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rosethornewrites · 3 years

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Fic: the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break, ch. 16

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secrets, Crying, Masks, Soulmates, Truth, Self-Esteem Issues, Regret, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Fix-It, Eventual Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, wwx needs a hug, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Filial Piety, Handfasting, Phobias, Sleeping Together, Fear, Panic Attacks, Love Confessions, Getting Together, First Kiss, Kissing, Boys Kissing, Family, and they were married, Bathing/Washing, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Feels, Sex Education, Implied Sexual Content, First Time, Aftercare, Morning After, Afterglow, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Hand Jobs, Chronic Pain, Biting, Conversations, Self-Sacrifice, POV Third Person, POV Lan WangJi

Summary: The Jiang siblings visit the Burial Mounds. Feels are had.

Warning: Involves bugs as food. For Notes, see end.

AO3 link

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

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Lan Wangji is unsurprised, and somewhat relieved, when Wen Qing takes one look at Wei Ying upon their return to the Burial Mounds and tells him to go take a nap with A-Yuan.

His husband had already been swaying dangerously in the Yiling market when they had bought supplies, and had tried to insist Jiang Yanli ride in the cart while he walk, though he had quickly been overruled when Wen Ning, of all people, pointed out they could both ride comfortably if someone had a qiankun pouch for their purchases. Jiang Wanyin had pulled one from his sleeve, one that seemed oddly full, and Wen Ning helped place their purchases in it.

“Get in the damn cart, moron,” the Jiang sect leader said when Wei Ying hesitated.

“A-Xian, come ride with me,” Jiang Yanli coaxed, taking his arm and steering him to it herself.

Wei Ying was exhausted enough to fall asleep on her shoulder, despite the bumpy ride, on the way back, A-Yuan snuggled in his sister’s arms. He doesn’t look particularly refreshed when they have to wake him.

Despite his exhaustion, Wei Ying still tries to argue against a nap, eying his siblings, clearly considering their visit more important than his health. Lan Wangji finds his disregard for his own well-being concerning, but is well aware it isn’t unusual, just something they need to break him of.

“I told them,” he says. “In town. I bet they have questions, and—”

“I can answer their questions, Wei Wuxian!” she cuts in. “I performed the surgery, after all. You’re delegating the task to me and going to take a nap before I bring out the needles—don’t think I won’t knock you out.”

The mention of her needles clearly cows him, but he still seems hesitant.

“It’s our turn to take care of things,” Jiang Wanyin says, not looking at him. “You’ve done enough, Wei Wuxian.”

“More than enough,” Jiang Yanli murmurs, and reaches forward to pull him into a gentle hug. “Let us take care of our A-Xian, hm?”

Wei Ying seems frozen for a moment in the embrace, but relaxes into it. Lan Wangji can see him tremble as he hugs her back, and he knows, for the moment, they’ve won. It’s a small triumph, but at this point he’ll take it.

“Okay, shijie,” he says finally. “Xianxian will take a nap with Yuanyuan.”

She lets him go and pats his cheek in a way that reminds Lan Wangji of his mother when he was very young.

A-Yuan insists on giving his guma a hug before he lets Wei Ying take his hand and lead him toward the cave.

“Go with him,” Wen Qing insists, to his surprise.

It must show somehow, because she sighs.

“I told you when you came: you take care of him. That’s your job. I’ll take care of this—I wrote Jiang-guniang, after all.”

Lan Wangji nods, privately relieved his presence isn’t required for this conversation. He bows to each of them before leaving, including Wen Qing as a thank you even though it makes her huff in embarrassment.

As he takes longer strides to catch up with Wei Ying, he can hear Jiang Yanli speak to Wen Qing in a sweet voice that is likely terrifying up close in how it utterly fails to hide her ferocious protectiveness of her beloved adoptive brother—he mentally wishes Wen Qing luck.

He picks up A-Yuan and gets a startled glance from Wei Ying, who is not quite to the point of barely standing, but close enough that Lan Wangji wraps his free arm around him to steady him as they make their way to the cave.

A-Yuan babbles sleepily about having a new aunt and uncle, having been largely unaffected by the tension in town, and before long they’re both tucked in. Wei Ying doesn’t bother removing his boots, so Lan Wangji does it for him.

Before he can rise, Wei Ying reaches out for him, his eyes half-lidded as he’s already being pulled toward sleep, in what Lan Wangji recognizes as a plea for him to stay, to sit on the bed and let him be close as he sleeps. After the stress of the afternoon on his husband, he is happy to oblige, happy Wei Ying would ask, even silently, for his support.

“I will stay,” he tells him, settling beside him on the bed, letting Wei Ying tuck close and use his thigh as a pillow.

Not to be left out, A-Yuan clambers over them and settles curled between them against Wei Ying’s stomach, his face pressed into the front of his robe as he falls asleep. Lan Wangji draws the blanket up over both of them.

He has used the table near the bed both as a desk and to play the guqin, so it is no trouble to carefully stack the papers next to the bed and slide the inkstone back so he can pull out Wangji.

Wei Ying lets out a soft sigh, the tension leaving his body, as he starts ‘WuJi.’ The song has been a comfort to his husband, he knows, when he himself failed to be, and he hopes to soon work on a new song, something that will capture the joy he finds in their marriage. The circumstances in which they and the people Wei Ying rescued live are less than ideal, and he wishes he could take him from this place of darkness and the memories of the horror he still cannot speak of, but they are together, and that is much preferable to being alone in the Cloud Recesses.

Before long, Wei Ying is asleep, and he segues into songs of cleansing and healing. Without a golden core, without Wen Qing’s needles, the latter has little impact—but little isn’t none, and he is still recovering. Every little bit helps, and after the stress of the day, he helps the only way he can, aside from serving as Wei Ying’s pillow.

He loses himself in the music, coming close to a meditative state as he plays. Time passes like sand through fingers before he hears hesitant steps enter the cave.

Lan Wangji pauses in his playing, recognizing two sets of footsteps, one the shuffling gait of Wen Ning, and the other softer. He is unsurprised when Jiang Yanli is the second set.

He is also unsurprised to see her face wet with tears.

Wen Ning offers her a short bow, then hefts the bathtub from their alcove as he does daily, kindly bringing fresh water and herbs for Wei Ying to use at night. He nods to him in thanks.

Jiang Yanli returns Wen Ning’s bow, and his esteem of her rises—many failed to give that respect to him in life, and more would likely refuse to now that he is a corpse, spiritual conscious or not. But Wei Ying’s sister recognizes him as he is: family.

Though the reverberation of the strings has ceased, the motion of stilling them is a comfort to Lan Wangji as he waits for her to speak. She watches her brother sleep for a while.

“Wen-guniang… She said he’s in pain,” she finally says.

Lan Wangji nods to confirm.

“That he’s been in pain since— since the war, and we didn’t…”

More tears spill down her cheeks, and he knows if Wei Ying were awake he would spring to comfort her.

“He hid it,” he tells her softly. “You could not have known.”

She makes a sound that is almost pained.

“I raised him. I knew something was wrong, and I didn’t—“

Jiang Yanli presses her fist against her mouth.

“I led him to believe I disdained him and wished for him to be punished,” Lan Wangji says.

His failure to communicate had led to the strain of their relationship, to the point where Wei Ying had questioned whether he was still his zhiji, and he will forever regret letting him walk away into the darkness and rain even after that. He empathizes with her completely.

She is silent for a while before she nods.

“Wen-guniang has an idea,” she says. “She said Zewu-Jun pointed out that there is a life debt among our generation. The six of us, A-Xuan, and Nie Huaisang. An auspicious eight. Swearing brotherhood… It could protect A-Xian, and the people here.”

Xiongzhang had hinted at it, and Lan Wangji is glad Wen Qing is furthering the possibility.

“It would tie together the four sects, and the remnants of the Dafan Wen,” he adds, thinking aloud.

“A-Cheng pointed out that the lotus blossom has eight petals,” she says, smiling wistfully. “He and A-Xian used to talk about being the Twin Prides of Yunmeng. It seems almost like a sign.”

Lan Wangji is struck silent at the idea; the eight auspicious signs are almost sacred, and the imagery would be iconic. The imagery was prevalent at temples—the eternal wheel of life, the endless knot, the conch, the parasol, the lotus…

The noble eightfold path, an expansion of the threefold way.

Almost implying an expansion of the Venerated Triad, and associating Wei Ying with the noble path regardless of his cultivation.

“Apt,” he says when he finally finds his voice.

“I’ll talk to A-Xuan,” she says, her voice distant. “I know he and A-Xian didn’t get off on the right foot, but he knows I love my didi.”

“Xiongzhang is bringing Chifeng-Zun and Nie Huaisang to see the settlement after your wedding,” Lan Wangji tells her. “I am certain Wen Qing will broach the topic of a sworn brotherhood with them then.”

Jiang Yanli sways slightly, and he panics for a moment; if he needs to move to catch her, it will jostle and wake Wei Ying, and he needs the rest. But she steadies herself, and he is able to gesture to a chair instead, and she takes a seat.

“Hanguang-Jun, since you are my brother’s husband, I wondered if I might call you A-Zhan.”

The request to use his birth name surprises him—xiongzhang had only requested to call Wei Ying by his courtesy name—but she seems earnest about wanting to welcome him to the family.

“Of course. May I call you… A-Li?”

A smile blossoms across her face, and she nods, looking pleased.

Then Wei Ying murmurs in his sleep and their attention snaps to him. Lan Wangji strokes his hair gently, letting his fingers brush his scalp in a way he knows soothes him. He settles almost instantly, but he doesn’t stop his ministrations.

Jiang Yanli, when he next looks up, is watching with a bittersweet look on her face.

“I used to do that for him,” she says softly, “when he had nightmares. Until he started hiding them.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to say, so only nods. He understands her sense of helplessness, knowing Wei Ying is adept at hiding his pain, would still be hiding it if not for having pulled his wrist away a second too late.

“I wish he was coming to my wedding,” she confesses, her voice breaking. “He belongs there. But they’d try to kill him.”

He cannot disagree with either statement. Wei Ying should be there, as one of her last remaining family members, even if he did not share her blood, but it would never be permitted. Not now. Not until the plan xiongzhang implied to Wen Qing is put into motion.

