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ckneal · 3 years

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There’s a midam AU idea that’s been living in the back of my mind for months now, but it’s been slow going. Mainly because I suspect that doing the idea justice is going to mean doing more research than I’m used to, and maybe even rewatching the series proper to help me fill in some of the weak spots, and I have so many other story ideas that are frankly just easier to work on, two of which are already slated to be multi-chapter works. . . But I’m in the mood to type up something longwinded, so here we go. Keep reading if you’d like to see a rough outline of the first few chapters of this story I really hope to write out properly sometime.

(Warning, this is a long one.)

So, this story is loosely based on the Hundred Years War that took place between England and France from 1337-1453. But it’s only very loosely inspired. Very, very loosely. As in, I was reading a book, I read about one thing that happened, it germinated in my head, and then suddenly I had a plot developing that featured my current favorite ship. Additional sources of inspiration include one of my favorite fantasy series, and a personally beloved trashy romance novel. Because it’s fanfiction, folks. There are no rules here.

Of course, in this AU, the entire world is going to be made up, with neither side of the war distinctly being assigned the role of England or France—or Flanders or Burgundy, for that matter. I barrowed an inciting incident, and few smaller details from history to help things along here and there, but with no regard for keeping all the French things assigned to one group and the English ones to another.

That said, the inciting incident took its inspiration from the Battle of Poiters, a conflict during which England not only won against the French, but also took their king hostage. King Jean II was later ransomed back to his people, but at a sum that was so high, France could not afford to pay it all at once. England still returned France’s king, but new hostages were provided to serve as collateral during the interim, including the King’s son.

So. . .crown Prince Michael Shurley completely decimates King John Winchester on the battlefield, and sends his demands to John’s queen, Mary Winchester. The two kingdoms have been locked in a territory dispute for several decades, and this is one of the more humiliating events to befall the smaller kingdom yet, especially since they are unable to meet all of Michael’s demands. When the Winchesters begrudgingly admit this to the Shurley representatives, they’re caught off guard when they’re offered a trade: John Winchester will be returned, so long Dean Winchester takes his place as collateral.

Things are less than stable in the Winchester kingdom however, with more than a few factions quietly scheming for power. John and Mary were an arranged marriage that was originally held up like a fairytale when the two seemingly fell madly in love during their mandated courtship, but the years afterward had changed them. Civil unrest sparked by the war had brought out a lot of disagreements between the Winchesters and the Campbells and their approaches to governing.

John’s supporters are the ones to step forward with a plan, and convince Mary that it’s vitally important the people are not alarmed by their king’s capture. Mary initially finds it distasteful, but it’s talked around and adjusted and reframed, as John’s people ferret out more and more information about the vital party involved, until she finally agrees.

Because John Winchester just happened to have a bastard son. The resemblance to Dean might not be particularly remarkable, but no one at the Shurley court has ever seen the Winchester heir before. Plus, Adam Milligan has spent the entirety of his teen years studying to become a physician, of all things. He’s perfect for their purposes.

Ten years prior, the Shurley court had had to deal with its own bout of civil unrest, when King Chuck Shurley’s second eldest son had attempted to overthrow him with the support of several nobles from one the kingdom’s richest providences. Lucifer had allegedly been driven into exile following his defeat, and Chuck had been said to have contracted some sort of mysterious illness. According to rumors, the king had shut himself up in his private chambers and refused to admit anyone apart from his remaining children. Even servants were barred from tending him directly.

They snatch Adam away from his studies and force him into compliance by dusting off an archaic law left over from before the start of the war, when the kingdom relied on a conscription military force rather than a standing army full of career military professionals—this law empowering the crown to call on any of its citizens for a minimum forty days of military service per year. They tell Adam that his mission seems more dangerous than it is—really, all he has to do is pretend to be Dean, and use his medical knowledge to figure out exactly what mysterious illness has bedridden the enemy monarch.

Sam and Dean—the proverbial heir and spare of the kingdom—are not at court to meet their younger brother, when he’s hastily fitted for a royal wardrobe and put through a crash course on court etiquette. Sam is very publicly put on display at a holiday festival in another part of the kingdom, while Dean is sent orders to quietly stay behind at a country estate while his valet, Kevin Tran, is sent on to court. Neither of the princes is told about the plan until after Adam has already been shipped out, with Kevin in toe to help Adam along with the impersonation.

No one involved is in anyway comfortable with the mission. But it was only supposed to be for forty days. Adam was assured that the necessary funds to pay off the ransom would either be raised by the end of the minimum mandated service, or they would make contact to extract him. The Campbells and the Winchesters both allegedly had spies in the Shurley court, and they would make themselves known when the time was right.

Adam is given the impression that the latter had been told to him with the intention of making him feel safer. It did not work.

He’s terrified when he arrives—almost would have preferred being promptly thrown into a dungeon upon arrival, instead of a room full of foreign nobility who one and all give off the impression that if cut they’d bleed straight silver, and look at “Dean,” the hostage prince and purported military genius from the tiny, vicious country across the channel, as a curiosity to be studied. He’s assigned two guards (who I decided will be Anael and Samandriel, based entirely on the tags I threw together at then end of this post, during which I decided that I love these three together), who follow him around relentlessly, but beyond that, he’s. . .pretty much treated like a guest. If a stiflingly monitored one. There are limitations on where he can go and what he can do, but for the most part he’s just sort of. . .there.

Most unnerving of all, however, is the small package that Adam finds in his room when he first settles in. Kevin swears he has no idea who left it. It has the Campbell’s insignia clearly worked into the pattern of the paper it’s wrapped in, and inside he finds a knife small enough to conceal on his person, and a number of different herbs and powders that he recognizes from his studies—though of course, he’s more familiar with remedies to counteract their effects.

In other words, he finds an assassin’s-first-kill-job kit, and instructions on how and when to use it, if opportunity arises. This had not been part of the deal when Adam reluctantly signed on.

Unbeknownst to Adam however—though suspected by some parties in the Winchester court—Adam cannot assassinate Chuck Shurley, because Chuck is not there. Shortly after Lucifer’s insurrection, Chuck had quietly disappeared. Michael had only been a teenager at the time. He invented the story about Chuck being ill on impulse, certain that Chuck would be back sooner than later, and Raphael had gone along with it because, being twelve years old, Raphael was not yet old enough to question Michael’s judgement. It is now an awkward point between them.

Adam soon becomes another.

Michael regularly checks in to see how Adam’s getting on, in a way that Kevin assures Adam is entirely appropriate, since Michael is under the impression that Adam is going to be a fellow monarch someday, and is likely trying to be courteous. Adam inherently feels somewhat flustered around Michael though, which is not helped by the fact that Michael is somehow always present whenever Adam puts his foot in his mouth socially. On more than one occasion, he’s thankful that almost no one has actually been to his homeland, allowing Adam to blame an astonishing number of fuck ups on cultural differences.

Michael and Adam’s early one on one interaction are intensely awkward. Adam will forget to wear gloves, and then Michael will comment that Adam’s hands are oddly devoid of callouses for someone who’d practically been raised with a sword in his hand, leaving Adam to scramble for some flimsy excuse about hand cream. Adam will inquisitively ask questions about what sort of illness would be severe enough to leave someone bedridden for a decade but not kill them in that time (Kevin frantically motioning over Michael’s shoulder to convey that that is NOT the right way to fish for details on such a sensitive subject), and Michael will struggle to find an excuse around the quietly bubbling panic, because he hasn’t had to try to explain anything about his father since that first year, and he is not a particularly gifted liar.

And then there’s Raphael.

Unlike Michael, Raphael is suspicious of “Dean” right from the start, pulling Michael aside to point out things that don’t seem quite right according to what their informants have told them about Dean Winchester.

“Doesn’t he look a bit young?”

“Some people look younger than they are, Raphael.”

“I was told Dean Winchester had dark hair.”

“Dark blond is dark.”

“Aren’t his eyes supposed to be green?”

“They’re obviously blue.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

The forty days come and go with Adam and Kevin nervously waiting for some sort of sign from home. Roughly two weeks later, a messenger arrives with unexpected news for Michael’s court: the Campbells have officially broken ties with the Winchesters in a violent bid for power that has left the kingdom at war with itself.

According to Kevin, the civil war has probably slowed things down a bit, if it’s as bad as the rumors say. . .

Adam and Kevin are stranded.

“Don’t worry though—I know Dean, and he knows our necks are on the line. He’ll keep out of sight until they manage to get us out of here.”

Adam finds it difficult to put faith in the virtues of a brother he’s never met, but doesn’t have it in him to question Kevin’s faith. He worries about his mother, who might have been safe in the countryside, but also might have made the trek to the capitol when it came out that Adam had been abducted for the sake of persevering the royal family's throne. He can’t be sure.

And to top it off, Michael takes to stopping by Adam’s room every couple of days to privately talk about the movements of the various factions—who has been sighted where and in what condition, where they’re rumored to be headed. Adam interprets it as an attempt to shake out inside information. One day, Adam finally tries to set him straight by saying it doesn’t matter how many ugly details Michael throws at him, Adam can’t help him because he doesn’t know anything—and is promptly put to shame when Michael looks at him in surprise and says, “You misunderstand. I assumed that you would want to know these things, because they are your family.”

Michael leaves, and Adam’s guards exchange a look. When asked, Samandriel awkwardly tells Adam that the royal family used to have a fourth child. Gabriel. He was lost during Lucifer’s insurrection. Pirates overtook his ship. They’d never received a ransom. Michael had purportedly offered a standing reward for any news of Gabriel, and put an unwise amount of resources into searching for him until it threatened the war effort.

Adam and Michael start talking more frequently from there, starting with an apology on Adam’s part. It’s tricky at first, because Michael starts out asking questions about Dean Winchester's military exploits—it is the most likely common ground between them, after all—and Adam has to hastily change the subject every time. By the two month mark, they’re talking affably, and rumors start to circulate through the courts as Michael's routine check ins on Adam start getting less formal and more frequent.

On the four month mark, rumors get even worse. Raphael finally sits Michael down and really gets into all of the things about “Dean” that don’t add up, item by item. If he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t know anything about his country’s military exploits, he’s far too convincing given his reported record, and Raphael has it on good authority that more than half of those “cultural differences” in etiquette that keep cropping up are completely unfounded—and look here, three different informants have sent lists of Dean Winchester’s physical characteristics, and the foreign prince DOES NOT MATCH.

“Michael, something is not right here.”

“Fine, I’ll talk to him about it now.”

And Michael storms off to address “Dean,” while Raphael calls after him that he should wait until morning. Because it is the middle of the night.

Adam just happens to be up reading. Michael’s familiar with the book. Michael gets distracted, and they talk all night. The sun’s coming up when Michael finally leaves, and a servant happens to see him slipping out of Adam’s room. Suggestive conjectures promptly follow, and Raphael exasperatedly admits they only have themself to blame.

And this only gets worse, because now Adam and Michael have transitioned into being friends. No more guarded conversations where one is convinced the other is about to catch them in some sort of lie. When Raphael mentions that some of the lesser nobles are starting to think Michael and Adam are courting, Michael’s fidgeting is not at all lost on them, as Michael assures them that of course that isn't the case. He and Dean are merely establishing friendly relations that will serve them well down the road politically—

“After the war is over?”

“Of course, after the war is over.”

Adam’s been stranded in the Shurley court for almost a year by the time that he finally slips into his room and sees a sealed message set out on his bed. Adam doesn’t recognize the insignia as belonging to either the Winchesters or the Campbells, but it’s signed with the initials “SW” at the bottom. It mostly contains a lot of vague phrases that make Adam wonder if he was supposed to be versed in some sort of code. As far as he’s concerned, the only important information comes at the end: Kate Milligan has been safely relocated for the duration of the civil war.

Relieved, Adam goes down to dinner, where some sort of seasonal holiday is being celebrated, and has a bit more wine than he normally would. The Shurley court is one of those stuffy courts where seating is stiffly dictated by tradition. As a foreign prince, Adam’s assigned seat is at the same table as Michael, although, according to Kevin, his placement's much further down due to his being a hostage. After a few drinks, and after most of the nobles have cleared off from the table to talk and celebrate elsewhere in the hall, Adam sees no reason not to get up and relocate down the line of chairs to sit closer to Michael. It was against the rules, but Adam was aware enough not to sit in Raphael’s empty seat, and he’d been seen with Michael so often that Anael and Samandriel barely even blinked, because Adam obviously wasn’t about to attack their prince or anything.

However, it is worth noting that while talking to Adam, Michael consumes a decent amount more wine than he would normally have as well.

Later that night, Michael’s walking Adam back to his room, and he starts to comment that Adam seems happier than usual. But even when sober, Michael would struggle to say something like that—if he’d even attempt it while sober—and Adam winds up biting his lip as he watches Michael’s mounting embarrassment, as a simple compliment inexplicably morphs—words seemingly forcing their way out as Michael tries and utterly fails to stop them—into a compliment about how Adam is beautiful—that is, he’s always beautiful—that is, Michael can’t help noticing Adam most days—that is. . .

. . .Michael is adorable. And in a moment of pure, thoughtless impulse, Adam leans in and kisses Michael right there in the corridor.

Michael is profoundly shocked, and his reaction delayed. Adam had only gone in intending to briefly press his lips against Michael’s, but as he’s pulling away Michael abruptly leans in and reseals the kiss, and Adam in turn takes that as an invitation to pull Michael closer. And a few minutes later, Raphael happens to walk down the hallway and find the two of them enthusiastically kissing against the wall.

And Raphael promptly turns around and goes back the way they came, only stopping at one point to flag down a servant and order them not to let anyone else walk down that particular corridor for at least an hour, hoping that Michael and Adam’s “friendly relations” wouldn’t result in anything too inappropriate.

As it happens, nothing particularly inappropriate happens. Nonetheless, Michael still wakes up the next morning, fully clothed in his own bed, in panic because the first thought to distinctly make its way through the ungodly pain in his head is that he’d taken liberties with a guest the night before. The heir to a foreign power at that, a peer, a hostage! Michael never thought he was capable of something so dishonorable--he’d had Dean pressed up against the wall as if they were a couple of ill-bred urchins, and how does one even go about apologizing for something like that?

(Of course, if Michael were thinking clearly, he might have remembered that Adam had actually been the one to back himself up against the wall, with Michael obligingly following along, quite malleable to whatever positioning Adam wanted so long as Adam kept kissing him.)

Michael’s behavior was beyond unacceptable. If his father hadn’t already abandoned them, he’d likely disown Michael out of pure shame. There was no telling what kind of damage he’d done to the relationship between their kingdoms. At best, Michael’s uncouth actions would be a dirty secret between them in the years to come, after Dean married, and Michael was left barely able to look Dean’s spouse in the eye. If Michael were a lesser noble, his parents might demand he married Dean outright.

And suddenly Michael sat up in bed, realizing he could marry Dean. His mind begins racing, because of course he could marry Dean! It made perfect sense. They enjoyed each other’s company, and with both of them being heir to their respective kingdoms, their union would effectively end the war. It might be complicated—especially given some of the odd customs Dean had introduced to Michael’s court—but marriages had been used to cemented alliances often enough, and the thought of marrying Dean elicited a curiously hot feeling in Michael’s stomach, remembering the way Adam had pulled him close the night before.

(Fun fact, England and France actually did try to do this with the Treaty of Troyes in 1420; it did not go as planned.)

Michael goes through the rest of his day in an uncharacteristically upbeat mindset, because now it all seems to just be a matter of organizing things, and he is good at organizing. He would have to write to either John or Mary Winchester as soon as the situation in their kingdom settled, and formally ask for Dean’s hand, and he and Dean should have a chaperone present at all times moving forward to avoid scandal--though there would be no way to sidestep scandal altogether, of course. Adam was still technically Michael’s prisoner.

More than likely, the Winchesters or Campbells would demand Michael relinquish his claim to at least half of the territories that they’d spent the last few decades fighting over, but that would be fine. It’s traditional in Michael’s country to give gifts to one’s in-laws, and Dean is a future monarch. Anything too little would be insulting, and all would be consolidated eventually when Dean and Michael assumed their respective thrones. . .

Michael is still walking around delightfully living in his own head when Raphael pulls him into an empty room to discuss what they witnessed the night before. While not the most shocking scenario they could have imagined, they were not expecting to hear their brother announce that he and Dean Winchester would be getting married.

“And how are we to explain away our father’s absence during the proceedings, Michael?”

Michael’s good mood promptly withers. Because of course Chuck would be expected to play some part in arranging his son’s wedding. Ill or not, at the very least, he would be expected to make an appearance at the wedding. To have no part in it at all would be suspicious, not to mention rude.

While Raphael intended to snap Michael back to his senses, they had not meant to shake Michael into an immediate depression. They try for a gentler tone.

“You know, Michael. Our father has been gone for over a decade. He left no formal plans, he's sent no word. By any standard, he's abdicated. Perhaps this isn’t the right time to introduce a political marriage. Perhaps we should consider your assuming the kingship, and then come back around to formalizing your relationship with Dean—”

Michael, of course, is against this. Because their father is alive, and he will come back, and it will not be to find that another one of his sons had greedily tried to usurp the throne.

Seeing Michael about to fall back onto a familiar tangent, Raphael chooses the lesser of two evils and takes the conversation back to “Dean.” They ask which out of the two of them proposed to the other.

Michael abruptly realizes that he's forgotten something.

Meanwhile, Adam starts his morning on a much happier note. His headache is less punishing than Michael’s, and while feeling the normal amount of embarrassment that comes with drinking a little too much, the feeling does not extend to kissing Michael. His mother’s safe, he’s nailing his Dean impression, and Michael apparently likes him. Things could not be better. Until Adam remembers how the latter two items on that list are linked.

Michael is not like a classmate back home, who he could chat up, get a drink with, and maybe start seeing regularly if all things went well. Michael is, in fact, the acting ruler of one of the most powerful countries in the world, which just so happens to be at war with Adam’s, and under the explicit impression that Adam is similarly situated in the world.

Adam promptly begins freaking out.

And then Michael finds him.

Adam’s in the library at the time. Michael walks in and quietly dismisses Adam’s guards, and Kevin, leaving the two of them completely alone. Adam doesn’t realize what Michael’s doing right away, though he’s spent enough time with Michael to recognize how nervous he is as he starts talking about a proposal to end the war—selling the idea, as if Michael wouldn’t be enough on his own—and then sheepishly tapering into the idea that both he and Adam seem to have feelings for one another. And if Adam were able to go back in time and strangle his tipsy past self, he would, because then he wouldn’t have to see the look on Michael’s face when he says no.

And no, Michael does not understand.

Adam can hear years of living in the public eye at work in Michael voice, as he just manages to keep his voice level in asking, “Even if it would mean peace?”

"I'm sorry, I just—I can't."

". . .I see."

Michael excuses himself, and Adam collapses onto a couch, assuring himself that no was the only right answer, and he shouldn’t feel terrible—which, of course, since Adam’s spent the last couple of months flirting with Michael while posing as someone else, is not an easy idea to buy into.

Michael and Adam avoid eye contact at dinner, even as Raphael—who has zero doubts as to who initiated what the night before—practically burns holes into Adam’s skin with the looks they shoot down the table.

And then a messenger comes in. One of the wealthiest duchies in the kingdom (the same one that had once supported Lucifer, and of course would be populated with demon characters in the narrative) has declared its independence, having formed an alliance with the Campbells, and has launched an attack not far from the castle. Several villages have already been attacked along the way. Michael accompanies the armed forces he sends out to quash the uprising.

Raphael is left behind to fortify the castle and take in the refugees, who the messenger assured them are not far behind. Unlike Michael, Raphael rarely saw combat. Officially, it was because Raphael had adamantly insisted on training as a healer rather than a warrior, which was true enough. Unofficially though, Michael and Raphael are both fully aware that if anything happened to Michael, Raphael is the only one left to inherent the crown.

Samandirel and Anael escort Adam back to his room. Samandriel assures Adam that no one thinks he had anything to do with the duchy double crossing them, but it would probably just be safer for Adam to stay out of sight until things calm down. Anael is more closed-lipped about the situation.

From his window, Adam watches the first of the villagers come trickling in, and even from his vantage point he can make out burn wounds, makeshift bandages and hastily thrown together tourniquets, and he’s in hell, because it seems the only two options in front of him are to worry about Michael, or feel absolutely sick with guilt because he’s a trained physician and he should be down there helping.

Finally he pokes his head out into the corridor and asks if someone can find Kevin for him. Anael raises an eyebrow that “Dean,” who’s usually inordinately self-suffice for a prince, is suddenly insisting that he needs to see his manservant, but Samandriel is already helpfully heading down the hall. A few minutes later, Kevin is in Adam’s room, confused, as Adam asks him to take off his clothes.

“You can have mine, just switch with me, okay?”

“Uuh. . . Don’t you think mine will be a little tight on you—”

“Less talk! Strip!”

Michael had probably errored in assigning the same two guards to watch over Adam. After a year, the three of them had gotten to be on fairly familiar terms. Adam waited until Samandriel started to get chatty, and slipped quietly out of his room when Anael was distracted—neither of them having had any reason to think Adam would try to escape, because he had been nothing but compliant since the day he arrived.

From there, he goes straight to the infirmary.

Raphael had set up tents in the courtyard to accommodate the high number of people in need of care. Adam was a year out of practice, but the atmosphere was still familiar to him, and he slipped into the chaos unnoticed. Raphael doesn’t notice him until they are well into the thick of things, and Adam’s as covered in grime and gore as anyone else present. Adam had just gone for more bandages and the two of them nearly ran into each other, and for a split second Adam thinks Raphael just might not recognize him until hand closes around his arm like a vice.

“What exactly are YOU doing here?”

Then Raphael notices the stitches Adam had just finished putting in for his latest patient—and Adam’s stitchwork is immaculate, not the clumsy, half-hazard work of a solider who picked up the mechanics of it over the course of their career.

"YOU did that?"

Adam starts to fumble out an answer, but they are interrupted because then Michael is being brought in. The fighting is over. Raphael and Adam promptly drop everything.

Michael has a concussion. He’s also been lightly stabbed. You know, just lightly. Needs stitches though. Raphael is adamant that Adam leave immediately, but Michael, who is delirious, sees Adam and absolutely refuses to let Raphael send him away. Raphael winds up patching Michael together while Adam—annoyingly, to Raphael—is sat next to him, holding Michael’s hand. Adam winds up sitting next to Michael all night, because it’s the only way to keep Michael from getting up and tearing his stitches like a feverish moron.

Initially, Raphael refuses to leave too, not trusting their brother’s suspiciously competent love interest, whose family was purportedly allied with the traitors who’d just attacked their people. There are still more wounded to tend to, however, and Raphael begrudgingly has to step away—making sure to leave orders that a guard be present in the room the entire time that Raphael is gone.

Little does Raphael know, Adam would have lowkey given a limb to have Raphael stay. Michael’s demeanor is a lot less closed off when he’s feverish and concussed. Shortly after Raphael leaves, Michael starts apologizing for proposing earlier, and Adam feels like he’s been stabbed in the gut. And as he’s lying there, looking at Adam’s hand in his, Michael starts saying things he would not normally blurt out—like that ending the war was not the main reason he wanted to marry Adam, because the last year has been the best he can remember, and it is entirely due to spending time with Adam—even if Adam was only there by obligation—and he would do anything to make Adam happy, even if they weren’t together—and Adam is just stuck there, highkey dying on the inside.

Then Michael sees his face.

"I apologize, you’ve already said you do not want to marry me, I should not have brought this up—”

Michael starts to get out of bed completely unconcerned about his stab wounds, and as Adam’s pushing him back down, the words “That’s not true!” just sort of. . .fly out.

Then Michael’s suddenly looking at Adam, and his face is suddenly very sober, and Adam can feel his own face turning red.

"That is, I. . ." Adam realizes, suddenly, that he’s fucked. Telling Michael the truth is somehow both the right and wrong thing to do at the same time, and Michael is definitely in no condition to hear it either way. “How about, if you still want to marry me when all this is over, then I’ll say yes?”

The next morning is a string of stressful events for Adam. Raphael shooed him out of Michael room at dawn, and Adam went straight back to his own. Kevin, Samandriel, and Anael had all been reprimanded for Adam’s escape, with the latter two being replaced as Adam’s guard under Raphael’s orders. His first interaction with Ishim and Maribel does not bode well for them becoming friends.

When Adam tells Kevin that he’s thinking about coming clean to Michael, Kevin panics. News from the Winchesters had dried up weeks ago, even for Michael and Raphael’s sources. Kevin argues that they’d be better off attempting to escape on their own if the charade was getting to be too much for Adam, especially after last night—but even then, they should wait awhile longer. Why take any chances right now? And Adam doesn’t know how to go about explaining the why. . .

And it gets taken out of his hands anyway, when they step out of the room and find that it’s somehow leaked that Adam and Michael—who had completely misunderstood what Adam meant by “when all this is over”—are engaged.

Kevin doesn’t get another moment alone with Adam to discuss how stupidly dangerous this whole situation is, and Adam, no matter how hard he tries—can’t seem to get a moment alone with his fiancé to try to explain that the situation is not what he thinks it is. Everyone had vastly underestimated how far the rumors about Michael and Adam secretly courting had gone, and Adam can barely take three steps without a noble or courtier or someone pulling him aside to offer their congratulations, and as Adam gets closer to Michael’s chambers, there’s Raphael, circling like a shark and Adam does not want to make his confession to Raphael before he sees Michael.

Come dinner time, Adam finds that his seat had been reassigned. He now sits directly to Michael’s left. He keeps trying to convince Michael to step out into the hall with him for a second, while Raphael, seated in their normal place to Michael’s right, continuously circumvents him, firmly believing that Adam has done more than enough in private.

Then there’s a scream. A servant comes running out into the dining hall, carrying a bloody knife. They run up to Michael—up until the guards step forward to stop her, but she’s not attacking. Instead she hands over the knife and says that she found in the corridor outside the king’s chambers. She had been worried, so she broke protocol and went in. The king’s bed was drenched in blood.

Adam looks over and feels a chill when he recognizes the same knife that had been included in the murder kit he found in his room on day one.

If Raphael had looked up, Adam had no doubt that Raphael would have read something in his face, but they didn’t get the chance to. Michael and Raphael are busy staring at each, the only ones in the room who know beyond any doubt that the implication could not be true, because there had not been anyone in that bed to assassinate in over ten years. Neither of them is given the chance to try to spin the knife’s implications in any direction, however. While the court is still reeling in shocked silence, a guard walks in—completely oblivious—and announces that a messenger has arrived with urgent news.

Adam looks up, and finds he has room to panic more, when he sees Anna Milton walk in, a serving maid in the Winchester court, and as she drops a curtsey to Michael, she identifies herself as one of Raphael’s spies. She had held her place in the Winchester court for as long as she could, but when her real identity had been uncovered she’d had no choice but to flee, and she’s come with monumental news. The civil war across the channel has ended, the Campbells having been forced to seek asylum with their allies outside the kingdom, John Winchester deposed, and Dean Winchester installed on the throne in his place. She had witnessed his coronation herself the very day they identified her.

And Adam feels very cold, as if his blood had actually managed to turn into ice, which would have explained why he couldn’t seem to move, as every eye in the room immediately turns to him.

And that would be the end of part one.

#midam #adam milligan #supernatural michael #samandriel #supernatural raphael #anael #kevin tran #my thougths #i'm very tempted to throw jack in a joan-of-arc-inspired role

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beautiful-songbird · 3 years

Text

Something’s Fishy

Pairing: Idol!Jimin x OC

Genre: fluff, angst

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: mentions of stalking, false news I guess?

Summary: Nubia’s best friend, Eva, sets her up on a date. When her date stands her up, a catastrophe happens and a stranger pays for her meal. Turns out, insisting on paying him back would have more consequences than she thought.

Nubia scuffed her shoe across the ground. She wanted to go home. It had already been four years since her parents had shipped her off to England to live with her aunt, and she was missing her four older brothers.

“Bee! Sorry I’m late!”

Nubia looked up as her best friend, Eva, ran up to the bus stop. Her short, dark blonde hair was a mess on her head, and she had a pile of books in her arms.

“What’s up? You look down,” Eva commented as she sat down.

“Just missing home.”

Eva nodded. “I get that. My mom called me last week and told me she wasn’t paying bus fare for me to visit them next weekend, so I’m not going home.”

Nubia sighed. “I just don’t get it. My mom said she doesn’t want me coming home after I graduate. Darius had to invite me secretly when he got married last year.”

Eva shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it either. At the very least, your aunt very obviously loves you.”

Nubia nodded. “She always wanted kids. Of course she loves me.”

“Do you think you want to stay in England?”

“I do. It’s more of a home than Luxor ever was to me. I just miss my brothers.” Her eyes were watering now. “Mido is the only one who has yet to marry, though, so I suppose it would be just the same if I were still at home.”

“Well, I was wondering if you’d like me to set you up on a date. You could use some distraction, right? Isaac has a friend I think you’d like.”

“. . .sure. I guess. What’s his name?”

◇◆◇◆◇

When it had hit half an hour past six, Nubia knew she’d been stood up. She let out a tiny huff as she stirred the cocktail she’d ordered. Why had she agreed to dine at an expensive restaurant? If it had been for a date, she would’ve gladly paid for this food. But now her appetite was lost, and she still had to pay for the sushi she’d ordered.

