unrestrained, her mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief. Not the hollow, tear-stained cheeks and dead eyes of the girl he’d seen today.

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