But by then she will be married, the wedding over, and Wei Ying will not have been permitted to attend.

“You have done what you can to include him,” he tells her, hoping to soothe her. “He did not expect this much.”

It seems to have the opposite effect, tears lining her cheeks again.

“He never expects anything of us,” she whispers. “Mother made him feel undeserving, like he should feel grateful for any scrap. I try not to hate her for it, but…”

Lan Wangji can understand how she feels, has seen the marks from Zidian on Wei Ying, still healing when he gave his core to his brother, something he has probably hidden from his sister even through everything. And he knows Wei Ying feels he deserves those marks, believing the fall of Lotus Pier to be of his doing. The emotional damage goes far deeper.

“We can only assure him he deserves more,” he says after a moment. “And be sure to give it to him.”

He has been trying to do so, but it never feels like enough to make up for abandoning him at Qiongqi Path, for failing to join him on the righteous path, even if it is the single-plank one, for making his zhiji believe he reviled him. He understands how Jiang Yanli feels—though perhaps she feels it more deeply, or at least differently, as the person who basically raised him.

Footsteps approach from the cave entrance, Wen Ning with the tub filled with fresh water, something he has insisted upon doing since it was purchased. At some point during each day, he cleans and fills it, even preparing a fresh sachet of herbs to help Wei Ying recover. Truthfully, even with Lan Wangji’s arm strength he doubts he could lift it as easily as the fierce corpse is able, and he is grateful for his thoughtfulness.

“Than—thank you for waiting, Jiang-guniang,” he says after setting it down. “Popo is waiting to help us in the k-kitchen with preparing dinner.”

Jiang Yanli favors him with a smile.

“Thank you, Wen-gongzi.”

“Ah, you c-can just call me Wen Ning,” he says, looking flustered as he often does when people offer respect to him.

“Then you must call me Jiang Yanli.”

Wen Ning looks like he might protest, but she turns to Lan Wangji before he can, dipping into a proper and respectful bow.

“A-Zhan, thank you for taking care of A-Xian. It is…”

Her voice cracks, emotions nearly overcoming her again. It takes her a moment to recover.

“It is a relief to know someone else is here for him when I cannot be. I entrust him to your care.”

The formality, Lan Wangji realizes, is her approval of their union. Warmth spreads through him at her acceptance.

“However,” she says, a slight smile on her face that is also somehow fierce. “I think you will agree with me that A-Xian deserves a real wedding, at Lotus Pier, as soon as it is possible.”

The image of Wei Ying sitting on a bed in Nightless City in his red underrobes, the joy of his waking mixing with the wish they were wedding robes… that Jiang Yanli wants to ensure they receive that, that their union can be celebrated, if belatedly, in the way Wei Ying deserves to be honored.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I agree.”

She nods, clearly pleased.

“It will happen, A-Zhan; I’ll make sure of it.”

Lan Wangji has absolutely no doubt she will.

She leaves with Wen Ning, and he remembers her intention to cool the soup Wei Ying so loves for the settlement. It will be a welcome meal for them all.

Though he could resume playing, Lan Wangji opts to sink into a meditative state instead, waiting. He doesn’t need to wait long, as footsteps that are almost stomps approach and enter the cave.

He is ready to stare at Jiang Wanyin disapprovingly, but the steps hesitate, becoming uncertain, on the way to the alcove.

“He’s still resting,” Lan Wangji says before he can speak.

Jiang Wanyin’s face does something strange, going soft for a moment as he gazes at his brother and nephew, the top of A-Yuan’s head just visible poking out from beneath the blanket. Then his expression shutters.

“He needs the rest, then?” he asks.

“Mn. He is recovering. He also was giving most of his food to A-Yuan before I arrived. He is finally eating properly.”

The muscles in the Jiang sect leader’s jaw clench, working as though he’s stopping himself from saying something—or, more likely, yelling.

“He always gives too much,” Jiang Wanyin says finally.

Lan Wangji nods; he agrees with that assessment.

“I want to bring him back to Lotus Pier.”

The announcement is unexpected, and he reconsiders his assessment of the man.

“He will not leave these people.”

“I know that. The Wens too, of course.”

“They do not wish to be known as Wens,” Lan Wangji tells him, and watches Wei Ying sleep for a moment to be certain he won’t hear before continuing. “I believe they hope to take on Wei as a family name. They have not broached the subject with Wei Ying yet.”

Jiang Wanyin sits heavily in the chair his sister vacated, sighing.

“He’ll do that thing. Where he belittles himself,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s like he believes all the awful things a-niang said about him.”

Because he does believe them, Lan Wangji is well aware. His anger at a dead woman is unbecoming, but it will likely never fade. She trained Wei Ying to see himself as worthless, as a charity case, when he was one of the best cultivators of their generation. Even without his core, he was still inventing tools to help the cultivation world that slanders and wishes him dead.

“Not that I’m much better. He’s my brother and I fucking abandoned him,” Jiang Wanyin mutters. “And I accused him of abandoning me, on top of it. When—when he left a big piece of himself with me to protect me.”

It occurs to Lan Wangji that perhaps both Jiang Wanyin and Jiang Yanli suffered their own childhood traumas associated with bad parenting, that this is perhaps just a variation of that which has led Wei Ying down his path of self-destruction through giving too much, through not valuing himself. His own troubled upbringing led him to value his clan and the Lan rules over his zhiji, to believe his identity must be tied up in being a perceived paragon of Lan virtue above all else. Theirs led to Wei Ying’s isolation as well.

“You had no way of knowing,” he says. “Now that you know, you are trying to help him.”

What they do now does not absolve them of their wrongs, but it is a start.

Jiang Wanyin’s jaw clenches again, then releases when he sighs.

“I can’t undo the shitty stuff I said to him. You’ll come to Lotus Pier with him, right?”

“Of course,” Lan Wangji says, surprised that’s in question. “He’s my husband.”

He receives a nod in response.

“He’ll need bigger quarters, then, for you and A-Yuan. I could give him a-niang’s old quarters, but I don’t know if he’d want to live where she did. He deserves them as my head disciple, so maybe if I remodel them…”

Jiang Wanyin seems to be thinking out loud.

“Wei Ying is still your head disciple?” he asks, having not realized.

“Yeah,” Jiang Wanyin says, then grimaces. “I never took him off the register. Kicking him out was for show, because he insisted. He never stopped being head disciple, but he probably doesn’t realize that.”

He likely doesn’t, knowing Wei Ying. Wei Ying, who still believes himself responsible for the fall of Lotus Pier, for the deaths that were a part of it. Even being head disciple, there will be much he cannot do, lacking a golden core.

“I can help with his duties,” Lan Wangji offers impulsively.

Jiang Wanyin blinks at him, startled, then smiles in a way that makes him look painfully young.

“Appreciated. He’ll… Well, he’ll need help with some of it. At least until Wen Qing figures out a way to help him.”

Lan Wangji realizes the Jiang sect leader is still hoping there’s a solution, that Wei Ying will again achieve the impossible.

“She’s going to make a list of things she’ll need to get started,” Jiang Wanyin continues. “And I’ll work to get ahold of them.”

A-Yuan stirs before Lan Wangji can reply.

“Loud,” he murmurs. “A-Die sleeping, shhhh.”

He wriggles his way out from under the blanket, somehow managing not to disturb Wei Ying as he does, then crawls off the bed.

“Jiang-shushu loud.”

His voice is pitched in an almost theatrical whisper, and Jiang Wanyin snorts in amusement.

“Okay,” he whispers back, also theatrical. “Let’s leave your a-die to sleep and go find guma, then.”

A-Yuan glances back at Wei Ying, then at Lan Wangji, who nods encouragingly. Then he turns back to Jiang Wanyin and holds his arms up expectantly.

Jiang Wanyin stands, pulling A-Yuan into his arms as he does.

“I’ll watch the kid. It looks like everyone else is busy right now.”

Lan Wangji simply nods in response. A-Yuan chatters softly to his uncle as they make their way out of the cave, leaving him alone with Wei Ying.

Jiang Wanyin’s absence is a relief. He finds it difficult still not to resent him for his choice to abandon Wei Ying, for the fact that Wei Ying’s core now rests within him, even for his desperate hope that his brother will somehow heal enough to form a new one. In far too many ways, it’s not enough, just as anything Lan Wangji does now cannot make up for his own failures.

He reminds him of Wei Ying’s mortality, as unfair as that may be.

Resentment will help nothing, may even be exacerbated now by the Burial Mounds, so Lan Wangji works to focus instead on the sensation of Wei Ying’s hair against his fingers, the weight of his head on his thigh, his soft breaths, and he is eventually able to fall into a sort of meditation until Wen Qing comes to fetch them.

“Jiang-zongzhu set up the tablets for the adoption rites, so we can start with those,” she tells Wei Ying once he’s awake.

Wei Ying stares at her blearily for a moment.

“Adopting A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji prompts gently.

Wen Qing gives him a disapproving look.

“He’s very excited, and your siblings can serve as witnesses.”

“Right. Sorry. Been a long day,” Wei Ying murmurs, then glances at Lan Wangji. “It’s still today, right?”

Lan Wangji brushes a lock of hair back from his face.

“Mm. You slept only a few hours.”

Wei Ying melts into his touch, and he leans forward to brush his lips against his forehead. Wen Qing clears her throat and drops a bundle on the bed.

“Your sister also made Jiang-zongzhu go back into town and buy nice clothing for you and A-Yuan for the adoption rites.”

She indicates the bundle.

“So hurry up and get changed. She cooked up a feast, and everyone’s hungry. I think she’s determined to give you a proper wedding banquet.”

Wen Qing, ever brusque, turns on her heel and leaves before either of them can respond.

Wei Ying opens the bundle on the bed, blinking at the high quality clothing. The fabric, at a glance, looks black, but has threadwork in a deep blue and purple. It sends a message from Jiang Wanyin: Wei Ying is of the Jiang sect still. A red underrobe, new zhong yi, a red silk hair ribbon embroidered with little pink lotuses, and even new boots complete the package.

“Aiya, Jiang Cheng… How can I wear these?”

“You were not removed from the sect registry. He insists you are still his head disciple.

“Oh,” Wei Ying breathes, taking a heavy seat on the bed, clearly overwhelmed.