She heard an exclamation, and looked up just in time to see the waiter trip and food go flying. She ended up with sushi sliding down her clothes, and someone at the table next her exclaimed something in a language she’d never heard. Then another voice addressed the waiter.

“I am so sorry. I’ll pay to replace whatever food I just ruined.”

Nubia sighed audibly. Her best dress was now covered in dipping sauce, and her hair was sticky. She scooted out of the booth.

“Don’t bother. I’m not hungry anyway.”

The look of horror that passed over the man’s face when he saw her might’ve been worth getting covered in sushi. The waiter had already busied himself cleaning up the mess on the floor, clearly not wanting to be a part of the argument that had just broken out.

“I’ll pay your food bill then. And dry cleaning for your dress,” the man offered.

She shook her head. “It’s fine.”

She headed for the bathroom to clean her dress off, finally letting the tears spill as she scrubbed her dress with wet paper towels. She returned to her table ten minutes later to find the men gone and her dinner bill paid.

“The man that tripped me told me to tell you he hopes your week gets better,” the waiter informed her.

“What? He wasn’t supposed to pay! Who is he? I have to return the money!”

“I can’t tell you, miss. He left five minutes ago, though, and he headed north. I’m sure you could find him if you’d like.”

And so Nubia started her chase around London to return the man’s money.

◇◆◇◆◇

“I can’t believe you managed to trip that waiter! And that poor girl! She had sushi all over-“

“I get it, Tae! I made a mistake!” Jimin exclaimed. “Can we stop talking about it?”

Tae was silent for a few seconds. “She was cute though.”

“I’m sure your fiancée wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

“I have eyes in my head! Can I not say a girl is cute?”

“Ok! Maybe she was cute! It doesn’t matter. She was very mad at me.”

“Eh. Just looked like she was having a bad day. Frustrated, maybe.”

Jimin huffed. “Not a word of this to anyone when we get back.”

◇◆◇◆◇

Nubia had spent weeks looking for him, and to no avail.

“What did he look like?” Eva asked one night as they ate dinner.

“Mmm. Dark brown eyes. Bleach blonde hair. Tan skin.”

Eva winced. “Well, that doesn’t help us much. That’s the description of every surfer dude ever..”

“I’m sure I’d recognize him if I saw him. I think he was Asian? I didn’t get that good of a look at him, honestly.”

Eva shook her head. “Why don’t you just let it go? He paid for some sushi and a cocktail. It’s not a big deal.”

“I suppose so.”

◇◆◇◆◇

It wasn’t until June when Nubia was turning the corner that she saw him again. He walked straight into her, causing her to drop her books all over the sidewalk.

“It’s you!” She exclaimed.

“Me?”

“You’re the guy who payed for my dinner! In January?”

He furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“Um. . .you tripped the waiter?”

“Oh!” He went red. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Nubia pulled her purse out and dug through it. She pulled out thirty pounds and held the bills out to him. “This is reimbursement for the meal.”

He shook his head. “Keep it.”

“No! You shouldn’t have paid for my meal! It was very expensive! Take it!”

“No. I ruined your dinner and your outfit. The least I could do was pay for the sushi.”

She sighed and defeated shoved the money back in her purse. “What’s your name? I’m going to find a way to repay you.”

“It’s Jimin. Good luck paying me back, though.”

◇◆◇◆◇

“Bee, have you been on social media recently?”

“No. You know I’m not. Why?”

Eva chewed on her lip. “Oh, no reason.”

“What is it?”

“Um,” Eva held her phone up.

Park Jimin was spotted today on the streets of London with a lady. Is she just a fan? Or perhaps something more?

The post was accompanied by quite a few pictures of Nubia’s encounter with him. She went pale.

“Who is he?”

“A world-famous singer, apparently.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Nubia muttered before making a beeline for the bathroom.

◇◆◇◆◇

BigHit has issued a statement claiming that Jimin’s ‘lady friend’ was simply a street encounter with a fan. Photo evidence seems to say otherwise.

On June 15th, 2025, these photos were taken of Jimin and an unknown woman. In the photos, the woman is seen putting money in her purse. It seems that Jimin gave it to her prior to the photos being taken, but why? He wouldn’t give money to someone who was simply a fan.

“Gosh, what is wrong with people?” Jimin huffed.

“Isn’t that the girl from the restaurant in January?” Tae asked as he leaned over Jimin’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I ran into her the other day and she insisted she pay me back.”

“Well, we’ve gotta do something about it. It won’t be long before the fans figure out where she lives,” Tae winced.

“Any action on our part would make it all the more suspicious though, right?” Jungkook asked.

“I mean, they clearly already have their suspicions.”

Jimin groaned. “None of this would be happening if I hadn’t tripped that waiter.”

“The domino effect at its finest,” Jin laughed.

“We need a plan.”

◇◆◇◆◇

Nubia startled as someone knocked on her door. She crept over to it and peeked out the peephole to see who it was. It was a girl. Who she didn’t recognize. She opened the door only enough to stick her head out.

“Hello?”

“Oh! Hi! I’m Esme. I’m here to help you.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I’m new to this,” Esme shook her head. “I’ve been sent to try and remedy the rumors going around about you and Jimin.”

Nubia raised an eyebrow. “How do I know you’re not one of his fans?”

“Oh. That’s. . .that’s a really good question, actually. Hang on.” She pulled her phone out and pressed a few buttons before holding it up to her ear.

“Hey, Joon. How on earth am I supposed to prove to this girl that I’m not just one of Jimin’s fans?” She paused. “Um. . .yeah that really would’ve been a good idea. Thanks. Love you. Bye.” She put her phone back in her pocket and looked up at Nubia. “You don’t happen to have a friend you could call, do you?”

◇◆◇◆◇

“Don’t you think renting a whole cafe out is suspicious?” Jimin asked as they walked to said cafe.

“Definitely.” Jungkook agreed.

“Yep,” Hobi nodded.

They all looked at Tae for him to nod his head.

“Why would I agree with you? This was my idea!”

“Touché,” Jungkook murmured.

When they entered the cafe, Esme was seated at a table with Nubia and a girl none of them recognized.

“I still want to know why we’re here,” Nubia informed Esme.

“Well, after all the information the press is spreading, we have to make sure you’re safe. Quite a few of their fans are vicious.” Esme rolled her eyes. “Personally, I don’t consider them fans. Fans are people who support, and these people are most definitely stalkers.”

“How do you know Jimin?”

“Do you know anything about BTS?”

Nubia shook her head.

“BTS is the band he’s in. I’m married to one of the other mem-“

“Es! You made it!” Hobi exclaimed.

“I did. My job is over now, right?”

“I suppose.”

“So. . .your fans are coming after me?” Nubia asked, her normally tan skin quite pale.

“Well. . .the short answer is yes,” Jimin informed her.

“This is great, Bee! You’re famous now!” Eva exclaimed.

Nubia grimaced. “I don’t think that’s so great. . . . My mom will kill me when she finds out.”

Jimin scratched his head awkwardly. “Well, I got you into this mess. I’ll get out of it as best as I can.”

“It’s fine. Just. . .do I need to stay inside? Or something?”

“We were thinking of giving you bodyguards, actually,” Hobi replied.

“Bodyguards!?”

◇◆◇◆◇

“Bee, what are you doing?”

“Packing. What does it look like I’m doing? I can’t live here anymore. This was a disaster all because I wouldn’t let some guy pay for my dinner one night.”

“Where are you going?” Eva asked.

“Korea.”

Read part two here

This is part of the Dad!BTS series that can be found here

A/N: well looks like I have to write a sequel now whoops

It would be greatly appreciated if you reblogged the story if you liked it!

Taglist: @jiminie-and-his-pinky-finger @taehoneycheeks @jinnie-forthe-winnie

#jimin oneshot #jimin x oc #jimin scenarios #jimin angst #jimin fluff #jimin fanfic #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts one shot #bts fic #bts angst #bts scenarios #the joys of parenting

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eryiss · 3 years

Text

Ship: Freed x Laxus

Rating: Mature [Blackmail]

Prompt: Masters

Summary: Magnolia House was an odd place. Owned by the reclusive madman Dreyar, and run by his supposed lover Freed, getting an invitation was seen as a death sentence. So when the letter arrived at Lucy's door after months of anonymous blackmail, she felt her life was over. How wrong she was.

Notes: This is the seventh submission for Fraxus Week 2021, hope you enjoy it. Check out @fuckyeahfraxus to see lots of other Fraxus content.

Links: Event Masterlist ||| Archive of Our Own, Fanfiction

The Masters Of Magnolia House

Year: 1835

Location: Athens, Greece

When you lived in the upper classes, there were certain unwritten rules that you needed to follow, particularly when you were a lady. You were expected to keep your emotions to yourself, nobody wanted a hysterical woman. You were to flirt with a man to keep his favour, if acting stupid got you there then you did that. You were to do as you're told and keep the equilibrium; sometimes leaving the room was better anyway. Men probably had rules that they had to follow, but Lucy didn't care to learn them. They would hardly help her.

But one rule, unwritten and without explanation, was true for men, women, and children. If you get an invitation to Magnolia House, you attend.

Master Dreyar was a reclusive lord, who had removed himself from polite society and crossed the sea to live on the continent. The stories of his person were ride-ranged and never complimentary. Some claimed him to be a prolific blackmailer, who could bring countries to their knees should the mood strike him. Others called him mad, with manners that could change with the wind and a temper that made him strike first and not apologise.

When the lord had left England, the gentry had held a collective sigh of relief.

That was until the first letter arrived.

Stories were wide spread and perhaps exaggerated. A young lord, known for drunken behaviour and general disrespect to the elders of the country, was invited to stay at Magnolia House in Athens for a week. His declined the request, apparently sending another letter claiming that 'the rule of Dreyar is over' and a multitude of suggestions on what the lord should do to himself; none of them kind. Within a month, a newspaper local to the lord's home had mysteriously gotten wind of the letter sent, as well as written testimonies from barmaids, shop clerks, housemaids and the youngest daughter of a nearby respectable home all showing a pattern of aggressive and forceful behaviour. The scandal was quick to take root, and spread like flames across oil. The lord's reputation was rightfully ruined, and a president was set.

The rule of Dreyar was not over, simply redefined. If Lord Dreyar sent you a letter, you took the trip or suffered the consequences.

Lucy had gotten such a letter, and as such was terrified.

For months, other letters had been arriving at her home. At first they were vague, requesting favours of her father with the hinted suggestions that her life would be in ruins if the orders not followed. She ignored them, but they kept coming. Each time, they were less subtle and more overt with what would happen. Lucy's… affair with the daughter of her father's valet – Cana Alberona– would be made public. And then when the threats became more personal, more vicious, the other letter came. A letter demanding Lucy's presence in Greece for the last two weeks of July. Dread had overtaken her, and she was slightly ashamed to admit she cried that night in her lover's arms, but now her head was held high and her spine straight. She would hold her dignity throughout this if nothing else.

As she approached the front door to the austere, white stoned house, it opened, and a man walked through it. He was tall, had long flowing hair that rested below his waist, and wore a suit Lucy expected to be uncomfortable given the heat. He walked to her with a professional smile, footsteps long and confident.

"Miss Heartfilia, I presume," The man spoke with an accent not quite English, but not quite Greek either. "May I take your bags?"

"Oh, yes, thank you," Lucy spoke a little higher than she normally would, and put on the slightest show of struggling to hand them to him, so he could feel better about himself when he lifted them. She would do this with dignity, yes, but she would not be ashamed of trying to find some solace in the situation. If someone was on her side, that was at least something.

"Thank you ma'am," The man said as he took the bags and turned to the door. "If you'd like to follow me, I can show you to your room."

"Thank you, very much," She smiled, and batted her eyelids.

The man seemed more patient than flattered in his responding smile, and Lucy could guess why. The man was handsome, and no doubt had women fawning over him; all the more reason to flirt, Lucy thought. It was better to flirt with a man uninterested than to not flirt with a man who expected it and would act with anger and a raised hand if he didn't get what he wanted. When he started to walk to the house, Lucy followed in step and kept pace, looking at the admittedly beautiful building that would be her home for two weeks.

"During your stay here, if there's anything you need assistance with, I'll be happy to oblige as best I can," The man spoke again, and Lucy glanced to see him looking forward with a polite smile. "My name is Freed Justine. I am the master of the home."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Lucy said on instinct, then confusedly she continued. "I thought Lord Dreyar was the master of the house."

"He is," Freed nodded. "Perhaps I was misleading, the terminology for my job doesn't exists in polite society. I am the master of this house in the same way a butler is the master of their house. I control what happens, to suit the Master Dreyar's needs. I am his mouthpiece to the staff when needs be, when the master is unavailable or unwilling to make a decision about day-to-day goings on then I will speak in his place, and, as you can tell, I am the personal representative for the house, hence why I'm greeting you today."

"That sounds like a lot of work," Lucy said, blinking as the shadow of the house hit her. "I must admit, I can't quite see how that differs from a butler."

"There are more aspects to my job. I also act as the master's valet, a job with which I take great pride," Freed's smile grew a little, Lucy noticed. "But I suppose the greatest difference between a butler and what I consider myself to do if obedience. A butler follows his master's word to the letter, unquestioningly and without complaint. I do anything but."

"Oh," Lucy said, not entirely sure what to say to that. "That's… agreeable to Master Dreyar?"

"Agreeable? No, not agreeable," Freed laughed a little. "But he's long since stopped trying to argue the matter with me. He knows when I'm right."

Lucy saw no further road for the conversation, though her interest was piqued. Lord Dreyar was someone she knew more by reputation rather than by interaction, and she had made the man into this monolithic beast who would tear others down for his own amusement. That seemed to be what all of England thought of the man, and yet a member of his staff claimed he was accepting of criticism and would amend his ways. Even if untrue – which it probably was – Lucy would have expected anyone working for the Lord Dreyar she believed in would be scared to death of making such a comment. If nothing else, this would be an eye-opening fortnight.

The inside of the building was as beautiful as the outside. It had many large windows that let in the sun, plants were strewn in pots with calculated haphazardness, and it seemed like a conscious rejection of Englishness. It was rather beautiful.

Freed walked to the grand staircase and climbed it, and Lucy kept pace with him, resisting the urge to look around and sate her curiosity about Greek culture. There would be enough time for that during the next two weeks, and she was still making her first impression with the supposed master of the house. If Freed were as close to Master Dreyar as he suggested, the mouthpiece aspects of their relationship may work both ways. Freed might be greeting the guests to get a good sense of them on his master's behalf.

Within a few minutes, Lucy was escorted to what would be her room for the next two weeks. Freed placed her bags beside the bed, and two maids seemed to appear out of nowhere to unpack them. Before her clothing could be seen, Freed stepped out and stood beside the door; perhaps as not to see her underthing's. Lucy joined him, rather than getting under the maids' feet.

"I might need to rely on you to show me around," Lucy laughed falsely. "It's something of a maze."

Freed paused for a moment, and Lucy wondered if she'd made a mistake.

"Miss Heartfilia, if I may speak candidly, you needn't do that here," Freed spoke, the professionally rigid tone slipping a little. "Many people come to Greece to get away from the confines of England. Be that the confines of the people, the culture, or even simply the weather. I suggest you take the chance to shake off the restraints of English culture."

"I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"It probably won't shock you to know we've looked into you," Freed smiled. "And in our research, we found you to be an incredibly intelligent woman. Well read, intuitive, and quick to solve a puzzle. You're not in England, you're in Greece. For two weeks. It's a grace period for you. For these two weeks, you're an unknown person living with a madman. Prioritize yourself how you wish, not how society wishes."

Was this a test? It felt like a means to an end, not an offer. "I'm still not sure what you mean, Mister Justine."

"You may be whoever you wish to be while you're here, Miss Heartfilia. Batting your eyelids and acting the naïve darling to flatter me isn't as important as it would be at home. If you wish to be intelligent and advertise your intellectual superiority, then do so," Freed smiled, stepping from the door and walking across the hall. "In the spirit of that, you will have free reign to use this room however you wish."

He opened the door, revealing what Lucy could only describe as a library. It was hardly larger than a bedroom, but with high shelves of dust-less books covering almost all the space. A small table and cushioned chair sat by a window, and a teapot and teacup were placed atop it. It was idyllic, with the sun hitting it.

"Goodness," Lucy breathed as she walked inside. "The Lord of the house must enjoy reading. I wouldn't like to intrude on his private space."

"You wouldn't be, he hardly uses the place," Freed said, standing by the door. "These are mainly for me, but I'm happy to share them with you. I've read them all twice over; I should perhaps insist on him buying me something new."

"Are you sure this is okay?" Lucy asked, eyes looking over the spines of books she wanted to attack. "I'm a guest here."

"I chose the room allocations, I put you here so the books would be at your convenience," Freed assured here. "They're yours for your time here."

Lucy found herself inclined to argue the point further, but bit her tongue. This house was already a completely different place to what she had been expecting, as was the Lord's reputation. She had been thrown to the mouth of a beast she could not understand, and she expected her life to be ruined by the end of it all. If she was going to be offered a library of books that she'd never be able to read at home as a consolation prize, then she would damned well make the most of it.

But of course, that could wait. She had eyed three particular books that she would read first – two in English, one in French – and could probably finish them within the first two days. She turned to Freed and smiled.

"Thank you, Mister Justine."

"It's a pleasure, Miss Heartfilia," Freed smiled, though it dropped a little. "I feel it only fair to warn you, we've another guest who will be arriving next week. He's not got the most stellar reputation, I must say."

"Oh?" Lucy asked.

"He'll most likely behave while he's here – he's known to be snivelly, you see – but only to those he sees as his better. To people he sees as inferior, he can be insipid. That includes, unfortunately, every woman but the Queen herself."

"I've met men like that," Lucy admitted.

"I'm sure you have," Freed sighed. "He's rather a dog backed into a corner right now, so he may be unpredictable. If I can offer you advice, don't be alone with him. He won't touch you, but he'd dangerous in other ways."

"Then why is he here?" Lucy asked, wondering if Freed would be offended. He apparently wasn't, so perhaps his request that she not act like the fool was genuine.

"You've heard the stories of this house," Freed smirked a little. "This is where the cruel and untouchable meet their fate. He's here to be brought to heel."

"And what am I here for?" Lucy asked, meeting Freed's eye. Freed smiled.

"I can hardly tell you that," Freed said, voice going professional again. "Think on what I've said. This is an opportunity to put your best foot forward, don't squander it."

"I intend not to."

"I'm delighted," Freed smiled. "I hope you enjoy your stay, Miss Heartfilia."

Freed turned and was walking away, and Lucy could only watch, not entirely sure what to think of the house, the man, or the lord he served.

---

Meeting Lord Dreyar came the next morning, and in the most unexpected of places. The first day in Greece had been spent mainly alone, as Freed had informed Lucy that the Lord had been called away for the day and wouldn't be seen until the late hours of the night. Most of the day had been spent in the library, though she had ventured into the nearby town square and taken supper at a restaurant; she got a thrill at the fact she hadn't even asked if a meal had been prepared in the house for her, and instead had just went.

In the morning, Freed had woken her at the time she'd wanted, given her time to ready herself for the day with less makeup and more comfortable clothes, and had then asked her to accompany him to the kitchen. She had done so unquestioningly, though the oddness of the request did strike her.

When they'd entered, the Lord Dreyar had been sitting at a small table, eating eggs.

Lucy had been blind sighted, and immediately decided that this was some sort of ambush. Lord Dreyar was an odd man, but he was rich, and the rich never entered the kitchen. He should have spoken to Freed, and Freed would speak to the cooking staff on his behalf. He shouldn't be eating while surrounded by cooks. The Lord was there because it was the last place Lucy would expect her to be, and this would wrongfoot her.

"Master Dreyar," Freed said in greeting, getting the attention of the man. "Your guest is here to take breakfast with you."

"Of course," The man spoke, voice a low grumble. "Please, Miss, take a seat. Freed, your excused."

"Yes, Master," Freed nodded, then he removed himself from the room.

Lucy looked around for a moment. She was slightly shamefaced to admit that she hadn't spent much time in kitchens in her life, and there was something of a spectacle to be in one. There were so many devices scattered around, all for different purposes that she couldn't guess. And the three cooks – two women and a man – scuttled from counter to counter, preparing food with a level of proficiency that Lucy found awe-inspiring. She felt like she could watch them for hours, but a quick glance towards the Lord refocused her attention.

The Lord was younger than she expected, though just as intimidating. He was incredibly tall, incredibly broad and had an impassively mean expression. The scar across his face gave Lucy pause, as did the peaking line of ink that slid up his collarbone. Hardly befitting an English gentleman. She quickly took a seat at the table before she could anger the man.

They sat in silence for a moment, the Lord eating his breakfast and Lucy waiting for hers to be brought to her. Lucy was waiting for him to speak, as a Lord must always speak before a Lady, but no conversation came. It was only when she forced herself to remember Freed's words that she spoke.

"I've never eaten in a kitchen before," She spoke without wavering in her tone. "Is it a Greek custom?"

"It is in this house," The Lord shrugged. "Don't know about the other houses, don't really go to other people's houses if I can avoid it, certainly not for breakfast. But in this house, I always prefer eating in the kitchen."

"Right," Lucy said hesitantly. "May I ask why?"

"You may," The lord shrugged, but said nothing more. He took a bite from his plate, chewed, swallowed, and looked to Lucy again. "Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Ask me why."

"Oh, that," Lucy frowned. She had asked him; he was being obtuse. "Why do you eat in here, my lord?"

"Blurs the line between my position and there's," He nodded to the staff. "England likes to keep the rich and the regular split, I don't. This is a little way for me to keep everything a little more balanced," He smirked then. "And there's also the fact I know damn well the way I take my eggs is the best way for them to be prepared. Guests aren't as brave about complaining about that when the chefs in the room holding a knife."

He had a slightly manic grin when he said that, and Lucy found herself amused rather than scared. It was an attitude she couldn't have in this place, not when it was likely that the man sitting across from her was the blackmailer. Although, what would the great and powerful Lord Dreyar need from her father of all people?

"That's quite the reason," Lucy said, and the Lord nodded.

They sat in silence again, and Lucy watched as the Lord ate. It was… interesting. A gentleman worth his salt would have been trained from birth how to eat with precision and class. They wouldn't scarf down eggs, then drag a chunk of bread over the plate, cover it in the remaining sauce and then bite into it like a street child.

The Lord didn't seem to care that he was being watched, and raised a glass of orange juice which he finished in a single upturn. Lucy was half disgusted half fascinated, and was quickly coming to understand why the Lord had left England. Everything he'd done since Lucy had entered the room would leave him shunned and outcasted from the polite society of England; no wonder he was quick to leave it.

Around her, the chef's seemed to be cooking her meal, and she found her eyes wandering towards them. Their movements were quick and fluid, and Lucy wondered if she could ever learn to do that. She might have to if Lord Dreyar was going to do what she thought he would.

"Why am I here, Lord Dreyar?" She asked, and the Lord stopped eating for a moment.

"You're here for two weeks, you'll figure it out by the end of it," Was all the Lord said, but Lucy didn't want to finish the conversation there, so he pushed.

"I'd rather know now."

"Sure you would, but that ain't how this house works," The man grinned at her again, and Lucy didn't know if it was amused or malicious. "Two weeks, and it's all over. I'm sure you can wait that long."

Lucy didn't think she could, but she felt no reason to argue the point. She needed the Lord in her favour, and not annoying him would do wonders to help that.

Before she could think of a conversation to bring up, one of the three chefs in the room placed a plate of eggs – prepared as an omelette, placed on toasted bread, garnished with parsley and salt - and a set of simple, inelegant cutlery was put beside the plate. It was hardly how she would have had her breakfast if she'd been given the choice, but an omelette done well could be nice. The glass of juice she had been given was at least fresh and vibrant looking. She picked up the cutlery and cut a small piece of the omelette out for herself. As she brought it to her lips, the Lord spoke again.

"How do you have your eggs?" He asked, apropos of nothing.

"Excuse me?"

"Your eggs, how would you have them if you'd been given the choice," The Lord pushed.

"I thought that you had the art of eggs perfected?" Lucy asked, deciding that a light, joking tone was best to get out of the oddness of the situation. "Why wouldn't I want to try them if that's true."

"Because they've got garlic in them, and you're allergic," The Lord smirked a little, and Lucy halted, dropped the fork, and left the chair, looking at the plate of food that she was, indeed, very allergic to. Laxus kept up the expression as he spoke. "If you ate that, you could've died."

"Yes, I could have," Lucy uttered, anger flashing though her.

"And all because you didn't wanna argue with me," The Lord said, reaching over, taking the fork Lucy had dropped, and ate the egg impaled on it. "See, that's what England does to women. Puts them in fancy dresses and tells 'em to look pretty. Makes 'em impassive and quiet, tells them to shut up because they're weak and don't have anything interesting to say. That's all they get, and even the strong ones eventually start believing it all. Fucking country."

"What's the point of this?" Lucy demanded, still looking at the eggs.

"The point is, you can push back against things sometimes," The Lord sighed. "Everything you did before you became fifteen showed you as a fighter. Then you grew up, your father saw you as a way to expand his empire through marriage, and you became docile," The blonde smirked a little. "But fuck him. Be a fighter, push back against bullshit, and take yer damn eggs how you want 'em."

Oh. That was not at all what Lucy had expected, and she couldn't quite think of what to say to the advice. It was good advice, not entirely practical given her situation in life, but the urge to fight back against English constraints had never really left her. Still, had nearly killing her been necessary for proving his point.

She hadn't smelt the garlic though. Normally her nose was rather good when garlic was involved.

"Was there really garlic?" She asked, and the Lord smirked.

"You think I'm the type of man who'd risk poisoning someone to make a statement?" The lord quirked an eyebrow, and Lucy didn't answer. That made the man laugh. "Call me Laxus from now on, you've earned it," He then looked to one of his chefs. "Get the woman what she wants."

Lucy then smiled, sat back at the table once the plate was taken away, and looked to the waiting chef. "Two poached eggs. With salmon."

---

Four nights into her stay, a ridiculous urge for a glass of milk struck Lucy in the middle of the night. For a few minutes she tried to fight it – she was a grown woman for heaven's sake, not a child with no impulse control – but forcing herself to think of other things just made it worse. Perhaps it was Greece's fault; the heat was making cold drinks seem more refreshing and therefore more appealing.

She tried to make as little noise as she could, the landing of the building's upper floor creaking slightly as she walked down the hallway. She winced a little as the stairs cut through the silence, but she continued on, walking to the kitchen. She quickly found the larder where the milk was stored, poured herself a glass, and began her walk back to her bedroom, hoping she would be quieter.

Apparently, it was a baseless hope, because each creak and squeak was louder than it had been before.

It almost didn't matter, but when she was quietly walking down the hallway and she stood on a particularly loud floor panel, the door to Laxus' office opened, and Freed walked out. He was wearing his usual suit, looking as well put together as always though with slightly heavy breathing and the smallest of flushes on his cheeks. They looked at one another for a moment, Freed closing the office door behind him so the only light illuminating them both was the candle that Lucy was holding. Freed spoke first.

"Miss Heartfilia," He was gentle in his tone, quiet for the time of night. "You're up rather late."

"I was having trouble sleeping; getting accustomed to the new environment I suppose. My throat became dry and, well," She raised her milk in explanation. Freed nodded. "You seem rather awake too, what time do you sleep?"

"Normally, I'd be asleep by now, but Master Dreyar is keeping me up," Freed explained, smile bordering on a smirk. "He's, well, he's a little tied up at the moment. Work gets on top of him, you see, and the stresses sometimes can be overwhelming. I do what I can to keep him sane."

"You really do whatever it is you can to help him, don't you,?" Lucy laughed.

"I take great pleasure in my duties," Freed said enigmatically. "You should get to sleep, Miss Heartfilia. I believe that the lord plans to take you to a nearby village tomorrow, you'll need to be well rested."

"Of course," Lucy agreed. "Goodnight Freed."

"Goodnight Miss Heartfilia," Freed responded.

Lucy walked back to her bedroom, still trying not to be loud as not to distract Laxus from whatever work he was doing. As she climbed into her bed and nestled herself into the covers, she found herself wondering what Freed's odd smiles and slight state of disrepair meant. Were this any other house, she might have believed that Freed was sneaking into Laxus' study to do something illegal – it wasn't unheard of for butlers to turn on their masters – but Magnolia House was different. Freed seemed devoted to his master, and that devotion might go both ways. She didn't think for a second that Freed would betray the man.

Eventually, she would have to leave this house, and she had to wonder if she would understand what the hell was going on in the place. She hoped so; she loved nothing more than a puzzle and everything about this place raised more questions than they answered.

Maybe the other guest would have the answers when he came.

---

"We'll be taking dinner in the dining room today, Miss Heartfilia."

Lucy turned to look at Freed, who had approached her as she walked to the kitchen. She halted slightly; it had been a week since she had arrived at the house and her meals had always been taken in the kitchen, or outside of the house somewhere. She honestly hadn't been sure if the house had a dining room. It would have been in keeping of the week for Laxus to have taken the dining room and replaced it with a horse's stable or something equally absurd.

She followed Freed towards the dining room, deciding not to ask why. Both Freed and Laxus seemed to enjoy giving non-answers to anything she would ask, and ass such she'd given up trying. It was best to just allow herself to be swept up in everything.

The dining room itself was a small place, sparsely decorated but pleasant. Plants bordered the room but didn't encroach on the table itself, and despite being perhaps the most formal room in the house that Lucy had seen, it made every dining room in England seem stuffy in comparison. She walked inside, allowing Freed to pull out a seat for her and taking it. Only when she looked up did she see that not only was Laxus sitting at the table, but another man, someone who Lucy had known very well for most of her life.

Jiemma Orland.

Another member of the aristocracy, their paths had crossed many times. During the dances she'd been forced to attend in her childhood, Lucy had often found his daughter Minerva and they'd spent nights playing and laughing. He had always scared Lucy when she was young – he seemed nasty, vindictive even – and she'd avoided her when she could. It had been years since they'd seen each other, but that chill still ran down her spine.

He must have been Laxus' other guest. Was it a coincidence?

"Lucy," Laxus greeted, sitting at the head of the table. "This is Mister Orland; I believe that you-"

"Lord Orland," Jiemma corrected, and Lucy saw Laxus narrow his eyes slightly. "Not mister."

"Right. As I was saying," Laxus spoke again with a growl. "The great and respectable Lord, Mister Orland, is the guest that I was telling you about. I think you might have met him a few times in your past, your circles seemed to have intertwined."

"They have," Lucy agreed, forcing her fake smile on again. Her cheeks hurt; she hadn't smiled like that for the week she'd been there. "Hello Lord Orland, it's a pleasure to see you again."

"And you, ma'am," Jiemma responded, not even trying to sound polite. He turned towards Laxus, face a scowl. "As I was saying, I hardly see why you want me here, Lord Dreyar. This is quite the imposition."

"I'm glad," Laxus grinned. "And you do know why you're here, I think. But that's for the end of the week, so try not to torture yourself about it now," The grin turned a little nasty for only a moment, but the normal smile returned when he looked back to Lucy. "How's your day been? Freed informed me that the two of you decided to visit the Parthenon toady. Was it what you expected it to be?"

"It was beautiful," Lucy smiled a little. "Freed's very knowledgeable about its history, and quite the storyteller too. I hope you don't mind that I took him away from the house for the day."

"Of course not," Laxus smiled. "What sort of a man would I be if I couldn't survive a day without my manservant. Hardly a man at all."

Laxus looked directly towards Jiemma when he said that, and the older man tensed, and his face became thunderous. He made a wave of his hand and a well-dressed man who Lucy vaguely remembered seeing around Jiemma's house when she'd visited Minerva nodded and left. Lucy was almost certain that he was Jiemma's manservant. She laughed a little too loud, and quickly schooled herself. Jiemma turned his glare to her, but Laxus spoke before he could say anything.

"The city really is a sight to behold this time of year. The tourists can make it a little crowded, but the history seeps through either way," Laxus said, and a plate was placed in front of him. "I typically leave the summer months without having guests so I can better enjoy myself. The two of you should feel quite honoured."

"Hardly," Jiemma muttered almost imperceptibly, but both Lucy and Laxus seemed to have heard him.

"Speak up, man," Laxus demanded, looking into his eyes without wavering. "How can your words be respected if you're not standing with them, but hiding behind them?"

"You don't think I stand by my words?" Jiemma snapped, and Lucy halted slightly, not wanting to make her presence known. She had been aware that Jiemma could be a bully, but never witnessed it. Laxus didn't seem bothered.

"I don't," Laxus grinned. "And I think you should be cordial to your host, no?"

"Cordial. You of all people wish to speak to me about how to act in polite society," Jiemma was shouting, and his anger seemed to come so abruptly that Lucy felt knocked down by it. Freed had mentioned that Jiemma was backed into a corner, of course, but this level of anger bubbling up without much provocation was disconcerting. "You, a man who leaves society for your… your perversions, have the gall to say anything. And not only speak down to others, but to demand the presence of others at your home half way across the world. To hold half the respectable country to ransom for your sick enjoyment. And yet you speak to me of cordiality, Mister Dreyar."

"It's Lord Dreyar, actually," Laxus corrected, grinning.

Jiemma looked ready to storm to Laxus and strike him, and Lucy found herself grabbing the side of the table just for distraction. Laxus and Jiemma were having an argument with their eyes only, Laxus all but goading Jiemma to do anything that might give him cause to attack. Lucy didn't know what to do. Passive aggressive dinners were one thing, but openly yelling was unheard of.

Freed walked into the room holding a plate of light food, and placed it in front of Lucy. She looked to him for reprieve, and he smiled at her handsomely. It was a comfort, and she whispered low enough only for him to hear.

"What's happening between them?"

"Mister Orland's character is being tested," Freed whispered equally quietly, adjusting the plate so to elongate his time near her. "Everyone who comes here undergoes a test of some time. They can get rather explosive, as you can see."

"I wasn't tested," Lucy frowned.

"Not in a way that you noticed, no," Freed smiled again, taking a bottle of wine from a cooler and filling Lucy's glass with it. "If the two of them start to overwhelm you, feel free to dismiss yourself and say you need to powder your nose or something of the like. Laxus won't be offended, and I suspect Mister Orland won't care for you either way."

"Thank you," Lucy whispered, smile a little weak as she wondered what her 'test' had been.

"Of course, though I recommend you see it through to the end," Freed suggested as he placed the wine back into the cooler. "You might regret it if you don't."

Freed was out of the room within a moment, and Lucy was left floundering as to what that meant. The letters she'd received hit her again, and dread filled through her as she remembered all the stories she'd heard from people who had been to this house. This was the house where reputations were ruined, and lives were upended. She had become complacent, but this had been the reminder she needed to know that this house wasn't safe.

Maybe Freed's words had been a threat, or maybe they'd been a warning. Either way, Lucy needed to be careful in this place, and not allow herself to make a mistake.

---

"Why the hell are you here?"

Three days into the second week of her visit, Jiemma hissed the words as he stormed into Lucy's room. He was swaying slightly on his feet, face flushed from alcohol and jaw tight and rigid. Lucy shot up, covering herself with her sheets on instinct as the man thrashed into her bedroom. She looked at him frozen for a moment before she regained her senses and spoke.

"I was invited by Lord Dreyar," She answered, blinking away the remains of sleep.

"He is not a Lord," Jiemma shouted, and Lucy had to flinch back when he stormed to her bed. "He left England and left his title with it! He had no right to call himself that name. Has no right to act like he has power. Like he's too good to be English but still has influence over us. He can't."

"Mister Orland-"

"I am a fucking Lord!" Jiemma roared. "I am a Lord of the realm, woman. Respect me!"

"Lord Orland, I don't know why I have been called here but you need to leave my bedroom this instant," Lucy said firmly, trying not to let her voice waver as he took another step closer. He was a large and brutish man, and drunk out of his mind. "This is most improper and if Laxus or Freed are woken up then I expect they'll not be please."

"You need to leave now," Jiemma demanded. "Get out of this damnable house this instant. It's manageable without you, so leave. Get out of here and don't show your face. Then we can sort this out."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lucy stammered slightly.

"You need to get the hell away from me and leave my daughter alone," Jiemma growled, lurching forward, and grabbing hold of the sheets Lucy held to her chest. "You're all the same, looking for your next-"

"Mister Orland," A curt voice cut him off, and Lucy looked to see Freed standing at the door, well dressed despite the time of night. Lucy felt safer with him there, and Freed quickly stormed into the room with barely restrained anger. "It is three in the morning, and you are in bedroom of an unmarried woman who clearly does not want you there. There is no justification for such actions, and I won't give you the time to attempt it. You're to return to your room and repent for your actions immediately."

"What," Jiemma turned to Freed and walked into his space. Lucy tried to recover her breath, eyes a little wide. Was Jiemma going to hit Freed? He looked as though he was. "You think you can order me? A houseboy? Not even a man, neither of you are, not with what you do together."

"Return to your bed, Mister Orland," Freed repeated sternly. "If you don't, I'll have no choice but to leave you to the streets tonight, and let me tell you that the authorities here have perfected the art of dealing with an English drunkard and they do so with great enthusiasm."

"Make me," Jiemma taunted, leaning forward, and breathing right into Freed's face. Lucy could only guess how horrid a smell that would be.

Freed placed a hand on Jiemma's shoulder, probably to guide him back to his bedroom. Jiemma immediately shrugged Freed off him, taking a stumbling step back and looking to Freed like he was dirt. Freed kept the man's gaze without blinking, and Lucy watched in panic, not knowing what else to do because Jiemma was angry and drunk.

"Return to your room," Freed spoke firmly. "Or I will do just that."

Jiemma scoffed, but stumbled past Freed while barging his shoulder against Freed's. The door was slammed behind them both, leaving Freed alone with Lucy. She watched as Freed untensed himself, either out of relief or because of dwindling adrenaline. Lucy quickly reached for the candle that lay on the counter, striking a match and lighting it to replace the light lost from the hallway. Freed was looking at her with professional concern when his face was lit again, the moment of anger gone and his impassive looks back again.

"Are you okay, Miss Heartfilia?" He asked, voice calm again. "He didn't touch you, did he?"

"No, just scared me," She admitted, looking down slightly. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine, Miss," Freed dismissed the question without giving a moment to think. "If you'd prefer it, we have a smaller bedroom for you to sleep in for tonight. If you can give me a few moments to make the bed for you, it might be a better fit. It's closer to Lord Dreyar's room and has a bolt on the door, for your safety."

"That won't be necessary," Lucy answered, even if she was tempted. "Those men are all the same. Drunkards like acting strong, but they're not. He'll be stewing about how you stood up against him. He won't bother me again."

"If you insist," Freed nodded. "If you change your mind, just call for me and I'll have the bed ready for you."

"Thank you, Freed," Lucy smiled a little, relaxing as she placed the candle back onto her bedside table. "I must say, you don't seem to ever sleep. This is the second time in as many weeks that you've been ready for an issue in the night."

"It's my job, Miss," Freed dismissed. "I must say, I did expect that Mister Orland might come back in a drunken state and do something regrettable. I thought it would be against Master Dreyar, given their antagonism, but he seemed to focus on you. I'm terribly sorry it took me so long to come to you."

"Don't worry," Lucy assured him. "He just scared me, nothing more."

"As you say," Freed agreed. "I'll leave you to sleep. Master Dreyar might wish to speak with you both tomorrow morning after this. I'll wake up if he does."

"Thank you," Lucy smiled. "Goodnight Freed."

"Goodnight Miss Heartfilia."

---

"So, I think it's time we all have a talk."

Laxus was the first to speak, breaking the silence that had befallen the small office. He was sat behind his large desk in a leather chair, with Freed standing beside him and to his right: they looked every part like the Lord of the House and his ever-present shadow. Lucy was sat at the other side of the desk in one of the smaller chairs provided, nervously fiddling with the lap of her dress, and occasionally glancing towards Jiemma, who sat at her side in another of the chairs.

After the interruption the night before, her sleep had been uneven and broken. She had been half tempted to take Freed's offer for the other room, but by the time the decision had been made it was nearly four, and that wouldn't be fair on the man. She'd instead jammed the door with a chair and done her best to rest.

When she'd been told Lord Dreyar wished to speak with her, she had been happy to oblige. She was less happy when she saw Jiemma sitting there as well.

"I need to leave," Jiemma said in retort. "I don't understand why you dragged me here in the first place. After the way your houseboy spoke to me last night I don't see why I should suffer the indignity of being here a moment more."

"Rather eloquent, aren't you?" Laxus posed the question with a smile. "Not quite as eloquent when you're drunk though, are you? I heard what you were saying last night. I suspect that half the city did the way you were yelling. Hardly behaviour that befits a lord, I don't think."

"What are you implying?" Jiemma demanded.

"That you should shut your mouth because I have something to say," Laxus grinned a nasty grin. "Can you agree to that?"

"I've a hotel booked for the rest of my stay," Jiemma said firmly. "I intend to be there within the hour."

"This won't take too long," Laxus assured him. He looked towards Freed for a moment, who walked to one of the sets of cupboards lining the walls to the room. Lucy followed the man's actions, but turned back to Laxus when he spoke again. "You've both been asking why you were invited here. I don't doubt you both know the reputation that this house has; particularly that I invite people here because I have a problem with them. That's true."

Lucy found her breath caught in her throat. She had known this would happen, of course she did, but had expected it to take place on the last day of the trip. Maybe that was the intention, but Jiemma's activities the night before had pushed them into action.

She was just going to have to deal with it. That's all she could do.

"I believe that this might be enough of an explanation as to why you're both here," Laxus continued, taking a single piece of paper from Freed and placing it on the table. Lucy went to look at it, but Jiemma snatched it away. Laxus didn't seem bothered, and allowed Jiemma to look at it for a moment. "You seeing my point, Mister Orland?" Jiemma didn't react, his grasp on the paper tensing. "You've known from the moment you saw Miss Heartfilia, didn't you, so no need to hoard the letter. Hand it to Lucy, please."

Jiemma looked like he was going to argue, but did as he was told indignantly. Lucy looked down to see a handwritten letter, and frowned. It was apparently Jiemma's response to Laxus' request for his visit. A polite but curt letter than didn't seem important.

It took Lucy a few moments to see the significance, and bile rose in her throat when she did.

The handwriting. It was the same handwriting as the letters she'd been getting threatening to expose her relationship with Cana. Jiemma had been the one doing it.

"You?" She asked, voice quiet. "You're the person who's been harassing me?"

"You're sick, all of you," Jiemma growled, standing up and looming over Lucy. Panic gave way to anger, and she felt her blood rushing throughout her body as she looked at the man who caused her so many sleepless nights. "Queers, perverts. You couldn't even be trusted to do a simple thing, to speak to your father and tell him to sign a damn contract. No, instead you turn to that bastard," He turned to Laxus, who was stone-faced now. "You all work together don't you, it's disgusting. I should have never let my daughter near you!"

Months of fear and anger and looking over her shoulder seemed to strike Lucy at once. This man – this power-hungry brute who drank too much and held his lordship above all else – had been the one to torture her for months. That… that…

Without thinking, she picked up a decorative crystal from Laxus' desk that seemed to be keeping his papers in order. She brought it up and slammed it hard against the man's head. He yelled in pain, and Lucy saw blood spurt from where a jagged edge slashed at his forehead. He staggered back, and she did it again because it had felt good, and it had felt deserved. This man had hurt her, she deserved to hurt him.

He stumbled, and Lucy watched as he crumpled to the ground. She dropped the crystal and began to kick him, leaning on the desk so she could slam her shoe into the man's stomach again and again. It felt good, and she didn't recognise a cathartic scream parting her throat as she did it.

Freed pulled her away after ten or so kicks, and Laxus looked ready to intervene further if Freed needed it. Lucy let it happen, panting as tears she didn't know had fallen fell down her cheeks. The man who had been the tormenter of her life for months was in front of her, crumpled on the floor, struggling to get up, couching and spluttering and bleeding. He was pathetic and yet he had caused so much strife for her.

"What the hell is the point of this?" Jiemma coughed, leaning on the desk to stand up again. "Just to insult me. To have the bitch attack me. I'll have everyone know about you and that barmaid within a week's time. Your life is over."

"No it isn't," Laxus said firmly, and Jiemma glared towards him.

"You can't stop me."

"I can, actually, but I don't need to," Laxus smirked. "You see, if you do it – and you won't – then nobody's going to believe you. I don't waste my time, you understand. The moment we met I knew you were exactly the type of man I thought you'd be. Aggressive, cruel, without restraint nor respect. You think the fact that you've got a lordship to your name gives you permission to take anyone down if it's advantageous to you. So, the moment we finished eating, I sent the word to England to have your true self exposed."

"What does that mean?"

"It means what I said, Mister Orland," Laxus laughed. "Every nasty side of you will be the focus of gossip for weeks to come. Your bullying attitudes towards your staff, to women in general actually. Your failure as a businessman and how you need to blackmail people. I was particular with the latter piece of gossip, not to give names as to whom you've blackmailed. Because there's been a lot of people who you've threatened, and they'll all be happy to back up the gossip if they think it's them being spoken about."

"It won't be believed," Jiemma growled, looking towards Laxus with a glare.

"It will. You throw enough shit at a wall and some sticks," Laxus' glare became particularly nasty at that. "Especially when people want so much to hate you. That's the problem with being cruel; people don't forget it. They'll jump at the chance to hurt you. They have, and it won't end."

Panic flushed over Jiemma's face, and he flushed red with anger. "I'll still tell everyone about her."

"Doesn't matter if you do, nobody's going to believe you," Laxus laughed, sitting back down. Lucy watched with fear, because Jiemma was panicked and angry and would do anything. People would believe him; he was still a lord. "I sent a letter to some of my friends back home, explaining what happened last night. With a few amendments, of course. The respectable and kind Miss Heartfilia, only daughter of the Heartfilia family, politely refused your unwanted advances. You, in a drunken haze, stormed into her room in the dead of night to do who knows what to her. You wouldn't leave her room, were acting aggressive. It took a member of my household staff to drag you away. That's akin to a pot of gold to the gossips of our country, and it will spread like wildfire," Laxus leant back in his chair, smirk nasty and wide. "You saying anything about Lucy will be the words of a stilted, embarrassed old man who got turned down by a young woman who could do better. Who would take anything you say seriously?"

"You… you demon," Jiemma yelled, and Lauxs actually laughed at him. "I should have you thrashed on the streets. You liar. Slanderer! No wonder you left the country, no man like you could exist in a land of honest men."

"Honest men who blackmail women? Who beat them and seclude their children from the world," Lucy snapped, because she felt safe now. Jiemma turned to her, but she didn't cower. "You're not an honest man. You're a parasite."

"Where's this voice come from, girl?"

"It's come from people like you treating me like some doll they can play with to suit their whims," Lucy yelled, and didn't miss when Laxus moved the paperweight out of reach. "I hope you can never show your face in England again, you bastard!"

"How dare you," Jiemma growled and walked towards Lucy. Freed stepped forward, holding a letter opener that caused the man to halt. "What kind of a place is this?"

"A place you should leave," Laxus answered, standing up again and opening the study door. "Freed, escort the man out of the house please."

"No," Jiemma argued, but Freed approached him, holding the knife up and brandishing it. "I won't go."

"You will," Laxus dismissed him. Freed took the old man by the shoulder and pushed him forward with a jerk. Jiemma growled, but when the knife was pushed further into his back, he allowed himself to be pushed. Freed halted when he was at the door, forcing Jiemma to look towards Laxus. "If you do say anything about Miss Heartfilia, and I find out about it, I'll make sure you regret it. Do you understand me?"

"You've already slandered me, what else could you do," Jiemma snarled. "Bitch's affair will be all over the country by August."

"The people I employ will slander, as you put it, the aristocracy for a very small amount of money," Laxus taunted. "What d'you think they'll be willing to do if I offer them something more substantial."

Lucy watched as the knife was pushed further into Jiemma's back, and the man hissed as he was pushed forward again. Lucy only watched as the man who had been her tormenter was marched away, hopefully for good.

---

"How did you know?" Lucy asked Freed as he sat opposite her at the patio. "What he was doing, I mean?"

"Miss Cana Alberona contacted Master Dreyar around a month ago," Freed explained, pouring them both a cup of tea as the evening sun began to set. Lucy took the cup that was offered to her with a confused frown. "She and Laxus used to drink together when he lived in England, I believe. She asked for his assistance in dealing with the problem of your letters. Laxus took some time to discover who was to blame, eventually found a letter with handwriting matching the letter Cana sent to him as an example, and decided that he would settle things himself."

"Cana did it?" Lucy exclaimed, frowning. "Why wouldn't she have told me?"

"I suspect she didn't want you involved if it could be helped. Given Laxus' reputation being somewhat unpalatable, him acting on your behalf could have been unnerving," Freed smiled as he drank his own tea. "Laxus however thought you might want closure, which was partly why he invited you here in the first place."

"Partly?"

"Laxus cares very strongly for the people he loves, and Cana is one such person," Freed looked somewhat wistful about his employer. "He wanted to make sure you're a good enough person for her. He's somewhat cynical about members of polite society, as you can expect, so he wished to see you for himself," He laughed a little. "Why he couldn't trust my judgment on you I don't know, he's rather headstrong, but he's given you his approval."

"He has?"

"He has," Freed parroted. "The first breakfast you shared together was enough for him to be sure of your character. No doubt he'll offer you a permanent room here, should you like to visit with Miss Alberona. The Greek are much more accepting of a relationship such as yours."

"How do you know that?"

"Laxus and I have been seen together multiple times," Freed shrugged, and Lucy turned towards him with shock. "It's why we chose to live here. Much less fuss."

"You and the lord? You're in a relationship."

"Of course," Freed nodded, smiling.

And that, it seemed, was that.

#Fraxus Week #Fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfic #Writing #One Shot #1800's AU #Aristocracy AU #Word Count: 9.2k

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rein-ette · 3 years

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I'd be interested to hear some of your headcanons on engport. PS: I love your blog, you really have made it very cute and elegant.

Thank you!!! I'm glad you like it :3 I wasn't sure what hcs you were looking for, so I just did a random collection of ones I haven't seen around. If you wanted more of a narrative of their relationship or something, lemme know.

1. I mentioned this hc here, but I really like the idea of Portugal bringing Arthur gifts from all over the world, not in the way someone does to deliberately woo a lover (although as they got older there was a certain undertone of that that they laughed about), but more like the way a cat brings back dead birds and stuff; it’s just cuz they love you and wanna feed you and take care of you and share their precious things with you. Port started doing this when they first met, and originally it was just bringing him a pretty stone or a little wildflower. The one thing Arthur truly yearned for, however, were books. I think Arthur is someone who truly loves learning and intellectual pursuits, but because of his upbringing and work he was never able to go university until the late 1600s.The best ones during the Middle Ages, in any case, were located around the Mediterranean, especially in Italy, as well in the Abbasid Caliphate. So when port started sailing further, he would try to bring Arthur copies of texts such as the Continens Liber, the Canon of Medicine, the Trotula (all medical texts) as well as texts on foreign flora and books like The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices by Islamic scholar Ismail al-Jazari, which featured machine automation! In the 13th century!!! These manuscripts were probably harder to find than most jewels or trinkets and Port had to translate the ones in Arabic for Arthur — and secretly, because the inquisition was like, kinda a thing during this time — but it was worth his delight and absolute adoration. These are all, by the way, real books that existed or eventually made their way to and had a great influence on Europe!

2. I don't know why, but I love the idea of Port having a masters degree in English Literature from Oxford. I think his personality is just suitable: thinks unnecesarily deeply about things, sees symbolism in everything, loves playing devil's advocate. He must have gotten it recently as well, since eng lit wasn't a thing in unis until the mid 1800s and Port and Arthur's relationship didn't normalize until after 1974. Anyways yeah, I think Port did it in part because he genuinely likes english literature, and in part because it was a semi-valid way of getting off work and he could spend a year with Arthur. Plus a hot Portuguese man with an Oxford eng lit degree is like, catnip for Arthur.

3. Also a fruk hc, but: England owns a little house on a hill, overlooking the ocean in Calais, France. He’s had it since he owned the entire port of Calais back in the day and it’s kinda of safe house, a place where he can escape and read books and fiddle with his potions and magic and flowers and just be happy. Only a few people know it exist/have been there, and only Francis has ever been inside, when he spent 2 years recovering there during the latter half of WWII (this is stolen directly from newamsterdam's For the Dust to Still Series, which I am forever obsessed with). Despite it being a “special place” for Arthur and Francis, the front gardens are filled with lavender, which Arthur only started planting and tending to in the 20th century. When they lived there together, during the war, Arthur would sometimes just sit silently amidst the flowers. Francis never commented on it.

4. For a more modern hc, when they go on holiday Arthur and Port like to go surfing (mostly Port), freediving, and sometimes scuba diving — and pls don’t hit me with the “Arthur can’t swim”, mans a Type A personality and control freak, and you’re telling me he’s gonna spend his life on the open sea without knowing how to swim? Nah. And no one can tell me that Port doesn’t want see the fishies on the coral reef any chance he gets either. That’s his habitat. When they don’t have time to go abroad they have aquarium dates like the sappy little losers they are. Port has a membership at the Oceanário de Lisboa, because of course he does. They've also gone wreck diving at least twice -- it unsettles them both a little, because they can easily imagine themselves going down with the ship, as well as the men who must have died too -- but that also seems like the kind of emotional masochism those two idiots would be into.

5. Not a relationship hc, but neither of them are afraid of animals. Arthur dislikes big ass spiders, but isn't petrified. Port has no fear at all. At times this has caused a genuine issues.

#engport #hws england #hws portugal #why do my hcs lowkey need historical notes wtf #hws france #my hcs #ask #mr-nauseam

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Note

I'm week for historic au stuff. Like Geralt becomes a retired soldier and Jaskier is a scholar type thing and they keep meeting through the ages stuff? Just me? Feel free to ignore me 😖

Actually, I really love that, honestly. I wasn’t sure whether I would write it like a reincarnation AU, or if Geralt would keep living while Jaskier kept getting reincarnated, but I decided that that’s simply too sad. So I went for a Good Omens type thingie! (featuring: enemies to lovers)

Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about history, so there’s a big chance I’m being very very inaccurate!

EDIT: I couldn’t help but make it a little sad at the end, but it’s just bittersweet.

---

They first meet during the Hundred Years’ War, in England.

Jaskier is a monk, transcribing Latin scrolls in the dungeons of the castle for a living. Really, he never wanted to be a monk, but it was the only way for a farmer boy like him to learn how to read and write, something he’d always been fascinated by.

He writes. It’s what he does. No matter how cold it gets in the dungeons during the winter, no matter how much his hand cramps up after a few hours, no matter how many times he has to start over when he makes a mistake. He keeps going, keeps writing.

It’s what he does.

Autumn, 1438. After a particularly long day, writing down biblical text after biblical text, he’s climbing the stairs of the castle, walking through the long hallways to the monestary. That’s when he sees him for the first time.

The most insufferable person he’ll ever meet.

He’s standing by the door that leads to one of the conference chambers - presumably where the King must be at that moment. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, snow-white hair tied behind his head. Amber eyes look at Jaskier suspiciously as he approaches.

He gives the man a curt nod and a tight smile, sighing when the guard flings an arm out, stopping Jaskier in his tracks.

The scholar rolls his eyes for a split second, before turning to the guard. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The knight cocks his head. “Who are you?”

The scholar frowns. “I’m Jaskier. I’ve worked here for twelve years. And you are?”

“I ask the questions. What are you doing here so late?”

Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes. “I was busy transcribing in the dungeons. It gets very hard to tell the time when there are no windows, and I accidentally worked too long. As for why I’m here, specifically, this is the shortest way to the monestary. Now who are you? I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”

The knight clenches his jaw. “Like I said, you don’t get to ask questions. Now move along before I make you.”

Jaskier scoffs, continuing his way to the monestary. After a few steps, he stops. “You know,” he calls over his shoulder, “monks are well respected here, and I don’t think the King will appreciate it if he finds out one of his guards has been talking to a monk like that. Just something you might want to keep in mind next time.”

He looks back for a second, smirking at the glare the knight gives him, then turns back around, continuing to the monestary.

***

They continue like that for the next few months, exchanging quips whenever they pass each other in the halls.

The knight asks him what he’s doing in that specific part of the castle, Jaskier tells him it’s none of his business and asks who he thinks he is, the knight says that Jaskier doesn’t get to ask questions, Jaskier threatens to tell the King.

Of course, he doesn’t mean a word of it. After all, it doesn’t really matter if the knight keeps asking him what he’s doing there, and it doesn’t matter that Jaskier never gets to learn his name. It shouldn’t matter, at least.

He’s started asking around for the whereabouts of the King every morning, changing the route he takes to the monestary depending on what the servants say. He’s doing it to make the days less monotone and change things up a little. He does not do it to make sure he passes the knight every evening.

And when the King is called away a few months later to France to lead their army in the war, taking the white-haired knight with him, Jaskier is not disappointed.

And when he has to move away a few years later to a different part of the country when he realizes the hairs on his head aren’t greying and there are no crows’ feet appearing at the corners of his eyes, he does not feel sad that he didn’t get the chance to see the white-haired knight again.

***

Autumn, 1605, Florence. He’s in the city library, picking book after book on the human body from the shelves, the pile in his arms growing ever higher.

197. That’s how old he is, by now, and he still doesn’t know why he’s been blessed - or cursed, depending on which day you ask him - with a long life. He’s fallen in and out of love countless of times, seeing the beauty in every person passing him by, and he’s had his heart broken twice as often. Death, sickness, growing apart - all normal things in life, but when your life is unnaturally long, those things start weighing on you.

So, five years ago, he went to Florence. He’d heard of the impressive library the Italians had collected, and he had decided that, if he wasn’t going to die a natural death, he might as well find out why.

Except he hasn’t, so far. He’s looked through these books countless of times, thumbed through the pages night after night, coming up empty-handed. There aren’t exactly many books on immortality, and the ones that he did find mostly seemed like a bunch of philosophical nonsense - nothing he could use to figure out why he was the way he was, anyways.

So, now, as he piles the same books into his arms as always, he can’t help but feel a little hopeless, and he knows he probably won’t get the answers he needs. Not anytime soon, at least, and not in Florence.

He reaches up, trying to take the last book from a high shelf, but the pile he’s carrying with the other arm wobbles dangerously, and he almost loses his footing.