Lan Wangji wonders if he should tell Wei Ying the rest—that Jiang Wanyin intends to bring everyone at Burial Mounds to Lotus Pier permanently when it is feasible. But he will leave that to the Jiang sect leader.

Instead he opens his qiankun pouch and pulls out the light blue robes he arrived wearing, which he hasn’t worn in days. If dinner is in part for them, he should dress appropriately, as well.

Changing takes little time, though Lan Wangji has Wei Ying sit for his hair to be combed and put back in its crown, as it came loose as he slept.

The entire settlement is waiting for them in the hall when they enter, and though only Wen Qing has seen an official adoption rite, she demurs from describing it.

“It was Wen Zhuliu’s, so it feels like bad luck to copy it,” she says when pressed.

None of them argue.

“We should have seen an adoption rite,” Jiang Wanyin mutters.

Wei Ying seems not to have heard, focused on A-Yuan. He takes the child’s hand and leads him to the space where someone has set up an altar with his parents’ tablets, complete with sticks of incense and food offerings: three cups holding tea, water, and Jifu’s fruit wine, plates with small stacks of oranges and sweets. A fire burns in a small brazier in front of the altar, a stack of joss paper set nearby.

For a moment, Wei Ying is completely silent, looking at the altar as though struck.

Jiang Yanli breaks the silence.

“You’ve never been able to venerate them,” she murmurs.

Lan Wangji understands suddenly: there was no place set for Wei Ying’s parents’ tablets at Lotus Pier, and so his husband has never been able to properly pay them respects—cruel, given their bodies were never found to begin with.

“Thank you, shijie.”

His voice is heavy with emotion, and he kneels and gestures to A-Yuan to do the same.

Wei Ying keeps it simple, first apologizing for being unable to do his filial duty for them, kowtowing before them. A-Yuan copies him dutifully, and this receives smiles from the others.

“A-Die, a-niang, I want to introduce my son to you, Wei Yuan. He may not share my blood, but he is your sunzi. I ask you to help me protect and guide him, if you are able. This one will do a better job honoring you in the future.”

He murmurs something to A-Yuan, who bows as best he can.

“Wei Yuan greets yeye and nainai. A-Yuan will burn joss and incense and clean your altar. A-Yuan promises to be filial.”

They light the incense using the brazier, then burn joss together, letting the paper fall into the flame piece by piece.

Lan Wangji longs to join them, to thank Wei Ying’s parents for bringing him into the world, and Wei Ying turns to him as though hearing those thoughts. When his husband gestures, he steps forward to take his place kneeling beside him.

“A-Die, a-niang, I also want to introduce you to my husband,” Wei Ying says, blushing as though they’ve not been wed over a week. “We completed our bows, but not before your tablets.”

They bow together, three times again.

“Fuqin, muqin, thank you for Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, bowing one last time alone. “I promise to honor him, and to protect him and Wei Yuan.”

They burn the remaining joss together, as a family, before standing.

Jiang Yanli rushes forward to hug Wei Ying, who pulls Lan Wangji and A-Yuan into it. There’s a warmth to it that he isn’t used to, his own family reserved, and it surprises him as much as xiongzhang’s hug did.

“Ah, I have a new didi and an adorable zizhi!” she says happily, then pulls at their arms as she releases them from the embrace. “We prepared a nice meal to celebrate, come!”

The tables are covered in dishes, the serving bowls and platters clearly heated by talismans to keep the food at an ideal temperature.

“The guests of honor fill their plates first,” popo says insistently, clicking her tongue when Wei Ying gestures for her to go ahead. “A-Xian is still too thin!”

Wei Ying startles at the affectionate address and she smiles and pats his arm.

Lan Wangji steps forward first, recognizing the futility of refusing popo’s demand. There is a bowl with chili sauce on the table, likely Wei Ying’s favorite kind. The dishes range from the familiar—the lotus root and pork rib soup he was introduced to earlier in a huge tureen, braised pork belly with mushrooms and bok choy, tea eggs, fried radish cakes, baozi, cucumber salad, sautéed dock root and millet with Sichuan peppercorns that would make his mouth numb—to the unfamiliar. He recognizes noodles cooked with what looks like water spinach and shaved carrot, mixed with, upon closer look, crisp-fried silkworm pupae.

He doesn’t realize Wei Ying is beside him until he makes an intrigued noise.

“Where did we get those? Shijie, did you bring them?”

“A-Ning found a copse of mulberry a few nights ago,” Wen Qing tells them. “He brought the silkworm cocoons to the aunties to unwind so we can sell the silk. He harvested the berries, too.”

“We—we cooked them with d-dessert,” Wen Ning adds.

Though he is aware that silkworm pupae are commonly sold at market when silk is harvested, Lan Wangji has never had occasion to try them. Despite the fact that silk is harvested by the GusuLan weavers and used in robes for the clan, the production is kept out of the Cloud Recesses because the cocoons are boiled to extract the intact silk, killing the pupae in the process, and killing any creature, even an insect, is prohibited within the bounds of the Cloud Recesses. Presumably the pupae are sold in Caiyi, but meat is not a staple in his home.

But he was raised not to be a picky eater, and insects are a viable source of protein, something sorely needed by the people living here. Wei Ying seems content to serve himself and A-Yuan a large helping, so Lan Wangji does the same, placing a wide variety of dishes on his own plate to sample, but avoiding the chili sauce for the sake of his palate.

“I put in fewer peppercorns than I usually do,” Jiang Yanli murmurs to him. “I know you like milder dishes.”

He nods his thanks, and lets her press a bowl of soup into his free hand.

She follows him with two more to place before Wei Ying and A-Yuan, then pinches her brother’s cheek as though he’s a child.

“Eat the whole plate, Xianxian, and then you’ll get dessert.”

He is quietly pleased when Wei Ying plays along with a bright smile.

“But what if Xianxian wants more?”

She leans forward and kisses his brow like a mother might.

“Xianxian can have as much as he wants. Popo and Wen Ning helped me cook plenty. And dessert is mulberry millet pudding sweetened with honey, so I know you’ll like it.”

Then she turns to A-Yuan and favors him with the same treatment.

“You too. Eat plenty so you can grow big and strong.”

“A-Die plants me with the radishes so I will!” A-Yuan says proudly, and those within earshot laugh.

Jiang Yanli’s laughter is not unlike the gentle ringing of the bells the Jiang sect wears at their belts. She turns to him, patting his shoulder affectionately.

“A-Zhan as well. Your strength is important. More than three bowls if you want.”

The reference to the rules of the Cloud Recesses is nostalgic, but not in a painful way. It is more a reminder that he will now uphold the rules as he sees fit, now that his home is Wei Ying.

They are surrounded by familiar chatter, the smell of food of a more quality fare than any at the Burial Mounds have had in some time, and the warmth of family.

He hopes this can be the sort of happiness that awaits them for some time.

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

In my culture, generally we don’t eat insects/bugs and often find it intrinsically disgusting. I’ve never eaten insects/bugs. However, my biases are not applicable to the culture I am writing into. My understanding from friends is that there are many insects and arachnids commonly eaten in China. A close friend of mine has eaten ant eggs, grasshoppers, and other insects. Another has mentioned tacos that involve insects as a common ingredient in Mexico. In China, markets often have fried scorpions on a stick, grasshoppers, and many other insects as street food for purchase.

Given life on the Burial Mounds involves a lot of scraping by, I’d imagine some of their meals involve insects, which culturally wouldn’t be unusual. Likely if there were insects in the Burial Mounds, eating them helped Wei Wuxian survive them. They’d be an important source of protein.

While silkworm pupae are often fried in peanut oil and eaten on skewers or like nuts, from my research, my friend believed the dish I concocted in here was believable. (I also researched what the taste and texture is, but decided not to include it.) She also said the dessert of mulberry millet pudding is something eaten in southern China, which I didn’t know—I just knew it sounded like it’d be delicious.

In terms of the millet, meta discussions of MDZS have involved the fact that millet was likely more common (and less expensive) than rice at rough time of the setting, so I included that.

My friend was kind enough to read for cultural sensitivity regarding the auspicious eight, adoption rites, and ancestor veneration, so I hope they read well. This is a chapter I was particularly worried about because of the cultural aspects, and I hope it reads well.

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allycryz · 4 years

Note

Duende - Uri & Haurche :3

PG because Haurchefant makes innuendo, set during early Stormblood.

The first draft of this was super easy to get out. The edits were a little harder because Urianger’s voice is very different from mine, but a good challenge all the same!!

‘Tis expected of a Scion to battle as expertly as one might pen a treatise. Urianger schedules two ventures per day to hone his physical talents: a bracing run before dawn and a lengthy solo training session at dusk. For the latter, he takes to the rocky shore along the coast line. The precarious climb to his preferred spot (providing both privacy and space) is part of his regimen.

Urianger picks the times when visibility is low and most residents occupied. Small talk is not his wont, nor is he at ease with those not in his immediate circle. There is something about his unmasked, unhooded face that gives strangers tacit permission to approach.

His position and decorum dictate that he engage somewhat in chatter during his errands. The residents do not press overmuch, for which he is grateful. Still, the task fits him worse than the too-small aldgoat leather gloves Lyse gifted him on his last Nameday. (Except, those he could not put on as easily as he might a polite demeanor. They refused to go past the breadth of his palm.)

There are days when the convenience of sunrise and sunset for sundry reasons, prove incompatible with other needs such as visibility and safety.

The unexpected rain pours down as he wends his weary way up the cliffs. It sluices through his hair, running rivulets over his brow. For the dozenth time, he swipes at his face and squints against the onslaught.

His feet remember where to place, his hands where to grip for balance. These are his cliffs and his winding, narrow path. No one knows it better. Should that memory etched into his muscle fail, a fall here would not be deadly.

‘Twould be painful though, and impact his duties for the next few days. For that latter reason–above all–he takes longer than usual along the rain-slicked terrain.

There, he thinks as he nears the safety of the plateau. Urianger blows out a soft breath of relief, relaxing muscles he has kept tense during the arduous journey. For this stretch he has always found it best to walk sideways, arms spread for balance. It has never been a treacherous spot, simply steep enough to warrant caution.

Today, treachery comes at last. He takes a step up the incline, shifts to lift the other foot. The slippery grass beneath his boots gives way and both feet shoot out from under him. He has enough presence of mind to throw his gravity forward rather than backwards.

The impact is unpleasant but survivable; naught but his palms and dignity scraped. Dirt and mud bespatter the front of his shorter training robe. The cotton garment ends below his knees, the boots just above. Thus the joints are spared injury besides a dull ache. He chooses an ignominious crawl up to the plateau rather than risk another fall by rising on the sodden incline.

The rain is not so courteous as to clean his garments. It does offer some reprieve as he turns his stinging palms up to the sky and rubs the rainwater against the creases of grime and grass.

Ah, well. Rain is uncommon enough that he should be glad when it comes. Should his comrades ever summon him to battle in such precipitation, he shall be well-prepared. Lord Haurchefant oft speaks of how training in winter climes these five years have better forged him for difficult conflict. (Urianger suspects it is not only snow and ice that stood in the knight’s way.)

He finds himself smiling, thinking of his new colleague. Though their base is near underground, ‘tis not wholly cut off from the outside world. Vents let in sunlight, rain can be heard pouring upon the streets. Like as not, Haurchefant put a kettle on soon as he perceived the change in weather.

The Waking Sands are enchanted to remain a cool temperature. If the sun does return in full force, they shall not overheat drinking cocoa.

Befouled, bedraggled, and besodden; he returns to the outskirts of Vesper Bay. The twilight and the rain have not put off the residents. A knot of people gathers near the market stalls, the hum of their voices rising just above the thrum of rain upon roof and stone and sea. The citizens hold cloaks and hands over their head as shields, one has a parasol meant for sun and aesthetics.

‘Tis a lovely pink one with expensive-seeming trim. A shame it is likely ruined.

The reason for their cluster becomes apparent. Lord Haurchefant is the focus upon which they circle, tallest among them save two other residents. His silvered head is bent to them as they harken to his low voice. This eve, he has garbed himself in a long scarlet coat over his usual apparel. ‘Tis the first time he has donned sleeves since his arrival.

(For all the good it did me to be tempered by winter, his lordship had said. It does make me rather pitiful in a desert. I shall do my best to acclimate to Thanalan.)

They all gaze upon him with utter rapture. It has ever been so, since his lordship’s residence began in the Waking Sands while Urianger’s comrades and Haurchefant’s love continued on to Gyr Abania. Their adoration is not due solely to his fair countenance or noble title, though both must aid the cause.

There is an...openness in him that beguiles all he meets. Urianger has witnessed the surliest residents and most peevish of vendors open like blossoms to the sun when Haurchefant turns the glory of his attention upon them. Such an unusual power he has seldom witnessed and never from so kind a soul as this knight.

There is no avoiding this throng, even would it not be unconscionably rude to avoid his guest. At least there is a smaller chance of strangers engaging him in conversation. Not with a beacon such as Haurchefant seizing their attention, both intentionally and involuntarily.

“-suppose he will be alright, he knows the land better than I.” He hears Haurchefant saying as he approaches. His noble brow is drawn down, his battle-sculpted arms folded. “But do let me know if you see him. No one expected this rainfall.”

Doth he….speak of me? Urianger wonders. As if attuned to his thoughts, his lordship turns his way. Surprise, then relief, and then rapture all pass across his handsome features.

“Urianger!” He exclaims. “Thank the Fury. I was worried–I know you favor treacherous paths,and with the dark and the rain…”

“I am well,” says Urianger. “Thy concern is much appreciated and noted. ‘Twould have been a perilous journey had I not been close acquainted with yon cliffs.”

Haurchefant steps towards him, gaze sweeping up and down. Lingering on his bare face, throat, and collar. “It seems it was perilous for your clothes. Let’s get you inside and taken care of, yes?”

One of the crowd smiles at Urianger. Mara, he recalls, the tall Hyur woman who hawks fruit. “Well, we’re glad you’re alright, ser. I was just telling June that I worry when I see you go off in the dark.”

“Ah,” he says, trying to recall which is June. The baker. Yonder woman with the braids who oft gives thee extra tea biscuits. “Tis not my intent to cause worry. I am well versed in the land and how best to scale it.”

“Even knowing that, do be careful.” Mara gives an imperious nod. Others nod as well, their eyes on him and not the handsome knight.

He can only nod again, bearing and smile stiff. He does not recall all their names. It makes him feel the most ill-mannered of scoundrels. He sweeps into a bow towards them, hoping it goes to some measure in repaying their concerns. “I shall endeavor to have a care, my lady. Your solicitous care bringeth warmth into mine heart, ‘tis only right I do well by all gathered.”

She smiles and pats his arm. This seems a signal for all to disperse, more residents bestowing upon him pats and nods. It is a wholly alien experience, and he considers he may be lying at the bottom of the cliff in the midst of a delusion. Surely he is not dear to all these people with whom he barely speaks.

“Come friend,” Haurchefant says. “You need to get out of those wet clothes and have something warm in your belly.”

“Thou art just as sodden,” says Urianger. “Pray also attend to yourself. Thou shouldst not catch sick for mine sake.”

“Ah but I would have done so gladly if I had to save you today.” The knight’s smile is wide again, fair dazzling in its potency. Again, Urianger is astonished any resident would look at him with Haurchefant there. Do they not sense the charm radiating from his very core? “I do thank you, for arriving when you did. There are much better games we might play in the dark than hide and seek.”

Urianger near trips on the steps up to the door. Of course, Haurchefant is there to catch him, strong hands righting his balance and smoothing over his back.

“I beg thine pardon,” says Urianger. Regretful that he has no mask or hood to hide the heat upon his cheeks. As Lord Haurchefant is cheeky himself to everyone, he is likely used to it. ‘Tis not the first time Urianger has witnessed or received innuendo delivered so warmly from this man. “Mayhap I used more energy than I surmised, during my exertions today.”

“Yes,” Haurchefant nods, opening the door. “All the more reason for you to come relax with me once you have cleaned up. I shall not have you burying yourself in work when you have earned respite.”

“For a little while,” says Urianger. He glances back at the streets, at the residents seeking shelter in houses and under awnings. At the way some of them look at them–at him. Relief and concern and warmth in their gazes. He frowns and cannot lose the change to his mien, even in the warmth and dry of the building.

Haurchefant pauses at the top of the stares, giving his shoulders a roll before beginning his descent. ‘Tis late and his friend is often tense in his upper body by the time supper comes. He will need help working the knots loose again. Perhaps Urianger might put off his tasks even further to repay Haurchefant’s worry and concern.

As to everyone else in Vesper Bay, he is at a loss on how to make recompense.

His friend reaches the door to their sanctum and turns back, looking up at Urianger still upon the landing. “Dear Urianger, what is the matter? That’s a rather pensive expression.”

“...I didst not realise the depth of their regard for mine person. Yon residents and I art not particularly close.” He shakes his head.

“Oh,” says Haurchefant, that entrancing smile returning to his mouth. “Do ask me an easier one next time.”

Facetiousness is not Haurchefant’s way. The ironic reply seems out of character. “Yes, I am aware the reasoning seems difficult to determine-”

“‘Tis not.” Haurchefant’s eyes crinkle with laughter. It does not sting–there is no malice in it. He doubts such a quality resides in the knight. “You are quite charming, even when cloaked. It inspires others to take interest in you.”

For the second time, Urianger says “I beg thine pardon? I am not given to using mine wiles-”

“No, no. We should all be in trouble should you do it apurpose. But you have a natural draw that leads people to want to know you. As you signal that is not what you want, they have kept their distance.”

It is an absurd supposition that Haurchefant says with all the conviction of his noble heart. So much does he seem to believe it; that Urianger wants to also trust it, if only for his friend’s sake. “I am...uncertain of the validity of thy premise. However, thy kindness and belief warms my heart. Wouldst that every man hath such a friend as you, my lord.”

At this, Haurchefant lets out a clear, ringing laugh. Again, there is no mockery in it. The sound is joyful and pleased, as seductive a sound as every part of the man. ‘Tis a wonder such a man as he thinks his draw is mirrored in Urianger.

“So I must endeavor to convince you of it, till you are no longer agreeing to humor me.” Haurchefant opens the door, shivering at the blast of magically cooled air upon his wet person. “Well, I look forward to the process. One could do far worse than spending an evening convincing a beautiful man of his charms.”

To that, Urianger has no answer. Nor does Haurchefant expect one. He winks and enters the Waking Sands, door closing behind him.

It occurs to him and the rapid beating of his heart, there is a reason he perceives Haurchefant as charming and beguiling and the one who everyone should desire. Projection has not been a key failing of his, but he has fallen prey to it before. And presently, it seems.

And Haurchefant is correct in one thing: there are far worse ways they might spend the evening. Perhaps Urianger shall put his work on hold tonight, to see the knight’s endeavor in full.

#haurchefant x urianger #background haurchefant x wol #ffxiv #:3 #ally writes

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alishbakhanus · 4 years

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Celebrate a relaxed outdoor wedding

An outdoor wedding is a dream for the newlyweds and guests. Of course, the planning is often a bit more extensive and you are heavily dependent on the weather, but it’s worth it!

We have summarized all information about getting married outdoors – whether in the garden, park or on the beach – and have lots of great suggestions and tips ready.

1. Outdoor wedding locations

A wedding in the country – getting married could hardly be more romantic. Which outdoor locations are suitable for such an event? Choose for yourself and see where you would like to celebrate your wedding outside:

Beach wedding

The bride in flip-flops, the groom in a straw hat and a delicious cocktail as a welcome drink? If you prefer a casual wedding, the beach motto is the right choice.

For many, a beach wedding is a dream that seems out of reach. If you don’t want to fly out your wedding party, you will also find great beach bars in the middle of Germany, where the beach feeling simply comes to you.

Sand, water and cocktails – if you and your guests create a holiday mood, the beach wedding in Germany is just as perfect!

Wedding at the lake

A romantic wedding motto with plenty of scope for decoration and beautiful actions.

For example, you could organize pedal boats and instead of a car parade all drive one behind the other out onto the lake – ideally at sunset

Forest wedding

Getting married under an old oak tree with brightly colored lanterns in the branches, a ring pillow made of moss and the wooden guest book? That sounds tempting! The only important thing is that in the end everything fits together harmoniously and that nature can be found in all decorative items.