Suddenly, a strong hand wraps around his upper arm, stabilizing him, another reaching over his head to grab the book for him, putting it on the pile. Jaskier turns around carefully. “Grazie-” his voice catches in his throat, as he meets the amber eyes of a silver-haired man.

“You,” he breathes out, when he recognizes him, seeing recognition in those golden eyes as well. “You’re the knight-”

The man blinks, then frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turns around, stalking away from Jaskier.

The scholar deposits the pile of books on a nearby table, ignoring the dirty glances the other scholars shoot at him for not putting them back on the shelves, as he hurries out of the library, into the afternoon sunlight.

He looks around, spotting the white-haired man weaving between the people, disappearing into an alley.

“Hey! Wait!” Jaskier yells, running after the knight. “Wait!”

His chest is heaving by the time he catches up with the man. He grabs the knight by the wrist, forcing him to turn around. “You. I know you, you were in England,” he almost swallows his next words, bringing his voice down to a whisper, “a hundred and fifty years ago.”

The man clenches his jaw again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you do,” Jaskier hisses back. “I know you recognize me, I know it’s you, and you know it’s me.”

The man looks around, then leans in closer to Jaskier. “Fuck off and leave me be.”

He makes a move to get away, but Jaskier grips his wrist tighter. “No! You haven’t aged a day. Why?”

He startles as the man’s other hand comes up, grabbing him by his throat, pushing him against the wall. “Keep your voice down,” the knight hisses at him, and Jaskier glares at him until he loosens his grip a bit.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m not going to. Now fuck off and leave me be.” He lets go of Jaskier’s neck, stalking through the alley to the city square.

“Wait!” Jaskier calls behind him. “What’s your name?”

The knight is long gone, disappearing into the crowd.

***

Autumn, 1718, well... wherever, really. Somewhere between Britain and America. He sighs, the slight swaying of the boat making his stomach act up, and he has to swallow a wave of nausea.

He’d heard a lot about America, heard about people finding their luck there in the new cities and large fields. It would be a new chance for Jaskier, another place for him to build a life before having to abandon it after a couple of decades, when his lack of aging starts to grow suspicious to the people around him.

Well, at least it’ll be something new, after all these years. He’s getting tired of Europe.

Tomorrow is his 310th birthday, he realizes, though it brings him no joy. It’s been a while since he’s celebrated his birthday, celebrated the end of another year on this cursed planet.

He’s tired, so tired. Of having to scrape together money, day in, day out, year after long year, decade after long decade, before having to take off again, leaving his life and home behind, after twenty or thirty years.

It’s been a while since he’s had any close friends or relationships of any sort. He can’t risk getting close to people he knows he’ll lose, eventually, inevitably, and he can’t risk them finding out his secret. Because they’ll either claim him insane, putting him in an asylum, or he’ll become a shiny new test subject for scientists to poke and prod at. No thank you.

So, off to America, he went. They’re expected to arrive in a week or so, and he’s looking forward to the moment he can get off this blasted ship that’s messing with his stomach so much.

He perks up as he hears a few men shouting on the top deck, and gets to his feet as he hears the loud pangs of gunfire. He reaches for his own weapon, a dagger strapped to his hip. Though, he realizes now - probably too late - that it won’t do much if someone tries to shoot him.

The door slams open, and he takes a step back, holding his meagre dagger in his shaking hand. He nearly drops it, mouth opening in confusion and realization.

“It’s you again!” he shouts, hand clenching around the hilt of his weapon. “Seriously?”

It’s the white-haired knight again, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a gun. He looks confused and annoyed, amber eyes fixed on Jaskier.

The scholar lowers his weapon. “You’ve really fallen far, sir. You were a knight three hundred years or so ago, and now you’re” he gestures vaguely with his hand, nose scrunching in confusion “a pirate? I really expected better from you.”

The white-haired man lowers his weapon as well. “Gotta make a living, somehow.” He shrugs. “The world doesn’t need knights anymore.” And, bless all the angels in the heavens above, he smiles. “At least I’m doing something different with my life. It seems like you haven’t evolved past ‘pansy little scholar’.”

Jaskier gasps in mock offense, laying a hand on his chest dramatically. “How dare you? I may be a pansy scholar, but I sure as hell am not little, sir knight.”

The white-haired man chuckles, rolling his eyes a bit. Footsteps barge down the stairs, and the knight turns back to one of his fellow pirates. “Just people, no valuable cargo,” he tells the other man, “let’s get out of here.”

The other pirate looks a bit confused, glancing at Jaskier. “You sure you don’t want to eliminate any witnesses?”

The knight shakes his head. “No, it’s good. He won’t talk, will he?” He looks at the scholar.

Jaskier shakes his head quickly, hands in the air. “No, won’t say a word.”

The other pirate nods, content, heading back upstairs, the knight following closely behind. Jaskier lowers his hands, eyes squeezing shut tightly. “Shite,” he mutters to himself, “I still don’t know his name.”

***

Autumn, 1915. He hadn’t wanted to go back to Europe, but he didn’t want to not serve his country in the war. So, he had gone back to England, and had enlisted to go to the front in Belgium.

The training officers command him for his fighting technique and quick learning skills, and Jaskier has to swallow back a comment about how it’s easy to pick up a thing or two about fighting when you’ve lived for 507 years.

He spots a familiar head of white hair in the trenches, but it disappears behind a cloud of mud and dirt when a shell explodes between them. After that, he can’t find the white-haired man anymore.

***

Autumn, 1941. He’s standing outside when Japanese planes fly over, dropping bombs on the ships in Pearl Harbour. He spots a familiar form with white hair on one of the ships, and he tries to shout to the knight, but he’s blown to the ground by another bomb.

After that, he has to flee. He doesn’t get the chance to search for the white-haired man between the dead, the day after.

***

Autumn, 1945. He’s sitting in a movie theatre, watching the news about the end of the war. They show the celebrations in the major cities, and Jaskier sighs in relief as he spots a broad-shouldered, white-haired man in the crowd in Times Square.

***

Autumn, 1985. He’s dancing at a club in New York, lifting his hands above his head as he lets the music flow through him. It’s always fun to discover new things after being on this mess of a planet for 577 years, really, and the ability to simply lose himself in the deep bass and steady beat of the music seems God-given, at this point.

He’s tired. Tired of the years weighing down on him, tired of not being able to get the rest he so desperately wants, tired of being pushed down by the heaviness of the ages, yet floating through the years, flitting from place to place, not being able to settle down.

It’s become so hard to hide what he is, with the upcoming digitalization and registration of everyone’s date of birth, place of birth, etcetera. He can no longer just move to a different town and call himself a different name and start a new life. It doesn’t work like that anymore, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until he’s found out, until someone realizes he’s not who he says he is.

The worries weigh down on him, so he loses himself in the music.

Someone bumps into him, and he shouts in annoyance as they spill their drink all over him. He turns around, ready to curse out whoever is so stupid enough to do this, but he freezes, mouth open slightly.

“You again?” he breathes out, and before the white-haired man can say anything, Jaskier takes him by his arm, dragging him out of the club, into the side alley. He turns back around, facing the man, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Before you say anything, what is your name?”

The knight- pirate- soldier- man furrows his brow, shaking his head slightly. “Geralt.”

Jaskier throws his hands up in exparation. “Fucking finally! Do you know how hard it is to try to find someone for 500 years when you don’t even know their name?”

Geralt frowns at him. “You’ve been trying to find me?”

Jaskier shakes his head a bit in confusion. “Yes, of course! You’re like me! You don’t age, either, do you?” Geralt shakes his head. “Exactly. I wanna know what the hell is wrong with us so I can finally just die. I’m tired of this planet.”

“I don’t know why we don’t age, though.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier leans against the wall, head in his hands. After a few moments, he lifts his face up to Geralt, who’s gone to stand in front of him. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we die? And why do we keep running into each other? It’s a small world but not that small, right?”

Geralt shrugs again. “I don’t know. All I know is that I keep seeing that pansy little scholar everywhere I go.”

Jaskier snorts. “And I keep seeing a thick-headed old man everywhere I go.”

“I’m not old.”

“You’re 500 years old.”

“You’re 500 years old as well, what's your point?”

Jaskier laughs, shaking his head slightly. Geralt smiles back, and something ancient flutters in Jaskier’s chest, which he recognizes as the thing he had felt when he had traded insults with Geralt in the castle hall, when he had seen him again in Florence, when he had been spared on the ship, when he had seen white hair in the heat of the battle, when he had spotted him on Times Square.

He recognizes it as the thing he had felt every time their paths had crossed.

And maybe, for the first time in over 500 years, he realizes what it is.

Love.

They both lean toward each other at the same time, lips crashing into each other, hands tangling in each other’s hair, noses brushing, breaths intertwining.

And Jaskier can’t get enough of this feeling he always gets when he’s close to Geralt, willingly loses himself in the warmth that spreads through his veins, lifting the heavy years off his tired shoulders, in the fluttering in his stomach that sets his soul alight.

They pull back after a few seconds, foreheads leaning against one another. And maybe, Jaskier realizes, suffering eternity won’t be so bad if he’s got Geralt by his side, this time around.

***

Though, he knows that won’t be necessary, when he discovers his first grey hair, fifteen years later. When he finds his first wrinkle, a few years after that.

When he finally, at last, starts seeing the effects of time appearing on his face. When he sees the lines in his love’s skin.

When their bones start creaking and aching. When their voices grow hoarse and their sight blurry.

And when they drift off to sleep in each other’s arms, sixty-four years after their first kiss, he feels perfectly at peace.

#nim-nim-1994 #squish answers #drabble #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #history but make it gay #cw death #also i listened to back to autumn by the tall heights while writing this #thats why they keep meeting in autumn #lmao #is it fluff #is it angst #it sure is Something

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obsidiancreates · 4 years

Text

The Crossover Nobody Asked For (VenturianTale and Milo Murphy’s Law)

“Oh, this place is horrid,” Cavendish says, looking out the window as the van rolls into town. “This is barely an upgrade from garbage duty.”

“So there’s a lot of damage. Maybe they’ve just a Murphy in town and no budget,” Dakota says with a shrug.

“... I suppose that’s a possibility. But I don’t believe Milo has mentioned any family living in North Carolina. Especially not a place with a name like... ugh.”

“Come on, say it,” Dakota says, already almost laughing.

“... Butts, Little Butts,” Cavendish sighs.

Dakota laughs, slapping the steering wheel.

“Who even named this place?! And who would live here-”

“WHOA!”

Dakota slams on the breaks as someone runs right out in front of the van.

“It went this way! Come on, Johnny!” a short man in a gray hoodie shouts behind him.

A tall man in a rather fancy outfit jogs into view. “I’m coming, sir! But I-I’ve been stabbed in the leg-”

“IT’S GETTING AWAY- oh, you!”

The short man runs up to the window of Cavendish and Dakota’s van. “Hey! Give us your vehicle!”

Cavendish is slightly taken aback. “Wh- we most certainly shall not!”

“Oh, he’s British! Johnny, come communicate with him in your British tongue!”

“What the devil-”

“Hello, there. I’m Johnny Toast. May we please use you vehicle?”

“More British, Johnny.”

“Oh, right sir, um, tea and crumpets, may we use your vehicle, um, Doctor Who, ah, my grandmother is the Queen of England.”

“... Just drive, Dakota.”

Dakota waves at the two men, and drives away. They hear the short one scream in frustration.

“This town is deplorable,” Cavendish says.

“We’ve only met two people, maybe it’s not so bad,” Dakota points out. “And we haven’t even been to any restaurants yet.”

“Given the state of some of these buildings, I advise against eating anything from here.”

“When has that ever stopped me?”

“Mmm, true.”

They finally arrive at their destination. A shockingly normal looking house, out in the suburbs.

“Well, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.” Cavendish seems hopeful as the van is parked.

“Yeah, see? We just happened to run across two weirdos. Now let’s find that alien signal Mr. Block sent us here for.”

“I’ll grab the scanner, you introduce us,” Cavendish says, opening the back of the van.

Dakota nod sand heads up to the front door. He rings the doorbell, and waits.

“GERTRUDE! SOMEONE’S AT THE DOOR!”

“I HEARD IT, I’M MAKIN’ DINNER!”

“KIDS!”

Dakota winces. Oh boy, so the people who live here are... loud, to say the least.

“WHERE’RE THE KIDS, GERTRUDE?”

“BILLY IS HIDING FROM MADDIE AND SALLY IS ON A DATE WITH SLENDER! SUE IS SOMEWHERE IN THE MALL!”

Dakota waits a moment, and then rings again.

He hears a heavy sigh. A moment later, the door swings open, and Dakota shouts and stumbles back.

A large man stands in the door, holding a shotgun. With his bald head, beard, and very angry expression, he looks like exactly the type of person you don’t want to bother in the middle of the day.

“Who the heck ‘re you?” he demands in... some kind of... southern? accent.

“Uh...”

“Dakota, have you- oh, hello, are you the resident who lives here?”

Cavendish is either ignoring the shotgun, or hasn’t noticed it yet, somehow.

“Yeah, this is my house, so what’re you doing here?”

“Well, we’ve been sent by an agency-”

“Are you some more of them P.I.E people? I told ya to quit comin’ to my house, you only make the problems worse!”

“P.I.E? No, we’re with an agency called P.I.G-”

“Paranormal Investigators Gourmet?! I don’t remember hirin’ you!”

“... Gourmet- no! No, we’re with the Paranormal Investigation Group-”

“How many ghost huntin’ groups are there?!” the man shouts, presumably in frustration, though a slight bit of laugh slips into his voice.

“... We deal with aliens,” Cavendish says, unsure what else to say.

“Aliens? I KNEW IT! GERTRUDE, I TOLD YA! I TOLD YA THAT THING WAS FROM THEM ALIENS!”

“GOOD JOB, HONEY, YOU DID IT!”

“YEAH! I DID IT, I DID IT!Aw, you can come right on in, provin’ me right. You’re a lot less annoyin’ than the P.I.E people, they’re always talkin’ and sayin’ I’m wrong and not to shoot the ghosts, but they shoot ghosts too so I don’t know what they’re talkin’ about-”

“He’s just talking to himself now,” Dakota whispers to Cav as they follow the man into the house.

Cavendish nods. Maybe this won’t go as well as he’d hoped... He clears his throat. “May we ask for you name, my good man?”

The man stops, and turns around. “My name! Is PAPA ACACHALLA!”

Dakota snorts.

“Why’re you laughin? That’s my name! It’s a great name! Means ‘whole dang universe’!”

“No, no, it’s just I never thought we’d find a more made-up sounding name than his,” Dakota says, pointing his thumb at Cavendish.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Well, what’s his name?” Acachalla demands, pointing at Cavendish with the shotgun way too casually.

Dakota pushes the barrel of the gun away. “Go ahead, Cav.”

Cav crosses his arms. “Balthazar Cavendish.”

"HA! You British people have the weirdest names! Like that Toast boy! Anyway, the alien thing is out here. Officer Maloney came to look at it, but it isn’t one of his things, and I can’t figure out how to move it! I’ve tried C4, a tractor, Freddie, a nuke-”

“A nuke?!”

“- an’ none of it even dented the thing!”

“Yeah, can we go back to nuke?” Dakota says, eyes wide.

“Too late, we’re here.”

Dakota and Cavendish blink.

Cavendish’s eye twitches “It’s a-”

“It’s a giant metal Kirby,” Dakota finishes.

“Yeah! I don’t want it in my yard! My daughter says it feels like it’s mockin’ her from when she was a Kirby!”

“What in blazes are you- this is no alien technology! This is some kind of... bad sculpture!” Cavendish shouts.

“It dropped right out of the sky!” Acachalla protests. “Maloney said it was alien, and he would know! He’s a bird!”

“A bir- you said he was a police officer!”

“He is! And he’s a bird! Who can be a person!”

Cavendish is fuming. “Dakota, call Mr. Block and tell him we’ve been lead on a wild goose chase!”

Dakota sighs, and heads inside to make the call (for some reason, he can’t get a signal from the yard).

“There’s no wild goose around here! Not after that nuke test, anyway!”

“There’s no possible way you set off a nuke here! This house is still intact, you’re still alive, and there’s no residual radiation in the area!”

“So?”

“SO?! SO THERE WAS NO NUCLEAR EXPLOSION!”

“I don’t think you know how nukes work!”

“YOU-”

“Cav, calm down, he’s holding a gun,” Dakota says in a hissed whisper.

Cavendish takes a deep breath, and collects himself. “Clearly, Mr. Acachalla-”

“Papa Acachalla. My title is Papa.”

“I steadfastly refuse to refer to you as ‘Papa’. Mr. Acachalla, there’s been some sort of mix-up, and this is not alien in-”

The mouth of the Kirby opens, and a being steps out.

“Excuse me, but our craft was broken, and we just got the doors working,” says the being (that looks... weirdly like a... Pokemon?).

“I KNEW IT!” Acachalla shouts. He shoots his gun up into the air, and starts ‘dancing’ (to use the term loosely). “I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT, PAPA ACACHALLA, I KNEW IT-”

Cavendish stares, dumbfounded. “You- you’re actually an alien?”

The alien nods. “Yup, I am!”

“... You sound remarkably human.”

“Thanks! So do you!”

“... Thank you?”

“Do you happen to know where we can get some materials to repair our ship?”

“Well, I suppose I might. What do you need?”

“Macaroni.”

“... What-”

“Hey, we’ve got that!” Acachalla says, stopping his little song and dance. “Just don’t tell the cops. It’s Johnny Toast brand, too, really strong stuff.”

“... Why would macaroni need to be hidden from the cops?” Cavendish asks weakly, shoulders slumped. This is ridiculous, and he feels... defeated, in a way.

“Uh, ‘cause it’s illegal?” Acachalla says with a laugh. “Duh?”

Acachalla leads the alien inside, and-

“WHY’RE YOU EATIN’ OUR MACARONI?!”

Dakota looks up from his bowl. “Uh, your wife offered me some-”

“GERTRUDE, WHAT’RE YOU THINKIN’?! THAT’S OUR GOOD MACARONI!”

A woman in a green sweater peeks out from the kitchen. “Well, he said he was hungry, and it was either this or your old boot!”

“That boot is high in protein!”

“That’s why I’m savin’ it for the kids!”

Dakota puts down his fork. “I think your macaroni went bad, actually, I don’t feel so good...”

Acachalla rolls his eyes. “Duh, you don’t! Have you ever even had macaroni before?!”

Dakota looks up. “Somethin’s weird here...” he slurs.

“Wh- what have you done to him?!” Cavendish pushes Acachalla aside and rushes to Dakota.

“It’s macaroni! It makes the world all wiggly and weird!” Acachalla says, like that’s at all true and common knowledge.

Dakota laughs a little, reaching up to grab Cavendish’s hat. “You’re way taller th’n I remember,” he says, still slurring.

“That is it! We are leaving!”

Cavendish picks Dakota up bridal-style. Dakota grins, and leans up, giving Cavendish a peck on the lips. “Wow, I can stretch really far...”

Cavendish blushes intensely. “That macaroni has clearly intoxicated my partner! You’ll be hearing from the higher-ups over this!” he says, trying to ignore what just happened.

“I think ‘m flying,” Dakota declares as Cavendish carries him back out to the van.

“Dakota, you’re delirious. Just rest until we get home.”

“I feel fine,” Dakota insists, head lolling. “You’re the one who turned into a tomato when I kissed you. From a leek to a tomato...”

“A leek? Is that because of my suit?”

“You’re a-a leek with fluffy wings.”

Cavendish buckles Dakota in. “What on Earth-”

“Like a vegetable angel.”

Cavendish blushes again. “This is terrible. you have no idea what you’re saying,” he says, trying to affirm that fact in his mind.

“You’re a tomato again. Whoa, my hand is made of fresh fries...”

“No, they’re just yellow because they’re covered in cheese.”

Dakota grins. “Smarty-pants.”

As Cavendish goes to shut the door, Dakota grabs him again and gives him another kiss. A long one. Cavendish is in shock.

“You don’t taste like a leek,” Dakota says afterwards, apparently incredibly happy about that fact.

Cavendish, blushing more than he thought was possible, gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car. “We’re never returning here,” he mutters to himself.

Dakota waves at the house as they drive away.

#VenturianTale #milo murphy's law #Dakavendish #Vinnie Dakota #balthazar cavendish #papa acachalla #Johnny Ghost #Johnny Toast #drugs tw #drugs mention #intoxication tw #hallucination tw #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic

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undertaker1827 · 4 years

Note

Not a request. I would like to know your opinion on what Undertaker's overall plan is. He made those dolls and brought o!Ciel back but for what reason and what else is he planning? 🤔 Thank you! (feel free to delete)

Absolutely! This is part one of two, I’ll link the second part when it’s written. In the meantime, hello, welcome and strap yourselves in for one hell of a ride, we’re almost on 2000 words! Let’s go!

❗️obviously spoiler warning!!!! Also, I’ve only read up to chapter 148 so if you’ve read further, please don’t spoil anything for me either!! Thank you! ❗️

Way back at the end of the Circus Ark, undertaker said this;

So, whatever happened with Cloudia (which needs to be put in a whole other theories post) must have involved her being overly blasé about her life/soul, in a similar way to Ciel and Vincent, I would say. Obviously the connection between Undertaker and the Phantomhives is much bigger than anything we know about and I’m willing to bet it is connected to more than just Undertaker bringing R!Ciel back to life (again, another theory post needed).

ANYWHO back on track.

Now Undertaker always talks about being happy/laughing/not wasting your soul (and by extension, life). We know he committed suicide when he was human (yet another tangent I want to go off on) after which he obviously didn’t want to have to face another life. So what, did he just get sick of reaping and the soul world and decide if he was being forced to live anyway, he should do something with his life this time? Which is where going to the human world comes into play, but (okay we’re off track again) what really happened 50 years ago?? Why did he actually leave dispatch and effectively become a fugitive? Surely there must be more to it than ‘I got bored’. And what, he just magically got involved with the Phantomive family? One of the most important families in England who also happen to operate within the underworld and work for the queen? I don’t think so. He definitely knew what he was doing. The question is, why did he do it?

Back to the task in hand, during this part of Book of the Atlantic;

Ciel actually looks scared. Ignoring everything we know about him/his personality and just looking at his face in the drawing, he looks young and frightened. Now imagine when O!Ciel was little. Undertaker would have been around a lot when him and R!Ciel were growing up, we even see him holding up the curtain behind the kids for their photograph later on in the series. O!Ciel now, as the Earl, is obviously very used to Undertaker’s antics, like his prices for information, so perhaps this was why he was goaded into paying said price himself earlier on, instead of letting Sebastian do it. Clearly, having seen Undertaker’s face for the first time, seen him attack Grell (who even Seabstain had to play dirty to beat) AND look serious all in one hit? Big shock. But that face to me is still a picture of fear rather than surprise, again demonstrating how well Undertaker kept his true identity hidden. Still, even as the lowkey crazy mortician, he’s not exactly someone you would trust your kids with. This says to me Vincent knew more about Undertaker than just face value and he knew the reaper would stay loyal to the Phantomhives. And THAT’S another thing; why?? Why would he, how could Vincent be so certain? Was it because of Cloudia? Did Vincent grow up with Undertaker around the same way the twins did?

But then there are other questions! How did he end up establishing his business? As in both sides of it. Dispatch must have searched for him, he was their best in collections, so how did he keep his true identity a secret from literally everyone, even them? Also, how much did the Phantomhives (prior to Ciel) know about him? Did Cloudia or Vincent know he was a reaper? I don’t believe that he was as close to Vincent and the twins as he was without Vincent knowing something was up. I mean the earl was very clever, in his line of work he had to be, and he trusted Undertaker with his kids, which must mean something.

Then there’s the thing with Othello. I mean clearly they know each other, hardly surprising, but Undertaker was this high flying INCREDIBLY serious collections reaper, compared to Othello (much as I love him) who couldn’t fight and ended up in forensics, the department which has practically no contact with the human world. So it makes sense that Othello knows about Undertaker, maybe even looked up to him, who knows, but why would Undertaker know Othello?

And whilst we’re on the subject (which we’re not) how did he get all those scars?? When he’s drawing wearing different clothes than normal, they are literally all over him. Anyone could have been fatal, particular focus on the one around his neck and across his chest. Now when we see him working as a reaper, he doesn’t have those scars. Given how good a fighter he is, there’s not a human in the world who could have done that. That leaves anything supernatural - demons, angels or even other reapers - which would have meant he fought them and survived (barely?). But the injuries must have been very bad to have scarred like that in the first place. Either that, or they’re fake and he just outs them on to mess with the characters’ (our) minds.

But moving on, when Ciel asks ‘to what end?’, Undertaker replies with;

So in other words, when he first rocked up in the human world, it probably was just curiosity. He needed some sort of a cover up for who he really was, so he set up a morgue. Why not? Maybe, during his many reaping jobs, he had come into contact with the work/estate of the Phantomhives. Enter Cloudia, and whatever happened there, happened. But somehow he went to serious reaper looking at the human world and the individuals living in it as one big experiment to actually caring about his lab rats. To have Cloudia’s mourning locket and be as fond of it as he is, something, in some way, must have changed. Another question is the rest of the mourning lockets. Unless they’re just for show so he can carry Cloudia’s and still fit in reasonably well (which I don’t think is the case) he must have cared about each of those people, and thus far, we have no idea who they are.

But then there’s THIS;

Bold words for a guy who cares far far too much about Ciel’s family, knowing full well right from the beginning that he would well and truly outlive them. But here is where the caring part comes in;

Unless he was taking about Sebastian. But even if he was, I think he was including himself in that statement to some extent as well, bearing in mind that of the people present, only Ciel was aware that his father knew Undertaker.

Now as for the Weston College Arc, Undertaker was obviously trying to keep away from Sebastian and Ciel for as long as possible, I suspect so that they found out about Derrick at the ‘right’ moment (for him at least) and to ensure a fight didn’t break out in front of the entire school, which would guarantee he could get away quickly without anyone knowing where he was going. But moving back in time a bit, Undertaker was involved with Weston College sometime prior to the Campania debacle (as Rian Stoker was with him when he arrived) and been contacted by Edgar Redmond, no doubt via Viscount Druitt, so all of that probably has something to do with how he managed to take over as headmaster so quickly (after all, this arc takes places directly after the Book of the Atlantic). He had been forced to blow a cover he’d been keeping up for the last 50 years so he needed somewhere to go quickly. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had worked out that Weston College would be where Ciel went next too and as we established when he allowed Ciel to keep the mourning lockets, Undertaker clearly doesn’t want to cut any mores ties with him than necessary.

Then there’s this;

I think what Undertaker really wants to do is bring back Vincent, if not Cloudia, but given that reanimation requires a near perfect corpse, neither of these options are especially viable. As for his reasons, he is clearly very attached to them, and if you ask me, his lack of care for personal space in any capacity says he’s lonely, so I suspect that’s part of it. However, I think there’s probably a more important reason than that, but I honestly don’t know what. I believe it will be tied in with his mysterious connection to the Phantomhive family, but as we don’t know about that either, its difficult to say.

Now this part;

has always confused me. What was Sebastian referring to? And the fact that Undertaker implied their strength is equal? He would have killed Sebastian back on the ship if it hadn’t picked that exact moment to sink. All very intriguing.

Then this whole double page spread;

which really only gives more questions than it answers.

But now! Onto the Green Witch Arc. The bit to focus on has to be the interaction between Diedrich and Undertaker, in which Undertaker makes one very important comment;

Humans. He specifically said humans, meaning Diedrich knew he was a reaper, so by extension so did Vincent and most likely Cloudia as well. I admit, I had forgotten that sentence, so this explains why Vincent trusted Undertaker with the twins (which I was going on about earlier). And I assume when he said this;

He was talking about bringing Vincent back. Even he couldn’t bring back someone without their body.

#black butler #undertaker #adrian crevan #kuroshitsuji #not a story #spoilers #sebastian michaelis #ciel phantomhive #vincent phantomhive #cloudia phantomhive #theories #black butler theory #undertaker theory #my thoughts

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feliciohno · 4 years

Note

could i perhaps request itapan with the soulmate au 2 ??👀

First words your soulmate says to you are tattooed on your wrist (Send me a ship and a prompt)

“こんにちは, I am Japan.”

It was so rare for nations to develop soulmates. Where for humans everyone had them, that wasn’t the case for the strange beings that walked the earth beside them. Soulmates worked much differently for nations in ways that most of them didn’t fully understand yet. For some of them, a new line would appear at random. Sometimes they’d be lucky enough to meet the human it corresponded with. But then, when they inevitably passed, the mark would fade away as if it were never there. No indication that they had ever had a soulmate in the first place. It was a sorrowful experience, to say the least. Most of them tended to try and avoid any soulmates they might develop over the years.

But Italy was different. One night, he had a dream. It was a strange dream that he didn’t quite understand at such a young age. In it was a boy a little older than him. He looked just as lost as Italy felt as if he wasn’t even sure why he was in the other’s dream in the first place. Despite that, he introduced himself as Japan. After Italy woke up, he had a soulmark.

He had shown Ms. Hungary the mark and she could only respond with a pitying look. She just patted his hair and told him to ignore it. It would be better that way.

So he did. For years he practically forgot it was even there. It wasn’t till he spoke with France that he remembered it.

Italy and France often held conversations, they were quite close after all. Especially after Italy had gained his independence it was nice to still have someone to go to. He knew he could still go to Austria and Hungary but it just wasn’t the same.