The season of the year is particularly important for a forest wedding. Only in late spring are all the trees nice and green again. In autumn you can create a magical atmosphere through the colorful leaves, but then the winds can be stronger again.

Meadow wedding

Whether in the park around the corner or on the nearby farm – a wedding on the meadow in nature also brings many great opportunities.

Usually the meadow wedding is very relaxed and the party is more informal. This is why this motto is particularly suitable for weddings with a low budget, as luxury would be out of place here. .

Wedding in the garden

Do you or your parents have a spacious garden that would comfortably seat all of your guests? Perfect! Because getting married in the garden is not only the easiest, but usually also the cheapest option for an outdoor wedding celebration.

You can design your garden wedding exactly how you like and don’t have to adhere to guidelines. Only with regard to the volume of the music should you short-circuit yourself with the neighbors beforehand (or simply invite them all).

Depending on the number of guests, think about parking and how many toilets are available.

Wedding in the park

To celebrate your wedding in a public park, you need a permit from the municipality or city administration. It is an advantage if you can include a nearby café or restaurant. Otherwise you not only have to transport furniture, food and drinks, but also toilets and the power supply into the middle of the park. Unfortunately very time-consuming and expensive.

But if the organizational aspects are feasible, getting married in the park can be a very special experience for you and your guests.

Such a spring wedding in the park , when the wonderful flowers are blooming and the rays of the sun illuminate the fresh grass, is simply indescribable!

Wedding in the botanical garden

Getting married in the country, in the middle of the most amazing flowers and plants there is – wonderful! Many botanical gardens offer such a heavenly wedding and are well equipped for it.

This sweet bridal couple has come up with an animal motto for their outdoor wedding: A peacock wedding – the perfect motto for a wedding in the botanical garden, because there are often a few free-roaming animals there.

Wedding on the farm

Rural charm and a rustic atmosphere – for those who love nature and the informal, getting married on a farm is the right choice.

2. Celebrate your wedding outside – a bad weather contingency plan

The weather is unpredictable. Even in July or August there can be bright sunshine one day and pouring out of buckets the next.

So don’t rely on your luck, but forge an emergency plan. Then you can look forward to your wedding day much more relaxed.

Locations where the wedding can take place outside or inside, depending on the weather, are of course ideal.

If you don’t have that, you may rent an alternative location if there is not only showers, but continuous rain. Or does one of your friends have a party room, winter garden or something similar? Consider all the options and better plan twice.

Our tip: So that your mood does not go down in rainy weather, take out wedding weather insurance. The compensation of € 5,000 will surely make up for the rainy weather!

But even in extreme heat you should keep an eye on the well-being of your guests. Sufficient water and sun protection are essential on hot days, especially at an outdoor wedding.

If you celebrate your wedding outside in the summer, check out our 10 great ideas for a little cooling off!

Wedding fans are a nice idea of how you can provide refreshment for your guests during the wedding. Already placed on the chairs at the wedding ceremony or in a pretty basket, they are a practical guest gift for the summer heat.

3. The outfit for outdoor weddings

Food and drinks

Depending on the number of guests, it is advisable to have the physical well-being of the guests provided by a catering service or a food truck. This saves you a lot of organizational effort and distraction on the wedding day.

Don’t stress yourself or your family about trying to cook the food yourself. A catering service conjures up what you like and also brings dishes with you.

Seating

If you want to get married outside, there is a lot to organize. From beer benches to garden chairs decorated with chic covers – choose what suits your wedding.

Is it possible for family and friends to borrow bar tables, for example?

Then label the borrowed furniture well. The alternative: You can also borrow everything from a single source. This is often less time consuming, but of course it costs more.

Tents and umbrellas

Usually the most practical option is to set up the food and seating under one or more tents . So you are safe from possible showers. They also provide shade when it is very hot.

The side walls can be suspended as required so that outdoor fun is not spoiled. For the evening you could also think about a tent heater or patio heaters.

There are enough tent rental companies, it is best to get several offers and get advice on how big the tents should be. The music and technology should also be housed in a separate tent.

Also consider who should set up the tents in the morning and plan helpers.

For the outdoor wedding, you can put up a few parasols instead of tents in case the weather gets extremely hot.

Power supply

There must be enough electricity for the music, microphones and any lighting system. Is an extension cable enough or do you need a generator?

It’s best to discuss this with the DJ and ask if he’ll take care of it. Incidentally, you can find DJs near you in our business directory.

Also keep in mind that food and drinks should be kept cool.

Candles and gas lamps are ideal for the light in the evening. Only the area where program items and wedding games are presented should be well lit – after all, every wedding guest wants to be able to see the performance properly.

Sanitary facilities

If you have to go to the toilet, you don’t want to have to walk forever. So it is best to plan according to the accessibility of the sanitary facilities and, if necessary, indicate the way. You should also note that mobile toilets may have to be cleaned in between.

Mobile coffee bar

A fun idea and a great surprise for your guests is a mobile coffee bar. It can be driven anywhere without a water or electricity connection and will delight you and your guests there with delicious coffee specialties, soft drinks and small snacks. Ideal for an outdoor wedding!

4. Decoration for the outdoor wedding location

Which decoration you use at your outdoor wedding almost comes off by itself.

Simply adapt this to the location and emphasize the beauty of your outdoor wedding location with the decoration.

Green wedding decorations are diverse – your imagination is required here.

Depending on the weather, the decoration must also be attached accordingly. For example, place beautiful stones on the tears of joy so that they don’t blow off your chair. Get tall lanterns or lanterns for the candles and save the rose petals on the floor if they would fly away anyway.

In contrast, mosquito spray as a guest gift or mosquito candles are practical. Compartments for generating wind are also a great gift for guests.

5. Information about the wedding outside for the guests

Your guests are sure to be delighted by such a special and extraordinary outdoor wedding. Therefore, inform them early enough about the exact conditions (ideally with the wedding invitation).

For example, that it can get cooler in the evening, that the floor is not suitable for high heels or that allergy sufferers shouldn’t forget their pills.

If necessary, also mentions the location for plan B with a telephone number for clarification in case of doubtful weather.

6. What else you should consider when getting married outside

For an outdoor wedding, you should allow yourself a certain budget buffer. At the wedding in nature there is one or the other “grass stain” on the cover that you have to have cleaned. If necessary, you should reserve two locations in case it rains or you have to pay for the tents if you don’t need them at short notice.

But that doesn’t mean that your costs have to be higher than for a “normal” wedding – on the contrary, because casual weddings outdoors are often much cheaper.

It is best to record all costs in our clear budget planner so that there are no surprises.

There is also more time to plan for the organization, as you may have to clarify and procure a lot more and need more helpers.

7. The outdoor wedding ceremony

Whether you “only” want to celebrate your wedding outdoors or also want to hold the wedding ceremony outside – that makes a big difference.

Courtesy: best outdoor venue

#preweddingphotography weddingdecor weddingseason weddingplanner weddingphotographer weddings weddinginspiration weddingphotography wedding w

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northgacpl · 4 years

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Choosing A Stand Up Golf Bag

Many people find themselves wondering which stand up golf bag is the right choice for them. When you are a golfer, you want to feel confident with your clubs and this can be achieved by having the right equipment with you. A stand up golf bag can be just the thing to help you achieve this.

Before you go shopping for a stand up golf bag, there are a few things you will need to consider. The main feature that you will need to choose from is how much weight you are going to carry on your back. You will find that this depends greatly on the type of club you are playing with. For example, if you are using a driver, you are going to want something light while if you are using a putter, you will want something to carry your balls and other accessories. Another feature that you may want to look at is whether you want an umbrella or parasol on your bag. This may not seem important, but it can help you if you are in an area where it gets a little chilly when you are golfing.

When you are looking at all of the different stand up golf bags, you will have a lot of choices. Before you make a final decision, you should spend some time shopping around online and looking at what different companies are offering. Compare the price of a few different companies and then make your decision based on who has the best price for stand up golf bags in your price range. Look at their customer service history and reviews. If you find a company that has a lot of positive feedback from other customers, you may want to continue with that particular company.

One company that has many satisfied customers is Mountain Sports. They offer a great line of golf bags and other equipment. When you shop online, you will find several different colors and sizes from which to choose. If you are looking for an inexpensive golf bag, you may want to consider purchasing from Mountain Sports. However, if you would prefer a higher end bag, you can always shop for that as well.

Once you have chosen a company that offers quality equipment, you can start thinking about how you will use it. Do you plan to carry it around the course? Or is it more likely to be used in your home, office, or golf practice room? Think about where you will most often use your stand up bag. If you are going to use it in the home or office, you will want a stand up bag that has a comfortable and sturdy structure. You also need to choose one that is big enough to store the amount of equipment that you plan to bring with you.

Think about what kind of stand up bag you want to buy. There are basic styles and there are stylish models that are made to look like they are designed to be carried in the golf course. Choose the style that will best fit your needs. Most companies sell bags with padded handles, but keep in mind that you will want to buy a padded bag if you plan to carry your equipment in your arms. The padding helps to reduce the likelihood of injuries.

When you choose your stand up bag, you should consider the number of people who will be using it. Make sure that your bag will fit into the area that you plan to put it. If you are not planning to carry your bag to the course, you may not need a very large bag.

When you are shopping for a new stand up golf bag, you need to take your time to decide what kind of equipment you want to carry along with it. You can save a lot of money if you are able to buy equipment that you will not have to replace over time. This will be less expensive than buying several different bags. If you choose the right equipment and carry the bag wisely, you can enjoy hours of great golfing activity without the worry about equipment wear and tear.

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insolitus-academy · 4 years

Photo

Face Claim

Full name Face Claim: Kim Minseok

Group/Band/Occupation: Exo member

Nationality: Korean

Faceclaim age: 31

Character: Basic Information

Quote: You’ve got ice in your veins, but you’re smart enough to keep it from freezing your heart.

Full Character Name: Kim Minseok

Nickname: Xiumin

Realm of Birth: Earth, Korean (he grew up in a colder climate).