“Another soulmark, another life span.” France let out a sigh as he looked at his wrist.

Italy took a bite of the pastry laid before him as he watched the other. “Another?” he questioned as he swallowed his food.

France leaned back in his chair and gave Italy an almost sad smile. “They happen all the time to me. What can I say, my heart just can’t stand being alone I suppose. But,” he gave another sigh. “It’s always the same. They fade after a number of years and another just relaces it soon after.”

“Don’t you want to meet them?”

France only gave a halfhearted chuckle. “If Big Brother was to chase after every soulmate he had I don’t think my heart could handle it every time.” He then leaned in closer to the other and gave him a wink. “Besides, between you and me I think England is finally starting to come around to me, no? I knew he couldn’t resist my charms.”

Italy smiled at that comment. Happy to see France’s mood come back around. However, the conversation, as brief as it was, stayed in his mind the rest of the day. When he got back home he inspected his own mark. How long had it been there? Humans don’t live that long, even he knew that.

Gently, he ran his fingers over the mark. The handwriting was beautiful. He wondered if his soulmate always wrote like that. He didn’t recognize the characters in the first half but it was clearly Asian. Did his soulmate live somewhere there? It didn’t make sense. There was no way they could still be alive. Italy frowned and pulled his sleeve back over the mark only to forget about it for another odd number of years.

The first time he heard the name Japan it was in passing. One of his humans was talking to another on the streets of Venice when he overheard their conversation. The name felt familiar somehow. The ladies were talking about it like a location. Was it someone like him? Was that why it sounded familiar? He never paid much mind to world affairs. Why should he? Italy just spent his days cooking and painting. As it should be. Why get mixed up in the trouble of other nations. He only did what his boss told him to and then nothing more. Maybe it was a bit lonely that way but in his opinion,he was better off. He still talked to France sometimes, and Austria and Hungary visited every few years. He was fine alone. Didn’t matter to him one bit.

He wasn’t alone much longer. He got shoved into the front lines of a war he wanted no part in. He blamed his boss. Who else could he blame? He hated fighting. He just wanted to go back home to his warm bed and stocked kitchen. Instead he found himself stuck hiding in a tomato box. Anything to get people to leave him alone. He didn’t want to be shot at! Whether the bullets could actually kill him or not had nothing on the fact that they still hurt like a bitch.

Sadly, the safety of his hiding place was quickly compromised. It wasn’t too hard to convince the other not to kill him. It turned out to be one of his kind anyways. A man named Germany. Wasn’t that who he was fighting? He didn’t actually know. What he did know was that being a prisoner wasn’t actually that bad. No more fighting, he got to lay around and eat food (albeit, it wasn’t pasta but it didn’t out right suck), there were pretty ladies to chat up (though they could be just as scary as Mr. Germany on some occasions) and where there wasn’t much he could do creative wise it still kept him out of trouble.

He, eventually, actually became friends with Germany. He learned some things about the other. For one, he was much younger than Italy, he liked dogs over cats, and he was a hardass when it came to training. All in all it wasn’t that bad making friends with someone. However, while hanging around the other he often heard a name being thrown around. Japan. Hearing the German talk about him only confirmed Italy’s suspicions years prior of it being one of them. Everytime he heard the name he felt this strange tug somewhere inside him. He wasn’t quiet sure why but he tried to ignore it.

At some point Germany made a time to introduce the two. If he was friends with Germany than this Japan couldn’t be that bad. Italy really coudln’t care about the whole alliance thing, if he was honest with himself he was actually having a nice time just making friends. He had even reformed his relationship with Austria recently. It was nice to have people in his life.

Japan was, admittedly, very cute. His short black hair framing his face and those soft dark eyes. Italy was already making plans to invite the other back to his place later. However, he couldn’t put his finger on why but something was all too familiar about the other. He was almost sure they had never met so why did he get such a feeling from him?

It wasn’t until the other introduced himself that it clicked.

“こんにちは, I am Japan,” he said with a bow.

Italy stood there, dumbfounded for a moment. He could feel the strange tingling sensation at his wrist right whee he knew the words were edged into his skin.

What was he supposed to say to that? Was he supposed to should to the high hevens that he had found his soulmate? Did he forgo words completely and just grab the other into an embrace? He supposed, his first words didn’t matter all that much. Whatever they were, they were already scrawled into the other’s skin. They had to be. That was how this worked. So, instead, Italy only smiled warmly at the other.

“Ciao! I’m Italy.”

Japan quickly looked up at the other. When their eyes met Italy could see the spark of realization in the other. It only caused him to smile wider.

They waited till after Germany left to talk about any of it. And so, Italy was forced to sit and listen to their boring alliance discussions. He was sure this was all important information that his boss would want him to relay but he couldn’t fous on that! He’d just met his soulmate! Not that Italy was really looking very hard for him, in his defence of course he either thought it was a human and not worth the heartache, or he just flat out forgot about it. Not his fault.

When Germany did finally go home Italy stayed behind, saying that he would catch his own ride home. Once the other was out of eye shot Italy scooted up close to Japan’s side.

“You have it too, si?”

Japan looked up at him, surprised to see the other so close. His face heated up some. “I assume you mean this,” he replied as he pulled his sleeve up just enough to show Italy his wrist. Just as he suspected, on the skin was Italy’s very words.

Italy smiled at him. He gently ran his fingers over Japan’s mark. “We must be really special.”

Japan looked from the mark to the other with a questioning brow.

Italy returned his gaze. “For us to have these. It must really be special!”

Japan smiled softly at the other. “Yes, I suppose it must be.”

Italy moved his hands from Japan’s wrist up to his face and pulled him into a kiss. The sparks the came from their lips meeting, Italy felt them in his very core. As if the words on his wrist were somehow also written on his heart.

#is it obvious idk shit about history #hetalia #itapan #hws italy #hws japan #feliciano vargas #honda kiku #writing #my writing #fan fic #feli's asks #frukmerunning

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ninja-muse · 4 years

Note

i’m trying to branch out and read outside my genre (fantasy) do you have any book recs for someone whose heart is in fantasy but needs to see what else is out there?

Hi anon! Thanks for the ask! Fantasy’s such a wide genre, and this is such an open ask, that I’m mostly going to be recommending books with similar feels or themes from other genres, to push you a little outside the fantasy bubble and introducing you to different genres and types of storytelling. If you have a favourite subgenre or trope or author, I can maybe get a little more specific or offer read-alikes.

Also, I don’t know if you knew this before asking, but fantasy is my favourite genre too, so some of these recs are books that pushed me out of the genre as well, or that I found familiar-but-different.

And this is getting long, so I’m going to throw it under a cut to save everyone scrolling.

Science fiction

the Vorkosigan saga by Lois McMaster Bujold - This is space opera, which means it’ll have fairly familiar plots except with science-y things instead of magic. There’s an heir with something to prove, heists, cons, and mysteries, attempted coups and assassinations, long-suffering sidekicks, and a homeworld that’s basically turn-of-the-century Russia but with fewer serfs. It was one of the first adult sci-fi books I read and genuinely liked.

The Book of Koli by M.R. Carey - I finished this recently, and the second book of the trilogy just came out. This is post-apocalyptic sci-fi, but not grim or particularly complex. (Some SF gets really into the nuts and bolts of the science elements; this isn’t that.) Basically, Koli’s a teenager who wants more than his quasi-medieval life’s given him, and finds himself in conflict with his village (and then exile) because of it. I could see where the story was going pretty much from the start, but I loved the journey anyway.

The Martian by Andy Weir - This doesn’t have much in common with fantasy, but it’s my go-to rec for anyone who’s never read science fiction before, because it’s funny, explains the science well, and has a hero and a plot you get behind right away. In case you haven’t heard of it (or the film), it’s about an astronaut stranded on Mars, trying to survive long enough to be rescued.

Foreigner by C.J. Cherryh - This is an alien first contact story, about a colony of humans in permanent quarantine on an alien planet. The MC is the sole social liaison and translator, explaining his culture to the aliens and the aliens to the human, and working to keep the peace—until politics and assassins get involved. It’s been over a decade since I read this, so my memory’s blurred, but I remember the same sort of political intrigue vibes as the Daevabad trilogy, just with fewer POVs.

Who Fears Death by Nnedi Okorafor - One from my TBR. It looks like dark fiction about women, outcasts, and revenge, which sounds very fantastic and the MC can apparently do magic—but it’s post-apocalyptic Africa.

Speaking of political intrigue and sweeping epic plots, the Expanse series by James S.A. Corey has both in spades. Rebellions, alien technology, corrupt businesses, heroes doing good things and getting bad consequences, all that good stuff. It takes the science fairly seriously, without getting very dense with it, and will probably register as “more sci-fi” than my recs in the genre so far.

Oh, and Dune by Frank Herbert is such a classic chosen-one epic that it barely registers as science fiction at all.

Graphic novels

It’s technically fantasy, but assuming you’ve never picked up a graphic novel before, you should read Monstress by Marjorie Liu. Asian-inspired, with steampunk aesthetics, and rebellions and quests and so many female characters. It’s an absolutely fantastic graphic novel, if you want a taste of what those can do.

I’d highly recommend Saga by Brian K. Vaughan. It’s an epic science fiction story about a family caught between sides of a centuries-long war. (Dad’s from one side, Mom’s from the other, everyone wants to capture them, their kid is narrating.) It’s a blast to read, exciting and tense, with hard questions and gorgeous tender moments, and the world-building somehow manages to include weaponized magic, spaceship trees, ghosts, half-spider assassins, and all-important pulp romance novels without anything feeling out of place.

Historical fiction

Hild by Nicola Griffith - Very rich and detailed novel following a girl growing up in an early medieval English court. It’s very fantasy-esque, with battles and politics and changes of religion, and Hild gets positioned early on to be the king’s seer, so there’s “magic” of a sort as well.

The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry - A widow goes to the Victorian seaside to heal and reawaken her interest in biology. Slow, gentle, lovely writing and atmosphere, interesting characters and turns of plot. Doesn’t actually deliver on the sea monster, but still has a lot to recommend it to fantasy readers, I think.

Yiddish for Pirates by Gary Barwin - The late-medieval Jewish pirate adventure you didn’t know you wanted. It’s funny and literary, full of tropes and set pieces like “small-town kid in the big city” and “jail break”, and features the Spanish Inquisition, Columbus, the Fountain of Youth, and talking parrots, among other things.

The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett - A thousand pages about the building of a cathedral in England, mostly focusing on the master builder, the monk who spearheads the project, and a noblewoman who’s been kicked off her family’s land, but has several other plots going on, including a deacon with political ambitions, a war, and a boy who’s trying so hard to fit in and do right.

Sharon Kay Penman - This is an author on my TBR, who comes highly recommended for her novels about the War of the Roses and the Plantagenets. Should appeal to you if you liked Game of Thrones. I’m planning to start with The Sunne in Splendour.

Lady of the Forest by Jennifer Roberson - Either a Robin Hood retelling that’s also a romance, or a romance that’s also a Robin Hood retelling.

Hamnet & Judith by Maggie O’Farrell - A novel of the Shakespeare family, mostly focused on his wife and son. Lovely writing and a very gentle feel though it heads into dark and complex subjects fairly often. A good portrait of Early Modern family life.

Mystery

There’s not a lot of mystery that reads like high, epic, or even contemporary fantasy, but if you’re a fan of urban fantasy, which is basically mystery with magic in, then I’d rec:

Cozy mysteries as a general subgenre, especially if you like the Sookie Stackhouse end of urban fantasy, which has romance and quirky plots; there are plenty of series where the detective’s a witch or the sidekick’s a ghost but they’re solving non-magical mysteries, and the genre in general full of heroines who are good at solving crimes without formal training, and the plots feel very similar but with slightly lower stakes. Cozies have become one of my comfort-reading genres (along with UF) the last few years. My intros were the Royal Spyness novels by Rhys Bowen and the Fairy Tale Fatale books by Maia Chance.

If you like your urban fantasy darker and more serious, and your heroines more complicated, try Kathy Reichs and her Temperance Brennan novels. Brennan’s a forensic anthropologist, strong and complicated in the same ways of my fave UF heroines, and the mysteries are already interesting, with a good dash of thriller and a smidge of romance.

Two other recs:

Haunted Ground by Erin Hart - The first of four books about a forensic anthropologist in Ireland, who’s called in when the Garda find bodies in the peat bogs and need to know how long they’ve been there. They’re very atmospheric—I can almost smell the bog—and give great portraits of rural Ireland and small-town secrets, and since not all the bodies found in each book are recent, they also bring interesting slices of the past to life as well.

A Burnable Book by Bruce Holsinger - This is essentially a medieval thriller about a seditious book that’s turned up in London. I liked the mystery in it and that it’s much more focused on the lives of average people than the rich and famous (for all that recognizable people also show up).

Classics

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift - I swear this is actually one of the first fantasy novels but few people ever really class it as such. Basically, Gulliver’s a ship’s doctor who keeps getting shipwrecked—in a country of tiny people, a country of giants, a country of mad scientists, a country of talking horses, etc. It’s social satire and a spoof of travelogues from Swift’s time, but it’s easily enough read without that context.

Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll - Another, slightly later, fantasy and satire! Even more amusing situations than in Gulliver’s Travels and, while it’s been a while* since I read it, I think it’ll be a decent read-alike for authors like Jasper Fforde, Genevieve Cogman, and that brand of light British comic fantasy.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare - Also technically a fantasy! I mean, there are fairies and enchantments, for all it’s a romantic comedy written entirely in old-fashioned poetry. It’s a pretty good play to start you off on Shakespeare, if you’re interested in going that direction.

On the subject of Shakespeare, I would also recommend Much Ado About Nothing, Macbeth, and King Lear, the first because it’s my favourite comedy, the others because they’re fantasy read-alikes imo as well (witches! coups! drama!).

the Arthurian mythos. Le Morte D’arthur, Crétien de Troyes, The Once and Future King by T.H. White, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain, etc. - I’ve read bits and pieces of the first two, am about 80% sure I read the third as a kid (or at least The Sword in the Stone), and have the last on my TBR. Basically, these stories are going to give you an exaggeratedly medieval setting, knights, quests, wizards, fairies, high drama, romantic entanglements, and monsters, and the medieval ones especially have different kinds of plots than you’ll be used to (and maybe open the door to more medieval lit?) **

Beowulf and/or The Odyssey - Two epics that inspired a lot of fiction that came later. (There’s an especial connection between Beowulf and Tolkien.) They’re not the easiest of reads because they’re in poetry and non-linear narratives, but both have a hero facing off against a series of monsters and/or magical creatures as their core story.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley - The first real science fiction novel. It’s about the ethics of science and the consequences of one’s actions, and I loved seeing the Creature find himself and Frankenstein descend into … that. It’s also full of sweeping, gothic scenes and tension and doom and drama.

* 25 years, give or take

** There are plenty of more recent people using King Arthur and associated characters too, if this "subgenre” interests you.

Other fiction

Vicious by V.E. Schwab - I don’t know if you classify superheroes as science fiction or fantasy or its own genre (for me it depends on the day) but this is an excellent take on the subject, full of moral greyness and revenge.

David Mitchell - A literary fiction writer who has both a sense of humour and an interest in the fantastic and science fictional. He writes ordinary people and average lives marvelously well, keeps me turning pages, plays with form and timelines, and reliably throws in either recurring, possibly-immortal characters, good-vs-evil psychic battles, or other SF/F-y elements. I’d start with either Slade House, a ghost story, or Utopia Avenue, about a ‘60s rock band. Or possible The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, which I fully admit to not having read yet.

Devolution by Max Brooks - A horror movie in book form, full of tension and desperation and jump scares and the problems with relying on modern technology. The monsters are Bigfeet. Reccing this one in the same way I’m reccing The Martian—it’s an accessible intro to its genre.

Son of a Trickster by Eden Robinson - Contemporary fiction with a slight literary bent, that doesn’t pull its punches about Indigenous life but also has a sense of humour about the same. Follows a teen dealing with poverty and a bad home life and drugs and hormones—and the fact that his bio-dad might actually be the trickster Raven. Also features witches, magic, and other spirit-beings, so I generally pitch this as magic realism.

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones - Another Indigenous rec, this time a horror novel about ghosts and racism and trying to do the right thing. This’ll give you a taste of the more psychological end of the horror spectrum.

Eliza and Her Monsters by Francesca Zappia - A good example of contemporary YA and how it handles the complexities of life, love, and growing up. Follows the writer of a fantasy webcomic who makes a friend who turns out to write fic of her story and who suddenly has to really balance online and offline life, among other pressures. Realistic portrait of mental health problems.

Non-fiction

The Book of Margery Kempe - The first English-language autobiography. Margery was very devout but also very badass, in a medieval sort of way. She went on pilgrimages to Jerusalem, was possibly epileptic, frequently “saw” Christ and Mary and demons, basically became a nun in middle age while staying married to her husband, and wound up on trial for heresy, before talking a monk into writing down her life story. It’s a fascinating window into the time period.

The Hammer and the Cross by Robert Ferguson - A history of medieval Norse people and how their explorations and trade shaped both their culture and the world.

A Time of Gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor - Travel writing that was recommended to me by someone who raved about the prose and was totally right. Fermor’s looking back, with the aid of journals, on a walking trip he took across Europe in the 1930s. It’s a fascinating look at the era and an old way of life, and pretty much every “entry” has something of interest in it. He met all sorts of people.

Tim Severin and/or Thor Heyerdahl - More travel writing, this time by people recreating historical voyages (or what they believe to be historical voyages, ymmv) in period ships. Severin focuses on mythology (I’ve read The Ulysses Voyage and The Jason Voyage) and Heyerdahl’s known for Kon-Tiki, which is him “proving” that Polynesians made contact with South America. They both go into the history of the sailing and areas they’re travelling through, while also describing their surroundings and daily life, and, yes, running into storms and things.

Hope this helps you!

#bookblr #booklr #fantasy #read-alikes #answered asks #book recommendations #rec lists

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sugarcoated-eloquence · 4 years

Text

Foreboding (Targets: Part 2)

A/N: Hello, hello! Welcome to the shitshow, aka my blog. This is part two of a potential 4/5 part series that I am co-writing with the lovely @sweetestrequiems. Click here for Part 1. Each chapter is focused on a different queen or issue related to the queens. This specific chapter is Catherine Parr centric, but the other queens are all very present.

Please note the following ships are canon in this fic’s universe: Parrlyn, Aramour

{Trigger warnings: anxiety, mention of blood, slight violence}

I should also note some passages are written in German and Spanish and should be google searched to better comprehend the story.

Taglist: @sweetestrequiems, @theatergirl06, @silverpetals97, @six-fragile-dreams, @patdfobmcr-yt, @frogs-in-clogs, @mindless-pidgeon

Other than that..... enjoy! Below the cut.

It would not stop.

The constant feeling like something would go wrong.

Katherine Howard could not tell if it was the anxiety, or if it was something else. She physically felt okay, and everything seemed fine, but for the life of her, the girl could not put her finger on that bad feeling. Being so lost in her thoughts, Howard was found, brows furrowed, staring down at her food, rather than eating it. Of course, this raised concerns with her cousin, Anne Boleyn, and Jane Seymour. Boleyn’s face began to reflect the concern when she raised an eyebrow. Seymour had more of a sad-looking face, but nonetheless, the worry was quite present.

“Katherine?”

“Hey, Kitty… you okay?”

The two voices snapped Howard out of her trance. She looked up, shaking her head seconds after her attention went to the two women. “Yeah, yeah! Just had something come across my mind is all. I’m fine, really. Guess I’m just getting the typical pre-show jitters everyone gets,” which wasn’t a lie, either. But, Katherine did feel a pang of guilt in having to be dishonest with Jane and Anne. Howard was one of the Queens who always got some pre-show anxiety, alongside Catherine of Aragon– (much to everyone’s surprise)– and Boleyn. It wasn’t a rare occasion, though, considering they had just about an hour before they had to head to the theatre. It wouldn’t seem like much now, but this feeling Katherine Howard was having was not a good one.

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During the matinee, Katherine could not shake off that constant thought.

But she was not alone. The feeling had begun to haunt her cousin Anne.

Anne Boleyn’s eyes began to glance around the audience, knowing that Katherine was in the middle of delivering the roast of the century to Jane, Catherine Parr, and Anna of Cleves. A certain man had caught her eye up in the upper level; the second row in the left Circle Slip of the Arts Theatre, to be more precise. Something about that blond hair. And cold, blue eyes. Something about the way he was leaning on the railing while he sat began to bother Anne. Her attention snapped right back to the show when she heard Katherine say, “I can’t even begin to think of how I could compete with you all. Oh wait, like this!” to signal the start of All You Wanna Do. But even with her focus on the show, Boleyn’s glances kept going back up to that strange man.

“I think we can all agree I’m the ten amongst these threes!”

What about him bothered Anne Boleyn so much? She did not know.

Was it his face? No, he seemed to be fairly attractive. Was it the way he stared at all of them? Possibly, since he seemed to be rather uncomfortable when Aragon brought up Leviticus and Mary in No Way. He also looked disgusted during Boleyn’s spotlight in Don’t Lose Ur Head. He looked very, very abhorred with Haus of Holbein and Anna of Cleves. But his eyes when Katherine Howard was singing screamed danger, and Anne could see it. Her frequent glancing that first day saw him tense up upon a few lines:

“Tall, large, Henry the Eighth.

Supreme Head of the Church of England.

Globally revered, although you wouldn’t know it from the look of that beard.”

And the end of All You Wanna Do, as far as Anne could tell from where she was on the stage, had him gripping the railing tightly. Was anger the reason he furrowed his eyebrows, or something else? The distance was not helping her much. Overall, she was picking up a few assumptions just from the one matinee show. This guy was either a historian that pretty much agreed with Henry VIII’s horrible decisions in life, or someone the Queens knew personally. What Anne decided to think though, was the former. Maybe this guy was just a historian and unimpressed with the show, right?

That first show could have not ended sooner. But as the lights on the stage went somewhat dim to allow the six ladies to exit, Anne Boleyn paused and allowed the others to go in front of her. She kept her gaze on that very man, and watched him stand up, turn around, and head on out of the seating area. The fact that she was the last one to leave concerned Cleves a bit. Right before she could even reach the dressing room, the queen in red put a hand on the green queen’s shoulder. “Moment mal, Anne. Was stört dich? Du hast anscheinend nicht dein gewohntes Lächeln am Ende der Show gehabt,” the German gently gave the shoulder a squeeze. Boleyn found herself sighing. “What’s going on? You normally smile and you were barely holding one up today by the end of the show,” Cleves made herself translate what she had previously said.

“I don’t know, honestly. I guess I thought I saw someone that Maggie knew in the audience. It was weird. I’m normally not out of it either. Anyways, if Aragon took the couch, she’s going to regret it. It’s my nap time,” the cheeky grin came back to the ruby lips. A nod from Cleves, and the two were well on their way to the dressing room. Was Aragon on the couch? Absolutely. And Anne 100% kicked her off of it just so she could lay down and sleep after she changed back into her comfortable clothes. No space buns, no makeup– just a giant hoodie and some sweatpants.

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The other dressing room was a little more lively for a good while.

Katherine Howard was up on her feet, bouncing around with energy. Catherine Parr had decided to join her this afternoon. What were the two doing while Jane Seymour took the time to answer some tweets and messages? Dancing. The two ladies were dancing, which was almost the catalyst for Jane setting her phone down and joining them. In fact, she just wanted in on the fun. The three danced around for maybe half an hour, before a yawning Katherine Howard took to the couch to take a nap herself. Parr and Seymour stayed awake, with Parr looking for her notebook and Seymour going back to the tweets and messages.

“Cathy, look at this,” tapping her counterpart on the shoulder, the blonde woman moved her phone to be between them both. “It’s us with our kids!” If there was one thing Jane Seymour loved about the fans they had, it was all of the fanart of them with their kids. A smile was brought to Catherine Parr’s face as she looked up to meet Jane’s eyes. “If there’s one thing I have always appreciated, it’s that they know we aren’t the only Tudors that kicked some serious ass.” The laugh both of them shared was quiet, as to not wake Katherine up from her post-show nap.

The calligraphy pen twirled around Parr’s fingers for a solid minute or so before she finally began to write. Each queen had their thing to do post-matinee if it was a two-show day.

Catherine Parr wrote notes about her performances.

Jane Seymour responded to fans. And to as many of them as possible, too!

Both of the Beheaded Cousins slept their time away.

Anna of Cleves did various things, such as meditate and listen to music.

Catherine of Aragon normally left the dressing room to find a quiet spot in the theatre’s backstage to pray.

This normal routine was going to be shaken up a little too much. So much that Boleyn and Howard were too tense to take their usual between show naps.

––––––––––

The same seat every damn time.

Who the hell was this guy?

And why was he now looking so bitter towards Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard?

Three weeks since the mystery man had first caught Boleyn’s eyes in the middle of a performance. But now it was a pattern. Two night shows and a matinee, and always on the exact same nights. Exact same seat, exact same everything. This was starting to piss Boleyn off, and scare Howard. He looked at them with more than just malicious intent in his eyes, to the point that Katherine sometimes blanked on her lines. It was to the point when Anne was singing, she’d put more emphasis on “Hold up, let me tell you how it went down.” just to spite him. This historian guy, or whoever he truly was, did not settle well with the cousins.

But on the night of a Sunday performance, the Queens all got a rude awakening they were not ready for. And the two to be given the first wave were none other than the Beheaded Cousins themselves:

Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard.

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This tension was so chilling that it even caused Anne to fumble a few of her lines. Even the infamous “Yeah, I read.” was not the usual confident, snarky remark it usually was. Having made eye contact with the mystery man while trying to deliver the line was definitely part of it, and for a moment there was a stiff awkwardness in the air. They’d recover quickly, of course, but the general consensus between the group was that something was wrong, and it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

The man quickly left, before the end of bows, and somehow located an usher and told him he was an old friend of the girls’. The girls weren’t too akin to refusing to meet people, so immediately after stagedooring and meeting fans, they all headed backstage to meet whoever had requested a personal meet and greet. Kit’s the first through the door and she stops dead in her tracks. Those eyes. They were the same bright blue eyes that she saw in her dreams at night, the same eyes she stared into right before… well…

She swallows, backing up a little. Anne comes crashing through the door, chaos embodied, and happily dances around for a moment before noticing the anxiety seething from Howard’s small frame. “What’s wrong, love?” Kit simply points to the man, and Anne’s heart drops to her stomach as well. She too, can’t look away from those crystal eyes. The blond hair. The everything.

Anne can barely talk above a whisper could even tell it was him would make the situation less real. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe he was just another person. One can hope, but no luck there, Anne. She can feel Kit shaking, and reaches to take her hand, letting out a shaky breath and considering shouting for Parr.

The others trickle in quickly after, the ‘mystery man’ still just staring at the two cousins with ferocious intensity. The last to enter, though, is Jane Seymour. The metaphorical mother of the group, the caretaker, any other synonym you can think of. Jane is never one to cast judgement. She walks in, and despite the obvious tension, says a polite hello to the man. He simply nods in response.

Parr joins Anne at the hip, whispering to her. “Is he what’s got you all rattled, love?” Anne lets out a small nod. “It’s him.”

That statement reaches Jane’s ears and immediately her demeanor changes. She stands up a little straighter, setting her microphone down on the dressing room’s main table, and just looks at him. She moves a little closer, pushing the other girls behind her, and she can only say one thing.

“...Henry?”

He steps forward, and while the other girls move back, Jane stays planted to her spot. He smiles, trying to turn on the charm, reaching for her hands. “The one I truly lov—” He’s cut off by a slap. Yes, Jane Seymour just slapped a man. He brings a hand up to his red cheek, eye showing that it indeed, hurt. Cleves stifles a laugh.

“Don’t ever associate that word with me. You don’t know what love is.” A few tears well up in the blonde’s eyes, but refuses to let them fall. Not for him. “Love isn’t keeping your wife from holding her newborn child!” Her voice breaks slightly, but she takes a deep breath, centering herself.

“You all look so different.” The scruffy voice chimes, and immediately Kit visibly tenses up. She, unlike Jane, is unable to hold the tears in. Though they flow silently, they flow heavily. “There’s no need to cry, Katherine… or should I say ‘Kitty’, now?”

“Don’t speak to her. You do not have permission to do that.” Jane moves to block his view, but he simply repositions himself. Anne elects to go in for a dig. The devilish smirk returns, though small, and she gives Kit’s hand a squeeze before moving a tiny step forward.

“You know, mate, if you’re still having trouble… you know, with your little friend, we can get you a prescription for Viagra. Or Cialis, plenty of options.” She emphasizes ‘little’ by using her thumb and pointer finger to indicate his size. It makes Kit smile a little. The silence in the air was broken by a stifled laughter. That had to be the funniest thing Cleves ever heard Boleyn say outside of the wit written in the script. Aragon gave her a nudge, but even she agreed with the sentiment.

The blond man, finally revealed as the reincarnated Henry VIII, just narrowed his eyes. “How funny, laughter coming from someone who couldn’t perform.” Anne’s smirk went away, as she looked back towards Cleves with a hurt expression. Cleves’ grin was gone, with gritted teeth behind a closed mouth replacing it. Aragon let out a sigh. “That’s low for the man who so easily says he believes–”

“Catalina, don’t even get me started on you either.”