Age: 75 (appears as 30)

Date of Birth: March 26

Gender: Male

Preferred Pronouns: He, him, his

Race: Icebeing

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

What languages does your character speak?: Korean, basic Chinese and basic Japanese

Character Appearances:

Skin Color: Pale

Eye Color: Naturally Light Blue, but he does use brown contacts in public

Scars: A small one on his arm from a bad sunburn

Piercings: A few on his ears

Tattoos: None

Hair Color: Light gray

Abnormalities: None

Transformed Form: None

Character; Personality:

Six Personality Traits:

Positive: Honest, Caring, Gentle

Negative: Fearful, Shy, Submissive

Likes:

1) His ice cream shop

2) Winter

3) Making Friends

4) Arctic Foxes

5) Stargazing

Dislikes:

1) Summer

2) Being yelled at

3) Attention on him in public

4) Steak

5) Pizza

Manias: None

Phobias: Getting too hot again

Animal: Arctic Fox

Religion: Not Religious

Favorite Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAKwx336eIg Valley of Stars

Vice: Envy

Virtue: Kindness

Personality Description:

Minseok is very kind, caring, and gentle when it comes it other people, especially his friends. He is also very honest and will tell the truth even if it initially hurts the other person. To him, lying is just hurting both parties more rather than ripping off the bandage which may make him appear to be cold or heartless during these times. He is very shy, especially when in public. He doesn’t like people yelling, it makes him nervous and uncomfortable. He doesn’t like leaving his house without one of his parasols, when the temperature rises, he gets really anxious. Minseok gets very nervous leaving his house on sunny days because of an incident when he was younger.

Despite this, Minseok loves making friends! He’s just not the greatest at it. He loves learning about new cultures and different types of beings. Minseok especially loves taking his friends out on walks during winter to show them how beautiful snow can be. Minseok loves making ice cream, it was a something fun to do with his mother and it became quite a passion for him. He also loves pushing ice cream flavors to their limit and he loves creating flavors people wouldn’t think of trying. With ice cream, Minseok becomes bolder and more ambitious.

Character; Powers:

Magical Powers: Freeze things upon touch, Blessing of Winter

Non-magical Powers: Makes amazing ice cream

Weaknesses:

Due to his more submissive nature and shyness, he’s not the best at making friends. Sometimes his anxiety about the sunlight makes it to where he doesn’t want to leave his home, this is mainly due to his phobia of sunburns. He gets jealous of people who are confident and happy which makes him appear cold or heartless when he gets a little snappy (this doesn’t happen often).

Character; The Villager

Job/Occupation: Ice Cream Shop Owner

Lives in: Vighulir

Lives in: Sunna Apartments (2e)

Character; The Past

Date of Birth: March 26th

Has your character attended Insolitus Academy in the past?

Background:

Kim Minseok was born in Gyeonggi, South Korea in late March. His parents were both Icebeings who settled in South Korea. A few years after he was born, Minseok had an incident that helped him learn a very valuable lesson. Although his parents always told him to go out with his parasol, he never understood why. One day he wanted to go play outside and he left his parasol inside. It was a sunny day, but that didn’t bother him. He’s been in the sun before and it didn’t hurt him, so he figured he didn’t need to take it with him. Minseok ran around and ran away from the house while playing with his friends.

As he played with his friends, he started to sweat a lot and he became really nauseous. He started sweating a lot more than other kids. Noticing how tired Minseok was, his friends helped him to some shade, not really noticing how red he was getting. Minseok laid down in the shade and his friends sat around to talk to him. Because of how pale he became, paler than he usually is, one of the other kids got up and ran back to Minseok’s house. By the time his mother came running out, Minseok had fainted due to the increasing heat and his skin gained an unnatural color for his kind. When Minseok woke up again, he was in his room. There were bandages wrapped around his arms and hands to help the special burn cream from getting all over the place. When his father got home, he was scolded for being so careless.

Once he was healed up, it became apparent that one of his arms got a small scar from the sunburn. His mother was so afraid he would make this mistake again that they ended up moving to a colder climate in northern Asia. Although he loves the cold air, even at a young age he knew that it didn’t feel like home. The sunburn and the scar weren’t the traumatic parts of the experience. The thing that stuck with him, the most traumatic part was his parent’s reaction to the whole situation and the fact that they had to move afterward. Ever since then, he never left the house without his parasol. He stayed up north until his parents passed away from old age.

Confident he could take care of himself, Minseok returned to South Korea. Minseok too the money he had left from the move and put it toward an ice cream shop. His mother should him how to make ice cream to help him feel better after the move. Since then it became a passion for him. It worked well with his abilities and he loved creating flavors that wouldn’t normally be thought of. Although Minseok is still really nervous about being outside when the heat continues to rise, and he still really hates summertime. Minseok loves to stargaze and he loves making friends, and most of all he’s really glad to be home.

Roleplayer:

Time Zone: -5

OOC! Triggers: Rape

Themes/genres you like writing the most?: I love fluff or angst the most!

#other #villager #submission #iacharacter

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emospritelet · 5 years

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Key to the Cell - chapter 8

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [AO3 link]

Gaston is, yet again, a piece of shit (please check full tags on AO3), and Belle makes another deal

Belle found the ball dull after the Dark One had gone, and was half-hearted in her participation. She doubted that anyone noticed; she danced as much as she could, and made the right noises when guests talked to her of the latest court gossip and rumours of ogres marching in the east. That last topic of conversation was a concern, and she resolved to ask Gaston and her father what they planned to do to protect their adjoining lands from any attack. As soon as they had sobered up, anyway. Gaston had spent much of the ball getting progressively drunker, and as a consequence was absent from breakfast the next day. Belle spent a pleasant morning chatting with her father and eating pastries, free of the oppressive presence of Gaston in a foul mood.

Some of the guests had stayed over, but all seemed to be suffering from an excess of drink, and so Belle took a morning walk in the gardens alone, twirling her parasol between her fingers to shield her face from the autumn sun. The gardeners were at work on the endless job of weeding the flower beds, and she stopped to admire some of the late-blooming roses, breathing in their heady perfume.

“Excuse me, milady?”

Belle turned at a familiar voice, and broke into a smile as Gerta bobbed a curtsy. Her blonde hair was hidden by a neat white scarf, her ragged too-large dress replaced by neat livery in Gaston’s house colours of green and white.

“Gerta!” said Belle warmly, taking her hands. “I see you took me up on the offer of service. Has the chamberlain been kind?”

“Kind enough, milady,” said Gerta. “He wasn’t too keen before I gave your name, but he’s given me a place as a maid. I can’t thank you enough.”

“And your children?”

“Back at our cottage with my sister and her little one,” she said. “We’re all very well provided for. Thanks to you and to— well, never mind me going on. We’re well, milady, I promise you. Enough food to see us through the winter, and now with this wage coming in, we’ll be able to fend for ourselves as a family.”

Belle didn’t miss her slip, and her curiosity about the deal Gerta had made with the Dark One was almost too much to bear. She decided not to mention it, as Gerta clearly didn’t want to discuss the matter.

“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” she said.

“I - I just wanted to say thank you,” said Gerta. “I’d better go and clean the windows in the library, before the chamberlain thinks I’m getting above myself.”

She bobbed another curtsy and hurried off, and Belle smiled after her, her spirits lifted.

“Lady Belle?”

Turning at a familiar voice, her smile widened, and she spread her skirts in a curtsy to answer the deep bow made by Prince James. He was a handsome young man, with close-cropped blonde hair and wide blue eyes above a pleasant, open face. He also seemed to be one of the few nobles that genuinely seemed to care for the poor in his lands, and to dislike war. She got the impression that he was something of a disappointment to his father King George.

“It seems we’re in the minority this fine morning, Your Highness” she said, and he smiled as he straightened up.

“Father doesn’t drink much,” he said. “He was up early for a ride, but other than that, I believe you’re right. Too much wine makes for a late breakfast.”

“Or a late lunch,” she observed. “Sir Gaston will be hunting alone at this rate.”

“Oh, I suspect the prospect of killing things will drag them from their beds,” he said, in a dry tone. Belle smiled, and fell into step beside him.

“How are you enjoying the gardens?”

“Very much,” he said. “You grow some roses here that I haven’t seen before. I always enjoyed growing things.”

“You must ask the gardeners for some cuttings,” she said. “Although in reality, these gardens belong to Gaston, not to me.”

“Not yet,” he said, looking across at her. “You marry soon, isn’t that right?”

“So I’m told.”

She wanted to bite her lip at letting her bitterness show, but Prince James shot her a look of understanding.

“Having certain expectations placed upon you is a burden,” he said carefully. “My father has very specific ideas about who I am to marry. I can’t say that my own feelings on the subject carry much weight.”

“I can sympathise.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “I wonder if we place too much emphasis on gaining lands and power. Surely happiness and love must come into it somewhere?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, and he turned to face her, making her halt her progress.

“I’m not sure if the fate of a Prince is any easier to change than the fate of a Lady,” he said gently. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, does it?”

Belle got the impression he was talking to himself as much as her, as though he were steeling himself for something. Standing up to the King, perhaps. She reached out to him, squeezing his hand.

“Of course we should try,” she said. “We should never stop trying.”

He returned her smile, putting a comforting hand over hers.

“Well, I see at least some people are up.”

Gaston’s voice made them jump, and Belle pulled back, turning to face him as he came striding towards them, a scowl lowering his brows. He bowed his head to the Prince.

“Your Highness.”

“Sir Gaston,” said Prince James, easily. “A fine party last night. I was just admiring your roses. Lady Belle suggested I ask you for some cuttings. I’d be happy to return the favour next time you visit the palace.”

“Lady Belle is generous to a fault,” said Gaston coolly, eyeing her.

His tone made Belle nervous. It seemed as though there was a dark cloud hanging over him, and she hoped it would pass when his hangover wore off. She pretended an interest in the roses near her, still feeling his eyes on her.

“Are we still hunting today?” prompted Prince James, and Belle felt Gaston look away, his glower turning from her and making her sigh in relief.

“I’ll get the horses saddled,” he confirmed. “We may be a little later than I planned, but I daresay there’ll be game enough for us to enjoy the chase. Come! Let’s wake the others. I feel the urge to get some blood on my hands.”

He let out a deep laugh, slapping the Prince’s shoulder, and Prince James bowed his head to Belle.

“Good day to you, my Lady.”