Not a single comment from Catherine Parr. She just stood there, feeling herself drift between a rational mind and pure impulse. Did this guy just come back to insult them, and get a second wind to take Katherine? Oh no, that was not happening. She saw it all, too. Jane’s reddening face from holding back the tears, Cleves’ rather tame anger, Aragon’s scowl… Kit’s pale face from the fear, and Anne being powerless. Jane Seymour honestly, had lost her mind way before Catherine Parr did in this scenario, but… there was always going to be a breaking point for the quiet one.

“So you and your whore cousin think you can just slander my name like that? I’d have you both back at the scaffold in front of the Tower if I had–”

“Scaffolds don’t exist anymore, you twat,” Boleyn hissed under her breath.

“Enough, Henry.”

This was where Parr had enough. The other Queens gave a glance at their surviving counterpart, who wasn’t even looking up at him. She was staring at the floor, but for now. “Cathy, you should probably not… y’know, say anything,” Boleyn barely managed to get that sentence out, considering the crushing feeling she had inside of her chest. All that got as a response was a laugh.

“The survivor, Catherine Parr. Tell me then, my love, are you just as stubborn as you were back then?” He got every other one to crack, but little did he know that he would be the one about to shatter like glass. “Because you should’ve been the one to meet an untimely fate like your counterparts here. Of course, new body means a second chance at being able to–”

Henry stops when he sees Parr’s shoulders shake a little. She’s… laughing?

That’s why she was looking down. When she did look up, one saw her smile shining on like a light. Safe to say, Catherine Parr was about to tear someone apart. “You’ve still got quite a loud mouth for an old man. Tell me, did you ever finally learn to take care of yourself, you bobolyne? Thinking you have any right to talk to the mother of not only your damned son, but also the woman who was loyal to you for twenty four years?! And even better, the one you so graciously called your sister after your marriage? You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”

Jane felt a little insulted that she had to take a jab at Edward, but had the feeling it was necessary considering the situation. Hopefully Parr would apologize for it later on.

“Okay, okay… fair. Not bad, Parr. But why do those two get to wear shiny chokers while the rest of you have crowns? Does it further emphasize my point that Anne Boleyn’s just a hell of a tempting woman and that Katherine Howard–”

The smile from Parr’s face faded. The anger was present and everyone was mortified to see someone so quiet speaking up like she was. With vitriol in her voice, Catherine Parr officially lost her temper.

“You KNOW exactly what the fuck happened, Henry.”

Aragon felt herself go to cover Katherine’s ears as her goddaughter began to lose her composure. “You KNOW why they have to wear those. You know damn well the crimes you fucking committed against them both, especially Katherine! She was a child, Henry! A fucking child who got manipulated and used! I want to hear nothing from your mouth, you snoutband! You have nothing to defend yourself with!”

Wiping a tear or two away, Jane Seymour began to lean into Anna of Cleves for some form of comfort. Even the German was surprised to be hearing the resentment coming out of such a powerful and rather cool-tempered woman. Just as Henry went to open his mouth, he stopped.

“Oh no, no sir! You have no right to talk here! Anne Boleyn lost her head over what, your delusions that she was out and about with men when you were just going around like you weren’t married? And because of that, she has to struggle to change her name? Are you actually insane or some shit?” The northern accent Parr had was thick. She was angry, and her voice said it for her if her facial expression did not. “Jane Seymour never got to hold Edward because you took him straight away for his christening. And she had to sit there, alone, in bed! Suffering through illness until she died without saying goodbye to her baby boy!”

Boleyn goes pale. Where did this anger even come from? She had no idea, but Parr was scaring her.

“My damn godmother was near a saint with all of the bullshit she had to put up with! Twenty four fucking years, and it wasn’t Anne who ruined the marriage. It was YOU. Aragon did some insanely remarkable things despite how you treated her! And Cleves! You just decide to take Cleves and humiliate her because she wasn’t beautiful enough for you? You’re an absolute wandought, Henry! You brought a Spanish lady and a German lady out of their comfort zones all because you didn’t know how to use your damn brain!”

At this point, Aragon had managed to sneak off into the dressing room, with Cleves now being the one to hold Howard. Boleyn was now hugging Seymour, actually terrified of not just Henry, but Parr.

Henry began to go pale. He was not going to recover from this.

“Who am I missing… let’s see, Katherine Howard? No, I got her. Anne Boleyn? Also got her. Jane Seymour? Check. Anna of Cleves? Check. Catherine of Aragon? Oh, yeah, her too. Would you look at that… I’m the only one left. Surprise surprise, the fucking survivor surviving again and this time, she gets to give it to you the exact way she wants to.”

“Cathy–”

“Shut up you lot. My turn to finally talk.”

A flinch from the group. Aragon had to take glances in and out of the dressing room.

“Oh wow, Catherine Parr. The survivor. The one who draws lines in arbitrary places, blah blah! She had two other husbands, what good could have she done being a Tudor queen? I DIDN’T TAKE ANY OF YOUR BULLSHIT IS WHAT I DID. Those books that everyone rumoured a woman was writing? Surprise, you tallowcatch! It was me! I’m the famed author of Tudor history. And I published under my own name once your pitiful body finally died. That can’t be that bad, Cathy. What a sad excuse for a sob story, right?”

Katherine Howard began to tremble more than she already was in Anna of Cleves’ arms. Catherine Parr made herself stand face to face with Henry.

“Ah, right, because she survived she deserves the backing vocals. WELL GUESS WHAT, HENRY? I’M HERE TO STAY. I HAD TO GIVE UP MY LIFE, MY LOVE, AND WHATEVER ELSE I WAS DOING TO TAKE CARE OF YOUR SORRY ASS. You might have forced these women into submission but no, I am not going to submit to some sad old man. You took away their rights, you took away their children… and poor Katherine…” A laugh. “You took poor Katherine’s childhood. You turned her into a disgraced whore. She is not and will never be one. She is a victim of your bullshit.”

“Catherine, my love–”

“No excuses now, Henry. I’m through. Your love ran cold years ago. And call me love one more damn time. See what happens.”

“My love–”

The weight of the sleeves helped Parr send her fist flying into his face. He stumbled back, feeling a warm sensation drip from his nose. Blood. He… was bleeding? “You actually got the nerve to punch an English King? You’re a mad woman, Parr. I’ll have you thrown on that scaffold just how–” A second punch, and this time, there was an audible crack of sorts.

“You wear a crown, but you’re no king. You’re a disgrace to human life, Henry. And this is for all of the women you hurt, manipulated, abused… and killed,” a lunge forward. The third strike was to his jaw, and the fourth was a solid kick to the chest with her heel being the first thing to make impact. Henry, having been taken by surprise from every hit, stumbled right back into a pair of men. Shaking her fist off, some of the blood ended up getting on the floor, and part of it remained on her hands.

“I’ll be back, Catherine! Mark my damn words! Let go of me, you imbeciles!”

“Like hell you’ll be back!”

And just as she took a step forward, Aragon went to hold on to one of her arms. “Someone help me hold her back!” Aragon needed the help. Parr was under such a fit of rage she was dragging her godmother across the hallway. Seymour had to let go of Boleyn to try and hold on to Parr’s other arm. She slowed down, but still had enough adrenaline surging through her to keep going. Cleves just gave Howard a gentle kiss on the cheek before running over to help the other two ladies. No arms? No problem. She just held on to one of Parr’s legs.

Boleyn pulled her cousin into a tight hug, feeling a shaky exhale leave her body. “Kitty? Kitty, are you okay?” Just a nod. Howard was terrified to open her mouth after seeing the ungodly wrath unfold before her eyes. “I-Is… she mad at us, Annie?” Quiet and almost inaudible. The poor girl was terrified to even talk out of fear that Parr was not just angry at Henry, but at them too.

“Catherine Parr, what in God’s name has gotten into you?” Aragon furrows her eyebrows. “This is not you. What is going on? Talk to me, please.”

Anne reaches to take Kit’s hand. “She’s… upset. Not at us, I promise.” Anne had to admit, all of the ferocity coming from Parr scared her a little bit. The yelling reminded her a little of when Henry first stormed in and accused her. Of course, she would set it aside, but it was scary in the moment. She looks in Kit’s eyes, which are now full of tears, sighing and pulling her into another tight hug and rubbing her back. “It’s okay, babes… He’s gonna go away and we will be okay, I promise. The girls aren’t gonna let him get to us.” Kit just buries her face into Anne’s shoulder and lets out the remainder of what she wouldn’t let out in front of Henry. Thank goodness the men had taken him into another room until the police arrived.

Anne pulls out of the hug for a moment and then walks Kit outside. “You look absolutely knackered, love… maybe we should head home as soon as all of this is over. Do you wanna change into something else? C’mon.” They both decide to change, but do so in the staff bathroom rather than in the dressing room. On the off chance Henry was able to see into the dressing room, they didn’t want him to see anything. Anne also thought a door with a lock was the safest.

Once they finish hanging up their costumes, the two settle into the couch, and just hold each other. Anne hums a little of La Vie en Rose, and quickly, Kit falls asleep. Anne doesn’t mind. They were all done with the day, it had already put them through the ringer.

There’s an apparent veil of exhaustion amongst all of the women, except Parr.

Sure, Henry had been apprehended at this point and he was stuck with his hands cuffed behind his back, but that didn’t stop him from being inches away from Parr’s face with a very devious smile. “I’ll be back, Catherine. And you six will have to deal with me all over again. Especially Kat–”

“Like hell you are!”

Catherine Parr broke her left arm free from Catherine of Aragon’s grip, and her right arm from Jane Seymour’s. The right hand took a vice-like grip on his shirt collar before her left fist came swinging at full power, and thensome since the weight of the costume added force. That impact had a very, very nasty sound to it. Even Cleves flinched at it, soon seeing the blond man fall straight to the floor with a bloody face. “Get anywhere near us and I will have you laying your head on a prison bench just how you made poor Katherine and Anne lay down as you murdered them!”

The officers picked up the unconscious Henry, and kindly thanked Jane, Anna, and Aragon for their cooperation. Parr however, got a warning, but that was about it.

Giving it a moment, knowing they would be out of earshot at this point, Parr releases a rather annoyed grumble. “He’ll fucking pay for his crimes against all of you. I swear on my life he will rot in a prison cell for what he did. If he thinks he can just show up out of nowhere and come back here to take us for fools, he’s wrong,” she almost hissed at the end. The thickness of her accent was making Aragon concerned, since to see someone as rational as her goddaughter be in such a state was a rare experience. Cleves and Seymour both looked up with mortified faces. Ever seen revenge personified as human? No? Now you have.

And her name was Catherine Parr.

“What in heaven was that?” Maggie asks, getting up and peeking out into the hallway. A small laugh. The thud was actually loud enough to wake the cousins, and they both get up, confused a little, and sleepily walk to join her at the door frame. Anne rubs her eyes and yawns, looking at Henry, now being pulled up by two police men.

She glances to Parr, and then to Henry, and upon sight of Parr’s hands, she lets out a small, startled gasp. His blood was actually on her knuckles. Probably mixed with her own, if her knuckles had bust. Kit has a similar reaction, coupled with hiding behind Anne at the sight of the wicked man. “Cathy… let me help you get cleaned up. Mags, can you grab the first aid kit out of my backpack?”

“Let’s just go home, first.” Parr says, a little cold, while watching an officer take Henry away. She wanted to watch up until he was inside of the car, so she could ensure he was going away for good. The other officer asks her a few questions about the situation, and she tells him everything that happened, down to the fact that they would be filing a restraining order, and that Henry was not allowed to see their show again.

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The six women had gone home after waiting… maybe an extra ten minutes after Parr finished talking to the police officer. The car was dead silent on the ride back to the house, too.

“I’m actually mad about the fact that he’s actually attractive now,” Boleyn rolls her eyes as she walks in after Seymour. “I’m kidding, obvs. But how is he alive? We’ve been free for… who knows how long now and he comes back? What did he want, anyways?” Seymour turned to face Boleyn, giving the brunette a gentle pat on the head. “It sounded like revenge, but I think Cathy has the actual answer to that. We can talk to her when she’s a lot calmer, though… she’s very…”

“Upset, angry… name it, I am probably feeling it.”

“We all are, love…” Anne goes to her, gently taking her hands, looking at them carefully. One’s very busted up, and the blood has now dried and solidified. “Let me clean you up, c’mon.” She motions to the kitchen, and the two head in there, Parr sitting on the counter while Anne gets the first aid kit out. “I’m not ashamed of what I did today.” Parr stares at the floor, expecting some sort of lecture or argument to happen, but it doesn’t.

“You protected me. That’s all I could ever want.” Anne kisses her quickly on the cheek before pouring some hydrogen peroxide on a gauze cloth. Before she starts to press it to Cathy’s knuckles, she looks the girl straight in the eyes. “Don’t be mad for how much this is going to hurt, please.”

While those two work on that, the other girls drop their bags next to the door and slump into the chairs around the kitchen table, an apparent awkwardness in the air. Jane is the first to speak, and it’s absolutely filled with regret and apology. “Ladies, I am so sorry I lost my cool today. I shouldn’t have gotten so ‘up in arms.’ He just… I never…” She’s tearing up a little, and Kit offers a hand for her to squeeze as she tries to work through her words. She takes a deep breath, brushing some of her blonde hair out of her face.

“I never got to tell him all of that. All of the resentment.”

Cathy grumbles from the counter, agreeing with her statement. “He sure got a taste of all of my resentment.” Her cheeks were reddening, and Anne doesn’t know what else to do past wrapping the girl’s knuckles, so she lays a kiss on them, hoping that will calm her down. “Shhh… no need to get worked up over that toff, not again.” Her hand goes to hold Parr’s face. “Let’s be happy, okay?”

“Jane, we all had every right to react the way we did. Even Cathy had a right to bash his ugly face in.” Kit nods reassuringly, and the other queens mumble words of agreement, Anne and Parr silently making their way over to the table. Something about Parr’s energy was off, but the queens wouldn’t question it for the time being. They were all rattled, it didn’t take much to see it.

“I just feel that as the mother of the group, I reacted rather rashly. I think–” She has to hold back some tears. “I think I should’ve composed myself.” This ends with the ladies all essentially tackling Jane with a group hug, even Parr, though not really seeming to want to participate. It was getting late, anyways, and it was almost time for her to begin her nightly writing. It would help.

Anne clears her throat. “I think you did perfectly, Jane. He’s an absolute tosser for thinking he could face all six of us at once.” Kit laughs in agreement, and the two head upstairs. Parr quickly dismisses herself, Aragon trailing quickly behind after giving Jane a tight hug.

Cleves takes Jane’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Gute Nacht, Jane. Versuche nicht zu viel darüber nachzudenken.” Jane sighs. “Still don’t speak German, love.”

“Try not to think too much about it.”

“Catherine,” Aragon knocks on the open door, furrowing her eyebrows. “Mija, what got into you today? That isn’t you. Where… where did you even go?” A sharp look from the sixth wife to the first, before it softened up. It eventually became more of a look of shame as Parr’s eyes went to the bandaged hand. She really did do a number on herself, but that blond haired Tudor nightmare deserved it. She wasn’t wrong, was she? Or, had her morality become such an ambiguous grey area that maybe it was wrong for her to have sucker punched the man who beheaded Katherine Howard so unfairly.

The shameful eyes look up, seeing Aragon’s concern despite the slight scowl. “I’m sorry, Lina. I… no se. Yo lo vi y... Me congelé. Es como si todo el sentido racional dejara mi cuerpo y me quedara con impulso. Lo juro, no... siempre así. Tu lo sabes! Aunque asusté a todos, no?” The hurt in her voice was evident. Parr knew she became the morally ambiguous of the group, which was normally not the good thing. Aragon’s expression lightened up just a little as she approached her goddaughter, and pulled her into a side hug. “Sucede, amor. Pero no te enfades tanto con alguien tan horrible. Seguimos amándote, y siempre nos preocuparemos por ti. Ninguna de nosotras te tiene miedo, y eso te lo prometo.”

Those last words gave Catherine Parr just a little bit of hope. Catherine of Aragon gave one last hug to the woman before heading on out the door, but not without “Don’t stay up late.” being the last thing she said to the sixth wife.

Kit and Anne stand in the hallway, chatting before going to their rooms, which were across from each other. “Lock your window, Annie, please.” It’s evident that Kit is still very worried about Henry figuring out where they live or figuring out how to get in. Anne nods, despite the fact that they lived on the second floor.. “Of course.” The girls hug and in a matter of seconds, they are both behind their respective closed doors.

Kit leans against the door for a moment after closing it, but not locking it, and a few silent tears fall before she starts to change into her pajamas. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” She mumbles to herself, turning on her string lights and turning off the main light of the room. She debates what kind of music to listen to, mulling over it for a few minutes before turning on some classical. It was different, but it would work.

Anne, on the other hand, immediately goes to lock her window and pull the shades closed, which was slightly saddening because she did enjoy looking at the night sky before she fell asleep. She sits on the edge of her bed for a moment, deep in thought about Cathy. She had to admit, the girl she saw today was one she had never seen before, and one she was pretty afraid of seeing again. That fire, while endearing… shook Anne a little. She has to force herself to shake off the thought that anger immediately translates to a person being anything remotely similar to Henry.

“Right, then… bed it is.” Anne shuts off her lights and lays down, picturing that starry sky in her own mind. It would do.

Jane settles in with the current book she was reading, a copy of Pride and Prejudice. A story of true love, one could say, and the text was actually helping to calm the blonde down about the events of the day. Aragon peeks in for a moment, and Jane gives her a soft smile, an unspoken agreement that they would be okay.

Though it seemed as if everyone was settling down, Catherine Parr had a storm bigger than a hurricane brewing inside.

––––––––––

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Catherine Parr let that be the only sound to fill the silence. Normally, it would be music or something, but not tonight.

The calligraphy pen in her hands danced around her fingers, barely having touched the pages of the open notebook. Her vision was still blurred, much to her own surprise. Wrath was a powerful thing, and to have something take over the body for an amount of time would lead to consequences later in the night. In her case, it was a very horrid case of insomnia. While she dealt with insomnia most nights, she had the slightest feeling this was not the typical time to go to bed at 2 in the morning case. The pen began to slow down in her hand, and she held it still for the first time that whole night.

“It’s not the first time you write about how you feel, Cathy. It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine.”

It was not fine.

No matter how many times she told herself it would be fine, she could never believe it. Catherine Parr saw her hand shake, just the slightest, every time she wrote. Every memory from the last few hours was hazy, but simultaneously at the forefront of her mind. The usually clean lines of her penmanship were just the bit off from the feelings. Word after word, the anger began to flow onto the pages like water flowing down a river’s stream. So shaky, and so violent were the movements of Parr’s wrist. In comparison to the surprisingly smooth transition from thought to thought, her actions made her look a little crazed. One could even say she looked oddly desperate to finish writing.

Almost as if she was running out of time.

She was a writer in her past life. An author, really. The woman wrote books, psalms, meditations… name it, she probably has a manuscript of it somewhere. But this? This was not her. This frantic drive to write and write until the pages could take no more and the ink began to go through them was not Catherine Parr. In a way, it was almost symbolic. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

There it was again. The ticking of the clock.

Time was no longer a relevant thing for Parr. She just let the time go on.

Last she could remember, it was midnight. But nay, the clock spoke otherwise. A glance at it revealed it to be four in the morning. Her hand and wrist were cramped up, and the tears that she felt falling were drying on her face. The pages had become full of nonsensical phrases, mostly a result of the anger still in her system. But that anger began to fade from anger into a depression.

Why couldn’t she be stronger?

Why didn’t she do enough at the moment?

The pain finally struck her heart. Silence began to be her worst enemy, and something she thought she’d never do is what she did. Parr slams her hands on the desk, crying out, almost as if it were a scream or cry for help. The scream was enough to wake up Catherine of Aragon in an instant. A second and third one woke Jane Seymour and Anna of Cleves up. The fourth one got to Anne Boleyn. In a worried hurry, Aragon got out of bed and ran down the stairs to get to the door before almost ramming it down with her own body.

“Cathy? Mija, what’s the–… Cathy?”

What she saw was a torn woman in front of her. Her bandaged hand had a little blood seeping through the ends. Some of the curls were sticking to her face, and her eyes were all puffy and red. Aragon gently pulled Parr up and into a tight embrace. “Escúchame. Todo está bien, Cathy. Estamos en la casa.” Normally, Aragon had a commanding nature that gave off the feeling of someone being safeguarded behind a wall, but this was one of those moments she was willing to let her wall down. Parr’s grip tightened, with the tears coming back and rushing in like an ocean’s grey waves.

Catherine learned just a smidge of Spanish for her godmother. Enough to get by with a conversation or two, but she was not fluent in any way. “Duele, Lina,” a sniffle. “Todo esto duele y no hice lo suficiente para ayudar.” And there was something about her goddaughter using Spanish in such a defeated manner that made Aragon crack a little on the inside. Her own eyes were welling up with tears as she looked to the door.

Seymour, Cleves, and Boleyn.

All three of them with wide eyes and fairly concerned expressions. But it was Anne who saw the tears forming in Aragon’s eyes and threatening to spill. The two lock eyes and it takes everything in Anne to not crack too. She gives Aragon a look that says, ‘Let me try.’ Lina nods and gives Cathy’s hand a small squeeze, and Anne goes and kneels on the floor in front of her.

The other three stand in the hallway, knowing it was probably best to give the two a moment. “Did that not wake Kitty?” Cleves pauses, and then points in the general direction of Howard’s room, loud classical music streaming through her closed door.

Anne takes Parr’s hands. “Cathy, please talk to me… please, love.” It takes Parr a moment to look into Boleyn’s eyes, which are also filled with tears at this point. “It kills me to see you hurting.” A hand goes to wipe some tears from Parr’s cheeks. It lingers there, cupping her cheek, Anne’s thumb reflexively going back and forth to wipe more tears as they fall.

“It kills me to see you hurting.” Her statement is coupled with a small voice crack, and not one that you would usually find endearing. This was out of pure sadness and anger. She sighs. “I should’ve done more.” She looks at the floor, past Boleyn, though her head is now resting on the girl’s hand.

“He’s the one that deserves to be on a scaffold!” She starts to sob again, leaning forward, and Anne catches her, in a sense. Shaking with anger, she lets it out, nearly soaking Anne’s shirt in a matter of seconds. “He deserves to die! Why is he here?” Her breathing becomes slightly erratic, heaving breaths joining in with shallow sobs.

The three in the hallway silently elect to let the two work through it. It really seemed as if Anne was the only one who was going to be able to get her to calm down, even if only a fraction. Aragon lingers for a moment, and then decides finally to go back to her room, leaving the door open in case anyone needed anything. Jane does the same, but reads for a few minutes before going back to sleep.

Anne isn’t sure what to do, so she stands both of them up, having to support Parr a little, and just holds her, swaying back and forth slowly. “Shh… babe… he doesn’t deserve your tears…” Anne, you preach this, yet you’re a mess too. Albeit, a mess because Cathy is crying, but a mess nonetheless. “He… he’s getting his karma. He has to watch us thrive. And he can’t do a damned thing to us. We’re untouchable.” She was also telling herself this.

Parr nods quietly, latching on to Anne even more, as if letting her go would mean she’d disappear into thin air. Though she hadn’t actually said it, she knew she loved Anne. More than anything, and if punching Henry in the face was what she had to do to protect her, she’d do it every day for the rest of her life.

“Can I sleep in your room tonight?” She speaks softly, voice scratchy as a result of the outburst. It was nearing five o’clock at this point, but it didn’t matter. With no hesitation, Anne replies with a simple “Of course,” pulling away slightly to look Parr in the eyes. Those tired, red eyes, still wet with tears formed over a man who didn’t matter one bit. Not in this moment, he didn’t.

The two make their way to Boleyn’s room, a twin bed being the only place for them, but it would be plenty of space. Anne lays down first, patting the small space next to her for Parr to join. It’s almost as if they’re out as soon as they cover up.

Kit sleeps through all of this. Perhaps it’s the music blaring from her speakers, or the exhaustion from the events of the day, but it’s the first night the girl doesn’t wake up screaming. The other queens are really surprised to see her downstairs in the morning, looking well rested and pouring herself a cup of tea, seemingly fine. “G’morning.” She yawns, and the others just kind of look at each other as if reality has shifted. “Where are Cathy and Annie?”

“In bed, still.”

“Ja.”

“I should check on them.” Kit says, setting her tea down. Cleves joins her, cringing a little when Kit knocks awfully loudly on the door and pushes it open. “Halt die Klappe, Kit…” Kit turns and looks at her, a puzzled look on her face. Cleves rolls her eyes jokingly, and then whispers again. “You’re too loud.”

The sight upon opening the door is a combination of comedic and sweet. Parr is absolutely sprawled out on top of Anne, snoring loudly and taking up most of the bed. One of her hands is on Anne’s cheek, as if she had fallen asleep holding the girl’s face. Anne is awake, quietly scrolling through TikTok with headphones in. She looks at the two in the doorframe and smiles, looking down at Parr. ‘We’re okay.’ She mouths, and Jane and Aragon peek in, a small laugh coming from the Spanish queen. It warmed her heart to see the two all bundled up and Parr seemingly at peace, even if only for a moment.

Parr makes a small noise and shifts, essentially pulling Anne closer and wrapping a leg around her. The ladies all smile, electing to leave the two alone. It was evident that everything would be okay, at least for now. Anne kisses Cathy on the forehead, letting out a happy sigh. Parr subconsciously replies with a small snore, and the two stay there, safe in each other's arms, for most of the day.

A couple hours seem to pass and it’s about… noon, when Parr starts stirring. Anne notices this, and begins to smile. At least she was waking up. However, things were not going to go to plan, because in comparison to Anne, Catherine was a whole lot taller, and took up just a bit more space. Thinking for a moment she was still in her room, Parr went to try and roll to the other side of the bed, but immediately woke up at not having anything underneath her. A loud enough thudding noise got everyone’s attention.

The other four queens almost immediately ran to the doorframe, and Anne was sitting up.

In typical Boleyn fashion, she was laughing.

Parr on the other hand, was not very happy. “Ow…” Looking up, she just sees the green queen essentially laying back down because of the laughter, and a glance to the doorway reveals four others holding back laughter. “Oh haha, funny that Cathy Parr fell off a bed now is it?”

Through the laughter, Boleyn responds.

“It’s marvelous, love!”

#tw: blood #tw: violence #six #six musical #catherine parr #catherine of aragon #catalina de aragon #anna of cleves #anne boleyn #katherine howard #kitty howard #The Beheaded Cousins Write #sixfic #six fanfiction #parrlyn #aramour

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imaginepirates · 4 years

Text

Quiet Moments

For @groovyenby. The reader comes out to Elizabeth as being non-binary during a quiet moment together in her cabin. Again, if my portrayal of the nb community is off, please tell me. Otherwise, enjoy some fluff!

@emdrabbles @tesserphantom @paljonkaikenlaista @viper-official

~2500 words (sorry it’s kinda short)

~~~~~~~

The ship rocked back and forth, gently swaying in the waves. Elizabeth had named it the Swann, both after herself and for her family. She’d left them far behind, though, and you knew the thought hurt her. If only they could see her now, you thought. You had always wondered what she’d been like, back when she was a lady of society. You pictured her in billowing dresses, the very picture of grace. Here, aboard her ship, captaining her crew, she was a force to be reckoned with. People respected her; she was tough, and she knew her way around a ship. But she was soft, too. You knew better than anyone.

You had met her during the convening of the Brethren Court, as she stalked in with her new crew. There was something about her confidence, despite being so new to the life of the pirate lords. She hadn’t had her crew a week when she was elected Pirate King. You had stood silent in the uproar, watching this stranger with an awed curiosity. Who is this woman? You’d asked yourself.

You took it upon yourself to find out. You spent days just observing her when you were in the same room. You noticed, beneath her confidence and swagger, a certain tiredness. She looked a little worn.

You were fast friends; you started a conversation with her in the dining hall, and she seemed thankful for someone to talk to. The dining hall was the deck of a massive ship, a well-lit room enclosed by a ship on top of it whose hull had been carved out. From then on, you took your meals together.

Now, you met whenever time permitted. Fighting the East India Company would be hard, especially because they were backed by the British fleet. You and Elizabeth both had ships and crews to tend to. You were the captain of another ship, and you would sail beside Elizabeth into battle.

There were moments, though, when you could forget the impending attack. These quiet moments kept you sane in uncertain times.

You met where you wouldn’t be disturbed; in your cabins, or in empty rooms of the Cove. Today, you were in her cabin. Her ship was outside the safety of Shipwreck Cove, ready to set sail in the coming days. Your ship was there, too. From one of the portholes in the cabin, you could overlook the sea. Its waves rolled gently against the ship, rocking the deck under your feet.

Elizabeth was lying on her bed, rolled on her side with her head propped up by a hand. She patted the blankets next to her, motioning for you to join her. You slid off your boots, gladly laying next to her. The two of you did this- laying together and talking- a better way to spend your time than the rest of your company, who drank and gambled away the hours.

“We’re getting closer to the fight.” Elizabeth pushed a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. “The crew is growing restless.”

“As is mine.” Each man was itching for action. You couldn’t deny that you wanted it, too. You wanted the fight to be over and done with, won or lost. Waiting was torture.

“Are you afraid?”

“Not particularly.” You’d lived through half a hundred battles and skirmishes. You always expected each would be your last. “If I die, I die a pirate. If I’m captured, I’ll be hung as a pirate. If I live, I live as a pirate. I’ll be a free man, no matter what.”

“Are you afraid to die?”

“Are you?”

She sniffed. “No. Death isn’t so bad. I’ll see a lot of people again.”

She’d told you about all of them. Her mother, her father, her friend James. She would know people, if she died. So would you. Captains, crew-mates, family, friends. It was part of the comfort.

“I’d rather live, of course. I still want to watch the sun rise over the waves, feel the deck of my ship under me.” You stretched. The lock of hair had fallen back into Elizabeth’s face, and you tucked it away. “Let’s not talk about such dismal things. I come to you to escape the thought of dying.”

“What would you rather speak of?”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Something about yourself.”

“Oh dear.” She sat up, pushing her hair behind her. She wore loose clothing, not the armor Sao Feng had given her.

“I’ll braid it,” you offered, taking a lock of hair in hand. She turned and let you, humming her approval at the feeling of your fingers in her hair.

“There are many things you don’t know about me, particularly about younger me. Back when I was a part of so-ci-e-tay,” she enunciated each syllable , “I was quite the menace.”

“Oh, I could imagine.” You could. You pictured her running barefoot through the gardens of her home, turning her feet green with grass.

“I used to do all sorts of things. I was a terror on my poor governess, I’m afraid. The woman couldn’t quite tame me.”

Thank god for that. If she had, you would never have met the radiant girl with her brilliant smiles and confident speech. What a wonder this girl is. We were captains born from nothing. She is a captain born from luxury. And yet she’s no different from us.

She continued on. “I had a friend, William. I visited him when I could, though it wasn’t a common thing. He was a blacksmith’s apprentice, and I wasn’t to be seen with him. Just the thought of him maid my governess shudder. She told me I shouldn’t be friends with such a filthy boy, a lowborn boy. It made me sad. Not that I ever listened to her.”

“One day, I snuck out of the house, and I made it all the way to the blacksmith’s without being caught. He was too drunk to do anything but sleep, and he slept in a stool across the room, so he didn’t notice me come in. Will worked away, but he saw me. He asked what I was doing there, and where my governess was, and I told him I’d come to see him alone. That was very scandalous, of course, and it seemed to be a bit much for poor Will, but we went up to his room anyways and talked for quite a long time.”

“We climbed out onto the roof for a better view of the harbor. Captain Norrington had taught me quite a lot about ships, and I wanted to show Will what I knew. By the time I was done, the blacksmith had woken, and he was looking for Will. Not finding Will inside, he stepped out under the roof. Well, I just couldn’t help myself. The man was so awful, and though Will told me not to, I poured water on the man’s head. He never knew who did it, either. Even Will couldn’t help but smile.”

“And what happened to poor Will after that?”

“He helped me slip out the back door before anyone could find me. He got back to work, and the blacksmith thought Will was using the bathroom.”

“That was lucky for both of you.” More like Will got a beating and never told you.

“By the time I got home, the house was in an uproar.” Elizabeth laughed. “My governess had actually fainted. Can you believe that?”

“Was that common for governesses?”

“I’ll never know. I only had the one. We brought her with us from England.”

You finished with Elizabeth’s hair, admiring the golden locks. She patted it with a hand. It was a loose braid, but it served.

“I didn’t know pirates could braid hair,” she teased.

You smiled. “Even Jack Sparrow can braid hair.”

“He can?” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I’d trust him with my hair. Have you seen his? And his hands are dirty.”

You laughed in earnest. “Would you trust Jack to do anything?”

“Would you?”

You planted a soft kiss to her temple, pulling her in close to cuddle with you. You rested your foreheads together, arms draped over each others’ backs. It had been like this for the last few days; your relationship had grown from friendship to something more like love. It was a soft love, quiet and reserved. Calm in dark times.

The ship rocked gently under you, lulling you into a state of sluggishness. You could have fallen asleep right then and there, curled up next to her. You would have, too, if you weren’t so intent on spending as much time with her as possible before the battle. You wanted memories of her, just in case.

You lay in silence for a long time, just staring at each other, running your fingers through the other’s hair and tracing patterns in their arms. She ran a finger across your face; it traced your cheekbones, ran over the bridge of your nose, and ended by lightly dancing across your lips. You kept her hand there, pressing feather-light kisses to each of her fingertips before kissing her palm.

She sighed. “I wish I knew if Will was safe,” she said. “He’s the only thing from home I have left.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She took a deep breath, turning to look up at a candle hanging from the wall. It was evening, and the light in the cabin grew dimmer. “It’s your turn. To tell me something I don’t know.”

“Deal.” It was only fair.

The problem was, you weren’t sure if you were ready to tell her what you intended to say. It was a better time than ever to do so, but the thought scared you. Elizabeth would no doubt understand you, but you were afraid she’d be uncomfortable or get the wrong idea.

“Elizabeth,” you began, “how do you know that you’re a woman?” The confusion was evident on her face, but she responded anyway. “Well, I have all the girly parts, don’t I? Besides, I feel like a girl.”

“And what makes you feel like a girl?”

She opened her mouth as if to respond, then shut it again. “I don’t know. I just feel it.”

“Do you suppose it’s the same for boys?”

“I should assume so.”

“What if you didn’t feel like a girl. What then?”

“I suppose I’d dress in men’s clothes and go around as I wished. Nobody says that you can’t dress or act how you feel comfortable. Nobody here, anyway.”

“And what if,” you wiggled into a more comfortable position, “you didn’t feel like either? What if you weren’t a man or a woman?”

Elizabeth furrowed her brows. “I don’t know. I didn’t know you could do that. I guess I’d just do what I wanted to. Not that I don’t already.”

You had to smile. “That’s how I feel. I’m not a man or a woman, and you’re right; I do what I want.”

“Oh!” She perked up. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, it’s not that different to you and how you feel like a woman, I’d guess. I don’t feel like either, and that’s just another part of me. It’s not something that I made a decision on, it’s just how I feel.”

“Is it strange?” She asked. “I mean, you must not know too many people like yourself, if you know any. Is that hard for you?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “I definitely feel different from others. I know a few people like myself, but not enough.”

“I can imagine.” She twined her fingers through yours. “I’m glad you told me. I like to know these things, especially about you. I want you to trust me with things like this.”

“I’m glad I can tell you, too. I haven’t told many people, and though some may assume, there are still a lot of people who don’t know. It feels good to share it with someone.”

Elizabeth smiled. “What are you going to do when this is all over?”

“What I’ve always done, I guess. And you?”

“I want my own crew. And I want to sail the world over, but I think I’m going to be lonely. I wonder, sometimes, if we could do this again.”

“I hope so.” An idea struck you. “We should get a small house somewhere. We could agree to meet up at certain times. We’ll have the whole house to ourselves.” Your brain filled with images of romantic houses. Somewhere with a view of the ocean, but with a garden full of bright flowers and moss covering the roof. Somewhere small, but comfortable. Homey.

“In France. We could buy an entire chateau with all the money we’ll have. We can fill it with exotic animals and stolen art. Jewels from all corners of the world will hang on the walls. We’ll have so many, we won’t have enough room for them all.”

It was one of your favorite things about Elizabeth. She created entire worlds in her head; completely implausible, unrealistic worlds, but they were still worlds. They were entertaining, if anything, and you appreciated her creativity.

“We’ll have a thousand servants, one for each of our thousand rooms. The cooks will fill the kitchen floor to ceiling with delicious food,” Elizabeth continued. “Can you imagine?”

You laughed. “I can see it now. Though I’m not sure that even today’s aristocracy enjoys such luxury.”

“No, I’m afraid not. Even as the Governor’s daughter, our house only had nine hundred rooms.” She winked at you.

You kissed the hand that held yours. The two of you lay in amiable silence, tracing over each other with your fingers, kissing each other lightly on exposed patches of skin. A gentle push on your shoulder urged you to roll onto your back, only for Elizabeth to roll on top of you. She pressed a kiss to your lips, stroking your hair with her fingers.

“I still want this, after the battle is over,” she mumbled against your lips. “I’m still going to want you.”

“I’ll want you too.” It was no lie. You and Elizabeth got along well; your relationship was calm and functional, and you communicated well. It was the sort of thing you wanted to see last. Your mind wandered to the upcoming fight, but you didn’t dare express your concern. What if one of you didn’t make it?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Elizabeth whispered. “If something bad happens to one of us, what then?”

“You know me too well.”

“I know that you worry.” She closed your eyes with a gentle touch of her fingertips. She kissed both of your eyelids, barely touching them. “Then I hope whoever lives lives well, and whoever dies will greet the other when they meet again.” She backed away, laying down to rest her hands on your chest. You wrapped your arms around her in response, holding her to you. “For now,” she said, “let’s live.”

#potc #pirate #pirates #pirates of the caribbean #elizabeth swann #elizabeth #elizabeth x reader #request #requests #writings #writing #drabbles #drabble #x reader

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thebibliomancer · 4 years

Text

Essential Avengers: Avengers #209: The Resurrection Stone

July, 1981

“The Resurrection Stone: will it save the universe -- or destroy it?”

Well, the universe hasn’t been destroyed, at least circa the comics I read this morning. But it hasn’t really been saved either.

Still, pretty intriguing tagline. Pretty intriguing cover.

And written by J.M. DeMatteis. One of the Kraven’s Last Hunt guys. He doesn’t seem to do a lot of Avengers.

Let’s see how he do Earth’s Mightiest Team of Specifically This Four On the Cover.

We start with some silent intriguing intrigue as an alien ship crashes into Nevada and an alien crawls from the alien wreckage. Instead of distributing rings to people, he gets shot by a green guy who likes purple. I sure can’t think of several people that this applies to.

The shooter checks some possibly alien PDA but then beams up as the ship explodes.

How baffling.

Ok, J.M. DeMatteis. You have my interest.

So we start chapter one-

Chapter one? What is it with fill-ins and putting chapters in Avengers books. That three dooms one from a while back also did this.

Anyway, chapter one of this normal length Avengers adventure: “Love... and Death!”

So on specifically April 10th, 1981 2:17 PM (a fact which we must firmly ignore in these sliding timescale days), Beast has brought an old flame to Avengers Mansion to meet Wonder Man, Vision, and Scarlet Witch.

Presumably all of the other Avengers couldn’t make it. Or Beast didn’t want them meeting Vera.

Oh, and she’s not a new old flame.

Vera Cantor goes back to X-Men #19 in 1966. She knew him before he blue it! And she was the one who got away because mutant biz kept getting in the way.

But they had a chance meeting in a Soho bar and they’re giving it another shot!

I guess Beast is finally settling down from his wild party dating multiple women at a time days.

And y’know what? He and Vera are cute together.

Beast is exuberantly in love with her. He’s apparently been talking about nothing else for weeks.

Scarlet Witch: “Vision -- just look at the Beast’s eyes -- I’ve never seen them sparkle so. He must be in love.”

Beast is so excited he’s bouncing on the couch and jumping all over the place and bumping into Jarvis. Knocking the tea tray out of the butler’s hands.

Beast, pls. Reign in.

He does manage to catch the tray in his feet though. No spilling.

Its a bit weird that Jarvis is here to be bumped into. He’s supposed to have one of his days off to visit his mom and get some of that “near-mythical Yorkshire pudding.”

But he brushes off the question with concern over the bad impression all of this is giving the guest.

Vera doesn’t mind though. She’s used to his obstreperous (“noisy and difficult to control”) nature and finds how energetic he is to be part of why he’s so cute.

The blue fuzz surely does not hurt!

Oh. And then Vera takes a sip of the tea Jarvis brought and immediately keels over dead.

The butler did it??

Jarvis. You made it too strong!

No, no. Surely not. Jarvis would never make such an error or miss out on Yorkshire pudding.

“Jarvis” is actually... A SKRULL!

Beast wastes no time slamming the Skrull into the wall but said Skrull says ‘hey you want the woman to live again maybe keep your hands to yourself.’

And Beast backs off, sensing some truth in the Skrull’s tone.

The Skrull: “Ah -- that’s a bit more like it. Even in this vile atmosphere, I do so value my ability to breathe!”

By the by the by, this guy goes unnamed until 2008 in a Secret Invasion infobook but I’m not about that. His name is Jaddak.

Jaddak channels his inner-Darkseid and sits in the comfiest chair provocatively and begins on THE TALE OF THE RESURRECTION STONE!

Seems that millennia ago there was a space civilization in space that merged high science and high sorcery to bring an epoch of peace and plenitude to all then known worlds.

The epoch of peace and plentitude looks a lot like someone jammed Medieval knights and castles into rocket times.

Which I guess fits the whole union of science and magic thing.

And then the greatest scientist-wizard, Tus'Au, invented the Resurrection Stone and ruined everything.

The stone, as the name implied, could bring life back to the dead. And while that doesn’t seem too impressive by today’s standards where plot devices to resurrect the dead are so numerous (including just teleporting out of heaven) that it doesn’t bear counting, remember that this was an earlier, more innocent time. A filler time.

Everyone wanted this Resurrection Stone and a great war ignited that eventually ruined a thousand, thousand planets.

Amidst that nonsense, the stone itself was lost forever.

Until an Anthigorite archeologist named Krru, like, did some serious research. Around about 5,000 years worth of research. And thanks to all his book learning, he eventually found the stone.

Which was unfortunate because Jaddak had been stalking him this whole time, sure that he’d eventually find it.

He chased Krru over twelve solar systems, finally blasting him out of the sky over Earth. But when Jaddak searched Krru’s ship and checked the recorder-log, as we saw in the opening two pages, he learned that Krru had decided that the Resurrection Stone was inherently corruptive and should have remained lost.

You know an ancient magical stone is bad news when an archeologist goes ‘actually you don’t belong in a museum.’

So when Krru was shot down, as a last ditch effort, he broke the stone in two and sent both halves into Earth’s past so they’d be lost forever.

I have so many questions.

If they were sent to the past then they’d be in the present now unless destroyed in the past. That’s how time works.

Two, dick move, Krru. You think this thing is inherently corruptive and you drop it into Earth’s past, possibly altering the timeline? Fuck you.

But with the stones in the past forever inaccessible clearly, Jaddak decided, hey this should be the Avengers’ problem and not mine.

Jaddak: “I knew then that I needed... pawns. Powerful pawns.”

Wonder Man: “Pawns... as in -- Avengers. And that’s why you struck down an innocent woman?!”

Jaddak: “It seemed a splendid idea at the time!”

Pffffffft.

Ok, I know. I know. This is a terrible situation in-universe but also out of universe because they brought back Vera only to immediately stuff her into the fridge.

But this skrull going ‘look it seemed like a good idea at the time’ cracks me up.

Seemed like a good idea doesn’t cut the mustard with Wonder Man who just hauls off and punches Jaddak into the bookcase.

Vision even verbally pats him on the back for it.

Vision: “Well played, Simon. -- There was no need to listen to this madman's rantings any longer.”

But as the Avengers congregate to stomp on Jaddak’s head a few times, I presume, Beast stops them.

Cradling Vera’s body he says he’ll do anything to bring her back.

;__;

And that brings us to chapter two: “DOOM in the DARK AGES!”

Let me just get ahead of any hypothetical questions I wouldn’t even be able to hear until after the fact anyway. Tragically Doctor Doom does not show up.

Whoof, a lot of exposition at the beginning of chapter 2. Because a lot of stuff happened off-panel, between pages.

Real Jarvis had been contacted to make sure he’s okay. The four Avengers took a Quinjet to the Fantastic Four and told Reed Richards what’s going on. Reed went ‘sure I’ll lend you Doctor Doom’s time machine and send you to the coordinates a SKRULL gave you.’ And Jaddak went to go wait in his spaceship with Vera’s body.

So now the Avengers are in September 16, 1348, England. Prompting Vision to start giving a lecture on the bubonic plague.

Scarlet Witch: “Darling, please. Not now.”

Save it for the bedroom, Vizh.

The locals respond, understandably enough, with hostility to the people that just appeared in thin air dressed like clowns. They call the Avengers demons and unholy creatures and tell them to tell a wizard Devlunn to fuck off and that he can’t have any more of their dead.

Wanda decides that explaining time travel and superheroes from the FUTURE is more trouble than its worth. Instead, she plays along.

Scarlet Witch: “Devlunn? We are far greater than that upstart! He is a mere wind -- we are the storm!”

And then she fires off some of her bolts to cow the villagers so she can ask if anyone wants to take her to “this weakling Devlunn.”

See Wanda figured out based on the one comment that someone toying with the dead might be linked to the half of the Resurrection Stone they’re here to find. Or one would hope someone toying with the dead has a dumb magic reason for it!

One of the villagers does volunteer to take Wanda to Devlunn.

Villager: “I pray you four are as powerful as you appear -- for it will take great magicks indeed to best this lunatic child.”

Because, yup, Devlunn is a ten-year old child.

And yup, he has half of the Resurrection Stone.

He also has a big crowd of locals begging him to return their dead since they did promise to follow him and give him all that they own. Really, that’s a fair trade for some moldy old corpses, right?

Devlunn: “Why should I listen to you? When this talisman fell from the sky and whispered to me -- I knew then it could make me a god! And gods do as they please!”

Welp.

Beast: “No one should play god, Devlunn. -- Least of all obnoxious little boys! C’mon guys -- let’s get this over with!”

And Wonder Man punches the tower Devlunn is standing on and Vision SOLAR BEAMs it and a ten year old child falls off a tower.

And then he just stops in midair and floats.

Not sure why the Resurrection Stone also has flying powers. That seems beyond the scope of what it was designed to do.

That’s like if you had a scroll of fireball that also did your taxes.

Yes, that would be amazing. But the two things aren’t related things.

Anyway, Devlunn takes these four weirdos in stride.

Devlunn: “Ah -- so I’ve impressed you with my little trick! Good! For, you see, I know who you are! You are spirits from heaven to test me to see if I’m worthy of godhood -- to see if my talisman can do more than merely hold me on high like some wingless bird! You wish a show of strength -- a little play! And what you wish -- Devlunn-the-god shall grant!”

And then he sicks a horde of zombies on the fearless foursome.

The four realize the truth of Devlunn’s half of the Resurrection Stone. Because this is a cool magic artifact that conceptually splits in half instead of just physically or in terms of output or whatever.

Devlunn’s half gives life to the dead but only life without the spark of the soul. Aka, zombies.

Also, not very impressive zombies. They’re more pitiable than formidable. And Devlunn isn’t much of a necromancer.

The Avengers fight them. Well, except for Vision. Vision just lets them flail against him ineffectually.

Beast rushes through the pack of zombies, even grabbing one with his thighs to toss out of the way?, towards Devlunn and then takes the 1/2 Resurrection Stone like candy from a baby.

Revealing Devlunn to not be a great and powerful wizard but rather a very sad child.

Devlunn: “My stone give it to me! Give it back, I say! I was... nothing until it came to me! My family -- my friends -- all died! But the stone made me important! It gave me control over death! It made me safe! Please give it back! Please -- I want to be a god! I have to be a god!”

And then he collapses to the ground and starts crying while the Avengers are whisked away into the future by Reed.

So, that’s sad.

And I don’t imagine chapter three (“Rosenblatt’s Dance!”) is going to be any cheerier.

It’s now April 13, 1945. Dachau.

So. Yeah.

The Avengers blink into existence right in the middle of some Allied troops chasing some Nazis. And not being ones to miss a chance to go ape shit on some Nazis, Wonder Man goes ape shit on some Nazis.

Unlike the dark ages peeps, the Allied soldiers see some random people with superpowers wearing bright clothes and go ‘ah, superheroes’ and ask if they’re with the Invaders or the Liberty Legion.

Wonder Man: “Right. I’m... uh... Captain America.”

Phew. Timeline secure.

Anyway, they’re glad to see some superheroes because they’ve got a messy situation at Dachau. And its nothing that punching Nazis can fix.

So, yeah this is set at a concentration camp so its not going to be particularly happy.

The one who has the other half of the Resurrection Stone is a man named Rosenblatt. And this half of the stone also has half the power of the full stone. But in this case it returns the soul to a lifeless husk.

And Rosenblatt has used it to revive his dead wife and daughters and he’s joyfully dancing with their lifeless bodies while they beg him to let them go and free them of this existence.

It’d be really messed up if the usual superhero methods had to be applied here but thankfully the less employed but still common superhero empathy is in the quiver.

Beast approaches the guy and just talks to him.

Beast: “You have to set their souls free.”

Rosenblatt: “Are you the devil, come to take them? Well -- they’ve been in hell long enough. They’ll never be yours!”

Beast: “Look at them, my friend -- they will never be yours either. Not the way you knew them. The way you cherished them. Give me the jewel. P-please...”

And his words get through to the man who hands the half Resurrection Stone off to Beast.

And as before, the instant they have the stone, Reed yanks them forward in time.

Y’know. This only occurred to me on my second read. Maybe if Reed hadn’t instantly pulled them out of that time, it would have occurred to Beast ‘hey wait I have both halves now, I could combine them and bring this guy’s family back to life for real and not in some cursed half existence.’

Doesn’t really work with how the book goes, but it’s a thought.

And now for the thrilling conclusion: Chapter 4 The Cost!

April 10th, 1981, SPACE.

So we’re back in the then present.

A Quinjet flies into space, as Quinjets can apparently do, to meet with Jaddak’s spaceship. Jaddak contacts them over the space Zoom and tells Beast that he’ll have to teleport over alone with the Resurrection Stone.

The other Avengers think this is reeeeeaaally fishy and don’t really like the idea of letting Jaddak get the Resurrection Stone but they can’t tell Beast what to do. This is his weird fill-in issue quest and it has to be his decision.

So Beast teleports over alone. And finds himself in a chamber with a video screen. Skrull ain’t taking any chances.

He’s hidden behind an unbreachable wall. Through the video screen he tells Beast to deposit the stone in a portal which will send it over to the skrull who will test it for authenticity.

Then, he’ll use it to revive Vera. Swearsies.

Beast: “And why should I trust you?”

Jaddak: “Because I am a Skrull. Treacherous and savage as my people are -- we value honor more than life.”

Doubt.

Beast pauses to consider the power of the Resurrection Stone. Thinks about Devlunn and his zombies and Rosenblatt’s dance.

Beast: “Vera... I’m sorry. But this power is too much for any man to hold. I hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do -- and I hope I can forgive myself!”

And then Beast slams the two halves of the Resurrection Stone together, KRUNCHing them into dust.

Jaddak: “Y-you crushed it! But that is... impossible! My plan was perfection! The vagaries of human love should have assured me victory!”

Wonder Man: “There are higher forms of love, Skrull -- but don’t strain your brain trying to figure out what they are!”

Because, yes, Wonder Man, Scarlet Witch, and Vision are also here now.

Vision intangibled onto the ship while Jaddak was distracted and used Jaddak’s own teleporters to bring the other two aboard.

As for that unbreachable wall?

Nah. Totally breachable. Wonder Man peels it open like nothing.

Jaddak tries to use Vera’s dead body as a hostage but Scarlet Witch blasts the gun apart in his hands with a SQUAKK.

So there may be a bird that used to be a gun loose on the ship.

And that just leaves one thing to take care of.

Beast jumps at Jaddak and starts slamming him around.

Scarlet Witch protests that Beast is going to kill Jaddak but Wonder Man tells her that Beast has to left off some steam.

Wonder Man: “He has to vent some steam or he’ll really snap! Besides you know Hank as well as I do -- that Skrull will get some much-needed lumps -- but that’s all!”

Beast: “Yeah. That’s our Beastie. A hero to the end. Can’t even bring myself to play the old ‘eye for an eye’ game. Not that it would do me one stinking bit of good. I’ve lost her -- forever.”

AND THEN AN EPILOGUE. Later that day at the Baxter Building.

Reed has been involved between panels this whole story and now he gets exposition exposited to him to fill in the gaps and in return he’s going to exposit too.

Wonder Man explains that he, Wanda, and Vision always intended to destroy the Resurrection Stone if Beast went through with the deal with Jaddak. Not that they thought he would. Knowing Hank McCoy and all.

But its a subversion of the ‘this is something he must do himself’ trope. Where they left the decision in Beast’s hands but also planned to go over his head if he made the wrong decision and put the scary power of phoenix down in the hands of the Skrulls.

Gotta keep your friends honest or something.

So now Reed has news. Weird news about Vera.

The poison that Jaddak used was super rare, so rare that Jaddak didn’t even know how it worked. He just had to be a murder hipster and goofed up.

Its actually a slow-acting poison that takes days to fully kill someone so Vera is technically only mostly dead. She could theoretically be cured one day.

So Reed has thrown her into a suspended animation tube and hopes to come up with an antidote eventually (which he doesn’t but Vera ends up cured anyway in Defenders #105 about a year later in another story by J.M. DeMatteis).

What is it about weird filler stories and having someone end up in a freezer tube to be maybe cured later?

Reed Richards: I know it’s not much of a chance, Beast -- but at least there’s hope.”

Beast: “There’s hope -- !”

Follow @essential-avengers because one day I’ll be up to date on that blog and it’ll have Essential Avengers stuff and no miscellaneous reblogs of other stuff. Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe? Also like and reblog if you like to reblog.

#Avengers #essential avengers #Beast #Wonder Man #Scarlet Witch #the Vision #skrulls #essential marvel liveblogging #geez beast's focus issues are always so weird

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fortunatelylori · 5 years

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People are not what they seem – Thoughts on episode 7

This episode was a bit of a mixed bag for me. There were moments I loved but overall it left me more than a little frustrated.

Sparks joy

Arthur Parker

Arthur has always sparked joy for me. His pineapple takedown was one of the most iconic moments of this show and he does not disappoint in episode 7. A lot of people were surprised to see him make the salient points to both Sidney and Georgiana. But I would argue that’s because they haven’t paid attention to Mr. Heywood’s warning back in episode 1.

People are not what they seem in Sanditon and you shouldn’t let what other characters think about one person or another influence your opinion of them. Arthur might be a hypochondriac but, by and large, he has been considerably less trouble to anyone than the likes of Georgiana or Tom. He has also always been, in his own way, incredibly wise and brave. He asked Georgiana to dance when everyone was staring at her in a state of shock and he taught Lady Denham a lesson when even Sidney remained silent.

So it’s no small wonder that the task of reminding Sidney that Eliza Champion might not be the most trustworthy person in the world falls onto him.

It could hardly fall onto Tom … Listen I’ve tried my best to be as understanding with Tom Parker as I could be, making excuses for him left and right. But no more! In this episode alone, he tries to pass off his passive aggressive bullshit onto Mary when she rightly makes him see that hanging around Lady Denham’s drawing room like a carrion crow makes him no better than the likes of Edward Denham. He fallows that up by trying to push his younger brother into a quickie wedding to a woman that abandoned him in favor of a richer husband and sent him on a self-destructive path that almost killed him. What a bozo!!!

At the very least, as his older brother, it was up to Tom to advise Sidney to be a little careful in restarting his relationship with Eliza. But no, that task falls unto Arthur because Tom can’t be trusted with anything more challenging than miniature house building.

Esther and Lord Babington

Speaking of people not being what they seem, these two are by far the biggest surprises Sanditon has to offer. Esther started off as a combination of Mary Crawford and Caroline Bingley and she’s turned into freaking Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight over here!

Don’t ever let anyone tell you Sanditon is just a shallow bodice ripper because the way it went about effortlessly depicting a woman struggling through an emotionally abusive relationship with a narcissist is masterful! And her setting herself free of Edward in this episode was glorious!

As was Lord Babington proving to be a better Darcy than Darcy himself. His deep empathy for her, his complete rejection of Edward’s bitter gossip mongering and his unconditional support was truly moving. Bless him and his orange handkerchief!

PS: Give this man a first name, Davies! He’s earned it!

The Heraclitus of it all

Again, I firmly believe that the people who are dismissing this show as just a spot of shallow entertainment, aren’t really paying attention because the whole scene of Charlotte’s assumed humiliation is so carefully and masterfully built it’s delightful to watch

Charlotte takes Sidney’s “I’m certain Charlotte would prefer to be reading Heraclitus” line as an insult that depicts her a country bumpkin who is not fit for the fashionable London crowd.