“Enjoy the hunt, Your Highness,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Are you not going to wish me good luck?” asked Gaston, his voice still cold. “Hunts are dangerous things, Belle. Can I not depend on my intended’s good wishes?”

“Good luck, Sir Gaston,” she said demurely. “The deer don’t stand a chance against you.”

He huffed, mollified.

“Indeed they don’t. Until later, my Lady.”

He grasped her upper arms possessively, pulling her to him for a rough, hurried kiss, and Belle froze in his arms, eyes flying wide open in shock. It was over in a moment, and she watched him stride away with the Prince at his side. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shuddering. If he gets gored by a stag I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep.

She immediately felt guilty for wishing harm on another person, and irritated about feeling guilty when he had caused so much harm to others. Yet again her desire to do good appeared to be all too easy to ignore, and she wondered if she would ever feel truly at peace with herself. Perhaps she would get the chance to find out when she made her escape.

With Gaston and most of the men gone, it was left to her to entertain the ladies. Only a few had stayed over, and it was easy enough to organise a picnic by the lake, making the most of the early autumn sunshine. Princess Snow had invented a game that involved doing impressions of the gentlemen that were out hunting, resulting in gales of laughter from the assembled ladies. Belle couldn’t stop giggling at her impression of Gaston, fists on hips and legs spread wide with her chest thrown outwards as she called for more wine in a booming voice. The servants looked at them askance as they refilled glasses and passed around plates of cakes, and eventually Belle suggested that they return to the castle for some music. Princess Abigail played the harp, and a number of ladies were skilled singers. Belle slipped out halfway through to check on the plans for dinner, and was told that the hunt was returning.

The men had been drinking all day, it seemed, and some were barely able to sit in their saddles. Gaston was not one of them; he was skilled enough to know that a swift hunt required swifter reflexes, and so he returned relatively sober, boasting about the game he had brought down. He made up for his sobriety at dinner, downing pints of ale and wine and following it with brandy. Belle sat quietly by his side, not wanting to antagonise him. He seemed to have been in a bad mood with her all day, and she wasn’t sure why. It meant that he had ignored her for most of the dinner, so it wasn’t all bad, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was building himself up to shout at her again, and she didn’t want to feel as helpless and afraid as she had the last time it happened. Nervousness stole her appetite, and she picked at her food, wishing that the dinner would end and she could go to bed.

At last she was able to excuse herself, after making plans for a morning ride with some of the ladies.

“I’ll accompany you on the ride,” said Prince James. “Two days of hunting is a little tiring. I’d prefer to take things easy before we journey back to our own castle, what say you, Father?”

“Ride with the women if you so choose,” said King George coldly. “Perhaps it’s closer to your nature. I myself will be hunting.”

Prince James glanced away, trying to hide the irritated twist to his mouth, and Belle felt the need to defend him.

“I’m sure we would all appreciate an escort,” she said. “I for one would be delighted to have you accompany us, Your Highness.”

“I’m sure you would,” drawled Gaston, lounging in his chair with a glass of wine swinging from one hand. “That’s my girl. Always so obliging. Can’t resist a pretty face.”

Belle flushed, and Prince James frowned at Gaston.

“The Lady deserves more respect than you give her, Sir Gaston,” he said.

“I’ll speak as I wish in my own house,” growled Gaston. “Who’s gonna stop me? You?”

“Are you threatening your Prince?” asked Prince James quietly. There was a steely edge to his voice, the air around them growing thick and oppressive, as though a storm was coming. Silence fell, the other guests picking up on the change in atmosphere, and Belle stood up, her heart thumping with anxiety.

“I’m sure Sir Gaston meant no offence,” she said. “A little too much brandy, perhaps.”

“Don’t speak on my behalf, woman!” snapped Gaston. “You’re not my wife yet, and when you are you’ll speak when spoken to!”

Belle squared her jaw, lifting her chin, and jumped as the King banged his goblet on the table.

“Stop bickering, all of you!” he snapped. “Sir Gaston, keep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of your betters! James, don’t insult Sir Gaston in his own castle! I swear, young men today have no sense of duty or honour! What say you, Sir Maurice?”

“Too ready to drink and fight, Sire,” agreed Sir Maurice, holding out his cup to be refilled.

“They need a good war to knock some sense into them,” added the King. “Fortunately, one seems to be brewing. The two of you can go and take your tempers out on the ogres.”

The conversation turned to the ogre threat, and Belle heaved a sigh. She made her excuses, earning a sharp look from Gaston as she slipped away. His eyes were on her as she left the room, a sharp pricking between her shoulder blades, and she quickened her pace, feeling something like relief as she moved out of sight. She reached her bedroom, and rang the bell for Marilee, kicking off her heeled slippers.

“Do you need me to prepare anything for tomorrow, milady?” asked Marilee deferentially, as she helped Belle out of her gown.

“I’m riding in the morning,” said Belle. “My blue riding habit, if you please. Our guests will be leaving after luncheon, so perhaps the pink gown when I return.”

“Very good, milady.”

“I’d like some warm milk to drink, if you can arrange it,” she added. “I’m feeling restless tonight, I think I need something to help me sleep.”

“Of course.”

Marilee took the gown from her, crossing to the wardrobe to hang it and returning with her nightgown as Belle stepped out of her petticoats and tugged off her chemise. She held up her arms for the nightgown, letting out a sigh as cool silk slipped down over her body. Marilee bundled up the petticoats and chemise in her arms.

“I need to fix your hair, milady,” she said.

“I can do that,” said Belle tiredly. “If you could please hand me my robe?”

Marilee fetched the embroidered silk dressing gown, and Belle pulled it on, belting it at the waist.

“I’ll send the maid up with some warm milk, milady.”

“Thank you.”

Belle sat down at the dresser, beginning the lengthy process of taking the pins from her hair and unfastening the braids. The pins went into the small porcelain pot ready for the next day, and once she had her hair loose around her shoulders, she began brushing it, dragging the brush in sweeping strokes to make it shine. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror, counting the strokes as she counted the days to her freedom. Nine days. Nine more days. I can hold out that long. The squeak of the door opening caught her attention.

“Put the milk on my nightstand, if you please,” she said.

“I’m not the maid.”

Gaston’s voice made her jump and drop the brush in fright, and she turned around, getting to her feet and clutching the robe tight across her chest. He was looming near the chair where she liked to read, his coat off and his waistcoat unbuttoned. She could smell brandy on him from six feet away.

“Gaston,” she said, her voice wobbling a little. “It’s - it’s late.”

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

“You shouldn’t be in my room,” she said. “Father wouldn’t like it.”

“We’ll be married soon,” he said. “What does it matter? Your father sets too much store by tradition. I prefer a more modern approach to these things. As do you, I imagine.”

“Not when it comes to my honour,” she said stiffly.

“Your honour?” He chuckled. “I’ve seen little enough of that the past few days. It’s like you can’t stand to be around me.”

“I’ve been tired, that’s all,” she said. “Can we talk about this in the morning? You’re drunk, and I want to sleep.”

“Well, whether I am or am not drunk is not the issue,” he said, taking another step towards her. “And we’re gonna talk about it now.”

“Gaston, please…”

“These past few days I’ve been getting the feeling that you’re not too excited about the idea of marrying me,” he said. “Set your sights elsewhere, have you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Then can you explain why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t!” she insisted. “We’ve had guests, I had to entertain them.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of how seriously you take that duty,” he spat. “Where was your honour when Princess Snow was making fun of me? The servants told me everything.”

“She - she was doing impressions of all the men, not just you,” she said, inwardly cursing the servants’ loose tongues. “It was all in jest, she meant no harm!”

“And you thought you’d laugh along with her, did you?”

His anger was rising; she could see his nostrils flaring, his eyes protruding, and it was making fear ripple through her. She eyed the door, but he stood between it and her, and so she held up her hands in a soothing gesture, hoping she could calm him down enough to get him out of her room.

“It wasn’t malicious,” she insisted. “You have my word!”

“Your word means nothing, it seems to me!” he spat. “I’ve seen you whispering and giggling with those bitches that think they’re better than me!”

“I haven’t!”

“Flirting with every man that comes to the palace!” he went on. “Throwing yourself at Prince James! What, a noble knight isn’t enough for you? You have to set your sights on the Prince?”

“I was only being friendly! He was—”

“Did he touch you?” he demanded. “Did any of them touch you? What about the man you were so taken with at the dance, hmm? How many of them are there?”

“No one!” she insisted, “There’s no one, I swear it!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Belle backed up against the dresser, her heart hammering in her chest, mute with fear as he approached, hands opening and closing, as though he wanted to squeeze the life from her.

“You think you can make a fool of me before we’re even married?” he rasped. “You think I would allow that?”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear to you!”

“Perhaps you think it’ll get you out of this match,” he went on. “You think you’ll get a better offer, is that it?”

“No!”

“You are mine!” he growled. “I told you that when you were promised to me, but it seems you didn’t believe me.”

“Gaston, please!”

“Well, if I take you now, you won’t be able to marry anyone else, will you?”

Belle shook her head in horror, unable to take her eyes from him, and his mouth curved into an ugly grin.

“If I take you now, you won’t have a ch—”

A crash of breaking pottery cut off his words, and Belle clapped her hands to her mouth as he slumped to the ground, broken shards of her water jug rolling on the floor. Behind him stood Gerta, wide-eyed with shock, the handle of the jug still clasped in her right hand and a spilled cup of milk on the floor at her feet, still steaming a little. Belle let her breath out in a sigh of relief, trying to calm her racing heart. She shuddered at the thought of what could have happened, what would have happened, had Gerta not been willing to intervene. The jug handle dropped to the floor with a dull clink.

“Oh - oh gods!” stammered Gerta. “I’ve killed him! I swear I didn’t mean to, milady, I just wanted to help!”

Belle sat down on her heels, skirts spreading around herself as she felt for Gaston’s pulse. It was throbbing away fiercely, and she looked up.

“He’s not dead,” she said. “Just unconscious. I daresay he’ll have a terrible headache, and if he remembers what happened, we’ll both be in trouble.”

“I assaulted the lord!” said Gerta wretchedly, wringing her hands. “They’ll have me flogged, milady. That’s if they don’t just hang me. What shall I do?”

Belle pushed to her feet, shoving away her panic as an idea formed.