But should she? We already know that Sidney reads Heraclituss himself. They were just bonding over that on their little boat ride. And look where his line comes into play:

Eliza: There must be a boy in your village that’s caught your eye.

Lady Susan: Why should Charlotte be limited to her village?

Eliza: I always think it helps to share a common background, that’s all. Miss Heywood is hardly likely to find a kindred spirit in this company.

Lady Susan: Why not?

Eliza: I just imagine she must find our London talk unspeakably tedious. Wouldn’t you agree, Sidney?

Sidney: I have no doubt Charlotte would rather be sat somewhere, quietly reading Heraclitus.

What Sidney is actually saying is that there is someone there who is a kindred spirit to Charlotte: HIM! He isn’t insulting her or laughing at her. He’s making a call back to their London ball scene where they both felt out of place but found solace in each other. What he’s telling her is that he doesn’t belong amongst Eliza’s crowd either.

This kind of subtle, clever writing is actually a lot rarer than you might think and, for me, drives to the core of why Andrew Davies is such a fantastic writer. He not only understands how to present a period drama to a modern audience in a way that is fresh and interesting but also how to create these moments of brilliant writing complexity almost effortlessly.

Georgiana Lambe

Georgiana, the character, isn’t really sparking joy for me as she’s behaving like an utter brat but the writing for her character is. She’s been terribly hurt for the first time in her life so she’s lashing out anyway she can. Also this line is brilliant:

Sidney: I am all too aware that I have fallen short as your guardian. But please believe that I am sincere in my desire to make amends.

Georgiana: Men like you cannot change.

Why is that brilliant? Well because Georgiana is engaging in one of the oldest and most popular forms of toxic anger: transference. What she’s really saying is that Otis will never change enough for them to be together. But Otis isn’t there, Sidney is so he gets to be the punching bag du jour.

The reason why depicting her grief in this way is so compelling is because it’s so natural to her story. She was already feeling like an outcast in England, not loved or wanted by anyone. Otis let her concentrate all of her self-worth entirely on him (one of the worst things he did and not the only one but that’s a subject for another meta) and then failed to live up to his inherent promises. Georgiana feels that no one cares for her and so she pushes the people who are trying to help her away so she can have her very own self-fulfilling prophecy.

And while her interaction with Sidney might be somewhat understandable considering his cold attitude towards her in the beginning and also the fact that whether or not Georgiana likes it, he’s the closest she has to an actual parental figure, her attitude towards Arthur absolutely is not.

Her insults, thankfully, fall on deaf ears because Arthur knows he is a precious lily of the field and we are all very happy he’s here!

Does not spark joy

Sidney and Eliza

From what I see in the tags, no one is really all that fond of Eliza … I wonder why … lol …

But protectiveness over my ship isn’t really why this storyline didn’t spark joy for me. It’s actually because it failed to live up to its potential. The writers chose to make Sidney and Eliza’s reunion all about how that affects Charlotte and dedicated very little time to the Sidney/Eliza dynamic.

And it started so well too. I had high hopes when Sidney said this:

Sidney: A man cannot step into the same river twice.

What Sidney is talking about in very poetic terms if what in my country we call “reheated soup”. That’s what Eliza is … a chance to reheat the soup. Except that the saying goes: reheated soup never tastes the same which is absolutely true when it comes to relationships. Tempting as it might be to rekindle something, it very rarely works out because the reasons why you broke up in the first place will eventually rear their ugly heads again. Which they do in their case as well, when Eliza needlessly attacks Charlotte, proving herself petty and superficial.

But because we never stay with Sidney enough to figure out what his attraction to her might have been once upon a time, because we don’t get to see how reuniting with her is stirring not only his feelings of long lost longing but also of the trauma she caused and because we don’t even get to watch their last conversation together, it all fails to make the impact that it could have made. Which is a shame …

IMDB has Ruth Kearney listed for episode 8 as well and a part of me hopes Eliza will be back next week and we can have a bit of a do over.

Lady Susan

I know everyone likes her and the actress is delightful. However as much as I might enjoy her in isolation, within the context of the story she remains a poorly introduced character who is only on screen to push Charlotte and Sidney together (we never find out why she’s so invested in this) and to act as a deus ex machine for the regatta.

The “half agony, half hope” that is …

Charlotte

I really hate to do this because I love her but most of my frustration this episode came down to Charlotte.

Her behavior was confusing, dissatisfying and at times quite thoughtlessly cruel. Most of that was directed at poor James Stringer.

As you know, I am a Charlotte/Sidney shipper so I don’t have a problem with Charlotte not returning James’ affection. In fact I’ve made the point in the past that the whole Tem Stringer vs. Team Sidney promotion was silly because it was clear there was no rivalry there.

However, Charlotte behaves very poorly to him in this episode. It’s the second time now (the first was in episode 4) where she’s used James as a stand-in for Sidney. Every time she’s talking to this boy, her mind is miles away and she ends up missing all the signs that she’s stringing him along (no pun intended but the clue is in the name, I suppose).

What Charlotte really wants is for Sidney to give her the same undivided adoring validation Stringer gives her and because he isn’t, she ends up engaging with James in a way that is less than ideal. That’s not so say she necessarily realizes she’s doing this but her thoughtlessness is starting to be frustrating.

Which brings me to … her behavior towards Sidney. The way unrequited love seems to work for Charlotte is that it makes her less than generous and she looks for any opportunity to cut Sidney loose, so to speak.

She doesn’t attempt to put up a fight for him at any level, despite this being the girl that fights for everything that matters to her. And it all comes crushing down during the conversation with Eliza, when she takes the smallest opportunity to completely shut him out.

It’s also kind of hypocritical of her to still be angry at this comment at the end of the episode, when she did far worse. I mean if you want to talk about someone being someone else’s “source of amusement” look no further than:

Charlotte (imitating Sidney): You see, Georgiana, this is exactly why I locked you away in Mrs. Griffths’ dungeon. To keep you out of mischief, while I, Sidney Parker, gallivant around London with my high society, dandy friends.

So while deciding that Sidney was an ass to her is tempting, I’d like to point out that, as I’ve shown earlier, there is nothing mean spirited or negative in his comment at all. So is it fair to say that Sidney hurt her when the most obvious explanation is that Charlotte is insecure? She has been since the moment she met Sidney and Eliza instinctively preyed on that insecurity. And Charlotte not only let’s Eliza hurt her but she also transfers her insecurity firmly onto Sidney’s shoulders, instead of owning it or resolving it.

The reason why this is in the half agony, half hope category is because I’m not sure if the above is the writers’ intention or if I’m trying to make this more interesting than it actually is. If their intention is to paint Charlotte as completely right about everything, while Sidney is the fool who needs to repent and Stringer is the guy who got ahead of himself, I’m going to be pretty disappointed.

For the moment, we’ll have to wait and see, I guess.

#sanditon #sanditon 2019 #my meta #charlotte heywood #sidney parker #young stringer #arthur paker #georgiana lambe #eliza champion #charlotte x sidney #sidney x charlotte

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adxcaldwell · 5 years

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King of the Playground

King of the Playground - A Young Beatles/Hurricanes/BobDylan fic with some familiar cameos by Brian Epstein, Mal Evans, and urs truly

Inspired by the wonderful @cherrybombz01

Word count 4873 - Somewhat lengthy. But I’ve been told it’s worth that.

The sky was clear and sunny - the forecast was finally clear, and without a cloud in the sky, Brian had finally told his boys that he’d take them to the park.

“Come on,” John rushed, crossing his arms as he watched Paul tying his shoes. Ever since he’d learned to tie them himself, he’d insisted on doing so in such a drawn out manner, making sure that both sides of the bow were even, and not just that, but ensuring that both knots on either shoe looked alright beside the other. Things couldn’t just be done with Paul. It had to be a process. “Nobody’s going to be looking at the knots on your shoes.”

“Just cause you won’t doesn’t mean that nobody will,” Paul told him, with a little huff to his voice.

“John, if you can’t behave with Paul, then how can I trust you to behave with others at the park?” Brian spoke with a gentle sense of firm guidance as he knelt down, looking at John with a tired expression, his eyes warm with kindness and concern. “I don’t think you want to spend your time at the park sitting with me on a bench, do you?”

“Do you?” George mouthed teasingly, looking over Brian’s shoulder at John.

John just shot him a glare and then fixed Brian with a reluctant kind of pout, shaking his head once. “No.”

“He just wants to get there before Rory and his friends,” Ringo explained patiently, “Because he’s the King of the Playground.”

“King of the Playground?” Brian couldn’t help but smile as he heard this title. “Is that so, ‘King of the Playground’?... Well, nobody can be King of the Playground. Everything in England is ruled by the Queen, I’m afraid. You’ll have to let this king know that if he tries to enforce his rulings.”

“You don’t understand, Eppy,” John muttered, turning away slightly, embarrassed by Brian’s attempts at fixing the situation. “Can’t you tie your shoes any faster, Paul?”

“I’m done,” Paul said proudly as he got to his feet, admiring his work. “Perfect.”

It was on the tip of George’s tongue to comment that one of the bows on Paul’s left shoe was slightly bigger than the other, but he saw the look of annoyance on John’s face and knew that it was better left unsaid.

“Then everyone’s ready to go?” Brian prompted, looking over the four boys before giving a little tsk, picking up a green scarf. “John, I thought I told you all to get your scarves on.. It’s winter, you know, and it’s not getting warmer any time soon. You’ll catch a cold.”

“I don’t want to wear that,” John said stubbornly. He didn’t like wearing matching scarves with the other three.

Paul had a blue one, George wore red, and Ringo was somehow happy with one in soft pink - he’d picked that himself, and was okay with it because “It’s a lighter version of yours, George, and it’s pretty, isn’t it?”

“If you don’t wear it, then I guess you’ll just have to stay home and be properly warm inside for the day,” Brian told him with the ease and assurement of someone who had been in this situation many times before and come out a winner.

So John put the scarf around his neck with reluctance, and off they went to the park.

As soon as they were out of the car, John had begun walking before he heard Brian calling his name.

“No wandering off until we’re out of the parking lot,” he told him, herding his little group with a smile across the lot to the park entrance.

And then John took off. He went past the sandbox, past the swingset, and past the little clearing of benches in the middle where Brian and the other babysitters and parents usually sat. He ducked underneath the silver twisted poles where other kids often practiced gymnastics, or failed to practice gymnastics, and narrowly missed colliding with someone who was midway through the monkey bars before coming to a breathless stop in front of the little climbing wall that led up to a wooden pirate ship.

And sure enough, who popped over the side but none other than the fair-haired leader himself who stood tall over boys even older than him, Rory.

Rory gave him a grin, and raised his hand in a little wave.

John’s breathlessness quickly turned to annoyance, and he could feel the frown on his lips threatening to form a pout, but he resisted sulking. No, leave that to Paul.

“Sorry,” called another boy who came to Rory’s side. That was Johnny, Rory’s best mate. “This is the King’s ship, and we don’t take stowaways.”

“Tell the King to sod off,” John snapped, his sulkiness giving way to scathing disdain.

Rory’s eyes widened immediately, and he glanced over at Johnny before looking down at John. “L..Language,” he managed to say, before bursting into laughter that was quickly joined by that of his friends.

Paul, George and Ringo caught up to John just as he was kicking at the tanbark with the tip of his shoe.

“I told you to hurry up with tying your shoes,” John said to Paul accusingly.

“I told you to hurry up with tying your shoes,” Paul mocked in return.

“Well, no chance of getting the pirate ship,” John mumbled, trying not to let his disappointment show. Rory and his friends always got to the pirate ship first, it seemed, no matter how much John tried to beg Brian to get there earlier.

“We could go play on the swings,” Ringo suggested.

“I don’t want to play on the swings,” John said back.

“What about the monkey bars?” George tried. “You could try to hang upside down on them again, when Brian’s not looking.”

“I don’t want to play on those, either,” John mumbled.

“No, you don’t, you just want to whine, don’t you?” George countered.

“So what if I do?” John told him dismissively, really more telling than asking, as he turned on his heel and began to walk off.

George just shook his head, and he looked over at Paul, who looked either worried or guilty, and patted his arm. “It’s not your fault, you know. I think Rory just lives up there with his friends, that’s all. Bet he sleeps underneath the ship at night. That’s how his hair stays so blonde, you know, it’s bleached by the sun.”

He earned a partial smile from Paul, who snickered in amusement and then nodded his head. “Maybe.”

“Not much of a king at all,” George remarked, glancing up at the pirate ship.

“Suppose anybody could be king of anything they wanted to be,” Ringo said thoughtfully. “I think we should just settle for the sandbox.”

“We could play with the shovels and dig a hole, or build a castle,” George said, smiling at the idea.

“We could dig a hole and put Rory in it,” Paul said with a pout in his voice and on his lips, crossing his arms as he gazed up at the ship. Sure enough, Rory was standing at the edge again, and he gave Paul a smile and waved to him. Paul plastered a bright smile on his lips and raised his hand in an enthusiastic wave.

“Oh, cut it out,” George said, grabbing Paul’s hand and tugging it down, already pulling him away from the ship. “Let’s go see if Bob’s here. He’s always fun to hang out with.”

Bob was usually holed up on one of the farther benches, or, when his mother was busy with a book, he’d jump over the fence to the nearby trees and climb up in one and perch himself there. He wasn’t really a fan of the playground, except to make up his own kind of fun. If it was separate from the other kids, and something that involved a little handiwork and creativity, it was something Bob would do.

“He was over by the obstacle course,” Ringo noted.

Paul scrunched up his nose. “The obstacle course? What was he doing over there?”

“The obstacle course,” Ringo replied, as though confused how Paul couldn’t see the obvious answer.

George tilted his head curiously, and peered over in the direction that they’d came. Yeah, that was Bob alright, with the curliest hair in the world, standing by the obstacle course. He gave a tug on Paul’s sleeve and then began to walk, standing in as the leader seeing as John had up and left them. He walked them over to the obstacle course, trying to see why Bob would take a sudden interest in the playground at all, when the trees were perfectly fine just over the fence.

“Hi, Bob,” George greeted with a smile, trying to hide his enthusiasm. Bob was cool. Brian would never let them hop over the fence to climb trees. Brian would probably lecture them for a half hour about how dangerous that was, and how easily they could break a bone or wind up hurt without Brian knowing, just like he had the last time George had tried to casually remark how cool it was that Bob could do things like.. You know, go off and climb trees by himself.

George bet that Bob’s mother didn’t lecture him for forty years about safety when it came to being outdoors alone.

“Hey, George,” Bob said with a conversational drawl, looking over at them, seeming a little surprised.

“Since when do you do obstacle courses? Training for the draft?” Paul questioned, glancing back at the pirate ship. He wasn’t quite over their loss, or John’s annoyance with him for it.

“I, uh..” Bob’s gaze flickered a short distance away, but the shift in attention was too quick for George to catch where he’d looked. “No.”

“You know?” Paul spoke curiously.

“Know what?” George asked. After all, anything Bob said, anything Bob knew, was usually pretty interesting.

“No, I uh..” Bob reached up, scratching the back of his neck. “I said no, like, no, I’m not.. Training for the draft, or anything like that.”

“You don’t seem to be doing the obstacle course, anyway,” George noted, a little bit confused. “Are you just trying to think it out, in your head, then? Get it all planned out right so you don’t fail? That’s logical. That’s cool,” George told him, already working out how intriguing such an act was.

“No, man,” Bob said, trying not to laugh, seeming a little flushed all of a sudden.

“Were you watching that time?” came a breathless voice as a girl skipped over, jumping over one of the balance beams, her colorful poncho landing cozily over her figure.

“No, I missed it,” Bob admitted, glancing at the three boys who were suddenly extraordinarily curious about Bob’s connection to this girl.

“Missed what?” Ringo asked, wanting to make their presence a little more known without being awkwardly quiet or stiffly introducing themselves.

“Well,” she said, fixing her bangs, “I was trying to show Bobby how to get on top of the monkey bars, but he can’t seem to figure it out and I think he’s too scared to try.”

George just blinked. Bob, the kid who climbed trees taller than the park like a fish could swim, scared of getting up on top of the monkey bars?

“Yeah, well..” Bob gave a bashful little laugh, shrugging his shoulders. “Can I get another try?”

She hesitated, and then laughed with him, nodding. “Yes, but you better be watching this time, okay?”

“I will,” Bob promised her, gesturing to the monkey bars. “Don’t fall.”

“If I do,” she told him, reaching out to tap his nose, “Then you’ll just have to catch me!” With that, she turned on her heel in the loose tanbark and took off back to the playset, skipping lightly across the balance beam and jumping up onto the platform.

“You can’t climb the monkey bars?” George asked, a little bit in disbelief.

“Of course I can climb the monkey bars, man,” Bob reassured him.

“So why did you tell her you couldn’t climb the monkey bars?” Ringo asked, tilting his head.

“Cause he thinks she’s pretty and he’d rather have her explain it a billion times so he can have a billion reasons to talk to her,” Paul noted, smiling a little. “That’s cute.”

“I know,” Bob emphasized, crossing his arms and hiding his own little grin.

John, on the other hand, wasn’t having such luck or amusement. He had sat himself down on a bench out of Brian’s sight, arms crossed and back slouched, his attention fixed to the ground. This was downright miserable. What was the point of coming to the park if he couldn’t even do the one thing that he’d wanted to do?

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you sit on a bench by choice,” came a pleasant tone of voice. It was Mal, one of the people who volunteered every few days to help keep an eye on kids at the park, and make sure none of them were getting up to anything dangerous without supervision. “Something happen?”

“Rory’s got the pirate ship,” John said with irritation, tired of explaining his annoyance to everyone. “Again. He always gets the pirate ship, because he’s the King of The Playground.”

“King of The Playground?” Mal leaned against the fence, thinking this over for a moment before tilting his head. “Since when do kings have pirate ships?”

John glanced over at him, not wanting to come out of his blues just yet. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, aren’t pirate ships for.. You know.. Pirates?” Mal reached out and nudged John’s shoulder. “Now, you know, I’d never encourage any kind of drama, or anything like that. But I think if you could gather up a pirate crew, you might just be able to take that ship from the king.”

The idea dawned on John rather slowly, but then he sat straight up, jumping off the bench, already coming up with a plan. “Thanks, Mal.”

“For what?” Mal asked, his eyes twinkling as he winked.

John grinned, and took off across the park to the bench where Brian was, in the sun, a pair of sunglasses letting him read comfortably from the book he’d taken along. But they weren’t cool sunglasses, like Bob’s. Brian made everything look so.. Gentlemanly. Which, he said, was as ‘cool’ as a man could be. He always sat near to the entrance - this way none of the boys could leave without his knowing, and they’d always know where to find him.

“Can I borrow your book?” John asked him, holding out his hand.

Brian peered over the sunglasses and tilted his head. “Oh! Did you want to look through it? I have another I brought along in case I finished looking through this one, first.”

John glanced at the title. New York Through The Years. “...Yes.”

“Yes, you’d like to look through it?” Brian pressed gently. He’d never known John to want to read at the park, but he wouldn’t discourage it, so long as he was careful.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll take care of it? I wouldn’t want to get it back torn up from your playing.”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it.”

“Alright.” Brian held it out to him. “Where are the other boys?”

“I’m going to go find them,” John told him, and that part was honest. He took the book, not giving Brian a chance to reply, and bolted in the opposite direction. “Bye-Eppy-We’re-Being-Good!”

Brian smiled, lifting his hand and calling after him, “Well - good!”

John held the book to his chest and raced across the park, finally catching a glimpse of the other boys by the obstacle course. What were they doing there? Did they even care that he came up with a way to solve all their problems?

“John, you’re back,” Ringo said pleasantly. “We’re learning how to get on top of the monkey bars.”

“Well, forget about that, I’ve got something better,” John said, holding up the book. “I know how we can get the pirate ship.”

George looked at him briefly, his attention dropping to the book. “...Teach him about history and bore him to death?”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “Paul, don’t you want to hear what I’ve come up with?”

Paul made a little sound in indignation and turned away, crossing his arms.

“What’s gotten into him?” John asked, frowning.

“You were mean to him,” George pointed out. “You said it was his fault that Rory got the ship.”

“Oh.” John frowned, trying to work out a way to fix that. He reached out and poked Paul’s shoulder. Paul didn’t say a word. “Hey Paul, you know your.. Shoes.. Are tied pretty nice today.”

“You don’t mean that,” Paul said dismissively.

“You’re right, I don’t. You spend too much time worrying about that crap.”

“You know, that’s not how I was taught to apologize,” Bob said casually, raising an eyebrow.

John pursed his lips for a moment and then sighed. “Fine. You worry too much about that crap, but… I shouldn’t’ve been mean about it. It wasn’t your fault we didn’t get the ship today. It’s not cause of your shoes or anythin’ like that. Okay? I’m.. sorry.” He half-mumbled the word, not wanting to say it very much at all.

Paul’s expression lit up, and he spun around, looking at John expectantly. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m not saying it again,” John said, his cheeks heating - see, he didn’t even need the stupid scarf at all, did he? “So you better have heard it the first time.”

“But I didn’t quite hear you,” Paul said in singsong, “And Brian says it’s important to speak up and enunciate, you know, so people understand -”

“Well do you want to go and sit with Brian, or do you want to get the ship?” John countered with a flustered rush. “Hmm?”

“Bob, did you see it that time?” The girl was breathless as she jumped over the balance beam, coming to a stop in front of Bob, who looked kind of like he was looking at a bunch of flowers.

“No, I..” Bob scratched the back of his neck.

“Gosh, you might need glasses,” she told him with a laugh, fixing her own and then nodding, “Or at least prescription sunglass ones.. So you can still look cool..”

John took a moment of pause, trying to work out what the blurred color was before he recognized it as a girl, with short brown hair and round glasses, and a black leather cap with a red feather on the side. Maybe Brian was right, maybe he should start wearing his glasses more often.

“Sorry,” Bob told her, and he sounded genuine, “These guys are trying to work out a way to get the pirate ship from Rory’s gang, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She looked over at the four of them, nodding. “Well, do you have a plan?”

John hesitated. “Well, what help is a girl going to be when it comes to pirates?”

“I heard once that there was a girl pirate who fought men with her shirt off,” she told him, a mix of eager to share the information and annoyed at the idea that she wasn’t good enough for his silly game. “And she won.”

John’s eyes widened at the idea, and the thought that this innocent-looking girl knew things like that.

Bob just gave him a grin as if to say, yeah, man. That’s why I’m at the obstacle course.

“Well, alright,” John said. “We’re going to be pirates, and we’re going to take the ship from the king - that’s what pirates do. Kings don’t need pirate ships.”

“Well don’t you want to look the part?” As soon as she’d asked this, Paul lit up.

“How d’you mean?” Paul questioned.

“Yeah, it’s too cold to take our shirts off,” Ringo told her.

“Well..” she trailed off, trying not to laugh at Ringo’s comment, and then clasped her hands together. “Your scarves. You could tie them around your heads, you know? Look more like a group of pirates.”

“I could tie mine like an eyepatch,” Ringo said, already slipping off his scarf.

“But Brian said not to take them off,” George pointed out.

“You’re not taking them off, you’re just putting them on differently,” Bob suggested to him, and this seemed to satisfy the concern.

So the scarves came off, and Ringo and George tied theirs on like eyepatches, Ringo covering his left and George covering his right (“and together, we’re one whole seeing pirate - or one blind one”) And Paul and John had tied theirs across their foreheads.

“What about you two, then?” John prodded, glancing between the girl and Bob.

“I’ll be the ship’s doctor,” she told him.

“I’ll be the musician, then,” Bob answered.

“Wait, how come you get to be the musician? That’s a cooler job. I would've been the musician,” she decided immediately, feeling a little disappointed in her lack of claim to a better position.

Bob stood no ground. “I’ll let you be whatever you want, you can be the musician, and I’ll be the doctor,” he said, without a hint of conflict. Whatever she wanted to be, he wouldn’t argue a word, even if she wanted to be the one who threw him overboard.

“Great.” She grinned proudly, and then looked to John. “See, I’ve got colorful stuff for playing music, and Bob’s got normal clothes cause he’s the doctor. It works.”

“If you say so,” John said, and he nodded. “Let’s go get that ship.”

“But you didn’t tell us the plan,” Paul pointed out, shaking his head.

“Just follow my lead,” John told him, turning around and marching his little militia on toward the pirate ship.

“Hey Rory, John and his friends are back again,” Ty called to Rory as he peered over the edge of the ship, seeing them heading over.

Rory gave him a curious look, peeking over the side and tilting his head.

“Well, this should be fun,” Johnny said as he leaned against the side.

“If by fun, you mean mildly entertaining,” Lu commented.

“D-Don’t.. Be mean,” Rory chastised, smiling slightly. Maybe it would be interesting.

“Hey, King Rory,” John called as he came to a stop in front of the climbing wall that led up to the wooden pirate ship.

Johnny raised an eyebrow and leaned over the side, peering down as the other three boys joined at his side, a mix of amused and curious.

Rory looked over at Johnny, who met his gaze and then cleared his throat, calling down to John, speaking on behalf of the blond boy who didn’t want to stutter his way through the same thought.

“Who seeks an audience with the king?” Johnny spoke, trying to sound authoritative.

Lu snickered. “God, you’re a square.”

Johnny elbowed him immediately, looking down at John expectantly.

“John’s pirate crew, who want their ship,” John said confidently.

“John’s pirate crew and what army?” Ty called over the edge of the ship.

Rory and Johnny gave him a tired kind of look.

“The pirate crew is his army,” Lu told him, shaking his head and giving in to the ridiculousness of the situation, of the younger boys inciting a takeover. “Alright. On what grounds?”

John was so glad they asked. He held up the book, opening it to a random page and pointing at the text. “According to pirate code, a pirate captain can do whatever he has to do in order to get his ship back!”

“Well sorry, kid, that’s against the law,” Lu called down breezily, and Rory tried to stifle a laugh, though really, he was quite impressed with their little charade.

“Well,” John said with a smirk, “You’ll be happy to know that pirates don’t have to follow the king’s law.”

“He’s got a point,” Johnny said, looking to Rory.

Rory just nodded solemnly, leaning his elbows on the edge of the ship and looking down at the group. “That h..he d-does.”

“Well boys - er, pirates - what are you going to do?” Johnny called leisurely, and the four boys on the ship were suddenly a little interested in this game of pirates and kings.

“Take back our ship,” George called to him immediately.

“Got any weapons?” Ty asked.

“Lots of bullets,” Bob suggested, picking up a handful of tanbark.

“No, that’s too dangerous,” George whispered to him.

“He’s right,” Ringo agreed with a nod.

“Alright,” Bob said, dropping the handful of tanbark and brushing his hands off on his pants. “Invisible bullets. A lot of ‘em.”

“Well we’ve got cannons,” Lu called back thoughtfully. “A ton of those. So we’d just blast you into next week before you could load your guns.”

“Cannons take longer to load than guns,” Bob reasoned.

“Not these,” Johnny told him, “These are quick-loading, high-fire cannons. Very new, the science was only just finished a week ago today. It’s a stunning feat, and a wonderful way for the king to keep trespassers away from the ship.”

Rory was trying to stop himself from laughing, hearing Johnny try to reason about imaginary cannons, but he couldn’t for a second pretend it was anything but hysterical. “H-h..high f-f..fire cannons..”

John held up the book. “Laugh all you want. It’s right in the pirate code.”

The girl glanced between John and the boys on the ship for a minute, and then she strode up to the climbing wall. “I’ve got a pack of fruit snacks and some candy. I’ll trade you for the ship.”

Johnny glanced to his laughing leader, and then snickered, calling back. “The King will consider a trade.”

“Giving up the ship so quick?” Ty asked, trying not to laugh. Rory’s amusement was infectious.

“Candy and fruit snacks, get your priorities in order, man,” Johnny told him.

“First things first, though, come on,” Lu said to Johnny, looking down at the girl. “How much candy are we talking?”

She shifted her poncho, showing a black little bag across her shoulder underneath. “Like.. a lot.”

“Oh, man, she’s got a lot, she says,” Lu said with amusement, glancing to Rory. “Well, what says the king?”

“What says the king?” Johnny prodded, and Ty joined in, the three of them chanting at their blond leader who tried to keep from laughing.

Rory held up his hand, laughing, and then glanced down at her. “K-King.. Says okay,” he told her.

“Pirates win,” Lu called, walking to the edge and carefully jumping down, followed by Johnny.

“King forfeited for some candy and fruit snacks,” Ty said with a grin, jumping down after his friends.

Rory paused to make sure the ship was tidy and they hadn’t left anything behind, nor had anyone else that the other kids could get into danger with. But things seemed in order, so overboard he went.

As soon as the girl had come up to him, Rory just gave her a smile.

“K..Keep it,” he said, genuinely.

“Keep it?” she repeated, blinking. That made no sense. “What about the trade?”

He wanted to tell her that the fun was worth giving up their little hangout spot, but instead he just reached out and straightened her hat, giving her a grin.

“I think the king says you’re welcome at the new kingdom any time,” Johnny said for him, grinning and offering her a playful wink.

“As long as you bring those fruit snacks and candy,” Lu told her.

Bob walked over, a little envious of how much she seemed to be enjoying their attention. “Hey, you were going to show me how to climb the monkey bars one more time, right?”

“Well,” Johnny said, “We’ve got free time for learning, right?”

She gave a little curtsy with her poncho, and then seemed to change her mind and switch to a deep bow instead. “Well I’d be glad to teach the king and his men.”

“Little traitor,” John called over his shoulder as he started up the climbing wall.

“Hey, I never pledged my allegiance,” she called back, laughing, “Musicians don’t have to be loyal to anybody.”

Bob thought he’d never met anybody so perfect in his whole life.

“Off to the monkey bars,” Lu called, grinning.

“In the name of the king,” Johnny added, marching ahead.

John climbed up aboard the ship, standing at the wheel and looking out at the rest of the park. Finally. He set the book down carefully, making sure it was in a tidy, safe little location. He’d assured Brian it would be, after all. And maybe he’d even look through it, boring as it was, if he got a moment.

“Well, he’s finally got his ship,” George commented, glancing up.

“Yeah, hasn’t he?” Paul crossed his arms.

John peeked over the edge of the ship curiously at the three boys waiting down below. “Well what are you doing down there?” he called.

“We were going to go play in the sandbox,” Ringo told him.

“No, forget that,” John said, and he patted the edge of the ship, grinning. “Come on up, boys. A captain is nothing without his crew.” xxxxxxx

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