“You called on the Dark One,” she said, in a low whisper, and Gerta looked fearful.

“How - how did you know?”

“Because he told me so,” said Belle, grasping her hands. “Please, don’t be afraid, I’m not angry. I think he can help us.”

“You shouldn’t get mixed up with the Dark One, milady!” she said urgently. “Not for my sake! I’ve heard tales of what he can do, of what he has done to those that crossed him!”

“He doesn’t frighten me,” said Belle firmly. “And didn’t he help you? Why fear him?”

“He - he saved me and my children,” she admitted. “He kept his word, milady, but - but it’s dark magic! My mother always said that no good came from messing with magic, and dark magic especially!”

“You let me worry about that,” said Belle. “All I need from you is how you summoned him.”

“Why, with his name, of course.”

“You - you know his name?”

“Heard it from my aunt,” said Gerta. “She said he’d saved her farm from the famine and her family from the plague, some years back. She said that he always kept his word, but to beware his price. My mother had thought her mad to call on him. She’d have thought me mad too.”

“What price did she pay?” asked Belle nervously, and Gerta swallowed.

“Her new baby,” she whispered. “Just weeks old, she was. Taken away and never seen again. I - I was so afraid, milady. Afraid that he’d take one of my children, but I was desperate! I’d have lost them both to starvation if I hadn’t called on him!”

“And because of you, they are safe and well,” said Belle soothingly, putting her hands on Gerta’s shoulders. “You said you called his name. Can you whisper it to me?”

She nodded, and Belle leaned forward, Gerta taking a breath and whispering in her ear. Belle felt her brow crease at the unfamiliar word.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she murmured, then, louder: “Rumplestiltskin!”

“Yes, yes, no need to shout!”

He appeared in a puff of red smoke, and Gerta squeaked in alarm and darted backward. Rumplestiltskin’s eyes narrowed, but then he swept a deep bow. He was dressed all in black leather, the trousers tight around his slim thighs and the coat fitted to his body over a shirt of black silk.

“Lady Belle,” he said, glancing up at her. “So, you learned my name. Resourceful, aren’t you?”

“When I need to be.”

His mouth quirked, and he straightened up. He was standing still, but he tapped his fingers together rapidly, as though his body was filled with an energy he couldn’t quite shake. If he had been anyone but the Dark One, she would have thought him nervous.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you quite so soon,” he said.

“I need your help,” said Belle quickly, and he glanced at the prone body of Gaston.

“Disposal of corpses is a speciality of mine,” he said cheerfully. “I won’t even charge you for the privilege.”

“He’s not dead,” said Belle, shooting him a dry look. “And I told you, no killing. Could you please ensure you get him to his room and - and somehow make him forget that he was here and that Gerta hit him? I don’t want her in trouble, she was only trying to protect me.”

Rumplestiltskin looked deeply amused, fingers twirling in the air.

“What did he do that merited you breaking a jug over his head, pray tell?” he asked snidely, and Gerta gulped. Belle stepped forwards, putting a hand on his arm.

“Please, Rumplestiltskin,” she said urgently. “Please. Before he wakes up, or one of the servants sees.”

He had glanced down at her hand on his arm, and she quickly took it away again. When she looked up, he was watching her, amber eyes wide and curious.

“There’s the matter of my price, my Lady,” he said quietly, and she nodded.

“I thought about that,” she said. “Why don’t you let me do something for you?”

“Such as?” he drawled. “Embroider me a cushion, perhaps?”

“No,” she said, and raised her chin. “Let me try to return what was taken from you.”

He stared at her for a moment, then waved his hand dismissively, as though it were an afterthought, his eyes still fixed on Belle’s, bright and burning. A plume of red smoke engulfed Gaston, and when it lifted he had disappeared. Gerta squeaked again, and Rumplestiltskin glanced at her.

“Go and tell the chamberlain that his master took a fall from his bath and has taken to his bed,” he said. “When he wakes, which won’t be for a few days, he will remember nothing of this incident, and will be just as vile and obnoxious as ever, I assure you.”

Gerta dropped a curtsy and hurried off, and Rumplestiltskin turned back to Belle.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked quietly.

His voice had changed in tone, grown lower and warmer, the accent stronger. He sounded more human, more real. Belle hesitated.

“No,” she said. “No, he - he scared me, that was all.”

“You’re absolutely sure you don’t want me to kill him?” he said lazily, fingers flickering. “I’m more than willing to change the deal.”

“I’ve already paid the price for you getting me out of the marriage.”

“Oh, I’m always happy to throw a little murder into the mix, in a special case like this one.”

Belle shot him a flat look.

“We made our agreement,” she said. “I gave you my name, and you said you could deal with him without the need for violence.”

“And so I can.”

“Good,” she said. “About the new deal I propose, then?”

Rumplestiltskin pursed his lips, fingers twitching in the air again.

“You wish to return my dagger to me?”

“I do,” she said. “You said that you knew where it was, but you couldn’t tell me. I presume you can’t take it back for yourself, so I’ll do it for you.”

“I don’t even know if that’s possible.”

“Well, it certainly won’t be if we never try.”

There was a hint of a smile at that. He turned away from her, beginning to pace back and forth.

“The Blue Fairy will have protected it,” he said. “I suspect there’ll be more than just the barrier spells to keep me from it. You could get hurt.”

“Without risk, it wouldn’t be much of a price, would it?”

He glanced around at that, his eyes gleaming.

“And you wish to put yourself in danger in return for me saving the man that abuses you?”

“I wish not to have his blood on my hands,” she said. “You promised me that you would protect me and my people from him without the need to cause him harm. I’d prefer that if possible. I won’t drag myself down to his level. There’s been too much suffering in these lands already.”

He was silent for a moment.

“You are a very singular young woman, my Lady.”

“So you’ve told me,” she said. “And frankly, coming from you, it’s a compliment. Do we have a deal?”

He smiled, the light gleaming on his strange, scaled skin.

“I can’t take you back with me this way,” he said, gesturing between them. “You’ll need to use the book again.”

“I can do that.”

“And you’ll need something to - to protect you,” he said. “It’ll take magic.”

“A good thing you’re the most powerful sorcerer in the land, then.”

His smile grew.

“You’re fearless, my Lady.”

“Oh, I’m really not,” she said. “There are many things I fear, Rumplestiltskin. But not you.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Then we have a deal.”

#fic: key to the cell #rumbelle fic #dark castle rumbelle #my fic #gaston is a massive butt-trumpet #abuse tw #non-con threats

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politelyintheknow · 5 years

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10 Best Things you can do in Skiathos (Greece)

Just from the Pelion Peninsula in the northwest Aegean, Skiathos is a concise island enveloped in the pine forest and with seashores to die for. Around the western and south coasts of Skiathos is a continuous string of postcard-worthy bays, interspersed with rocky promontories and supported by a guarded wooded landscape.

Skiathos has taken in younger masses within the last few years, gives many seashores a celebration vibe, but personal privacy isn’t difficult to find either. The island, which presented in the ABBA musical Mamma Mia!, is small enough which you can use an individual bus to bypass from Skiathos Town (Chora), with numbered bus halts positioned close to all the primary seashores.

Let’s explore the best things you can do in Skiathos:

1. Evangelistria Monastery

You can’t overstate the importance of this spot to Greek national identity. The Evangelistria Monastery was founded by several monks from Support Athos in 1794 and quickly became a haven for Greek insurgents within the last many years of Ottoman rule.

In 1807, freedom fighters including Theodoros Kolokotronis, Thymios Vlachavas, and Andreas Miaoulis gathered here to swear an Oath of Independence utilizing a prototype of the existing Greek nationwide flag, with a white cross on the sky blue background.

In the Katholikon (main church) are icons dating to the 1600s and 1700s, when you can also see the museum, which includes vestments, silver and manuscripts, and wooden crosses. But maybe most fascinating of most is the same loom used to weave the first Greek flag.

2. Kastro

In the 14th century, in the face of continuous pirate raids, the administrative center of Skiathos was relocated to the now-abandoned promontory at the northern tip of the island. Today there’s no easy way to attain this aspect as you’ll need a 4×4 for the dirt monitor through a character reserve, or even to catch a vessel from the harbor at Skiathos town, offering the wonderful beach under the promontory.

Following that it’s a hair-raising hike up to the castle, which has been restored. After Greek self-reliance from the Ottomans in the 1830s, the administrative center was moved back again to its current location. But upon this scenic rock and roll will be the remnants of the imposing gate and drawbridge, as well as roads and homes. There’s also a mosque and three churches on the webpage; the largest chapel, Agios Nikolaos is open up and well worth a look, as the mosque is shut to visitors.

you can also check Luxury Hotels in Skiathos Island

3. Skiathos Old Town

Give yourself a couple of hours to have a walking tour of the old town at the Chora, because there’s much to see. You can start at the Bourtzi Fortress, which was built by the Venetians with an islet on the east part of the harbor, and has photogenic vistas of the old slot from its pine-shade terraces.

The harbor’s waterfront is pretty also, with restaurants and cafes packed on the quays next to sparkling pure water. And there’s the maze of limited alleys and stairways in the old town.

They are laid with dark marble paving rocks and fronted by one-of-a-kind shops, galleries and a large selection of restaurants that have furniture under bougainvillea blooms. On Papadiamantis Road can be an outdoor movie theater, and its own most regular testing is Mamma Mia! of course.

4. Lalaria Beach

Only accessible from the water, Lalaria Beach can be visited while circumnavigating the island on a single tour that consumes the Kastro several kilometers to the western. The beach is a pleasure, contained by lofty impassable cliffs that have a natural arch and caves on the east side.

The top is pebbly so that it pays to bring swim shoes with you, and a headwear and water in bottles as there’s not a hint of the beach bar. The browse is moderate, and the waves churn the white sediment in the water to provide it a translucent shine in the sunlight.

Even with vessel plenty of sunbathers being dropped off every short while in summer, there’s enough space on Lalaria Beach for everybody.

5. Mandraki

In an all-natural reserve of low hills cloaked with stone and Aleppo pines, Mandraki can be an undeveloped extend of coastline with three beaches in bays on either side of the cape. They are Xerxes to the western, Elias to the center and the Agistri the tiniest to the east. The busiest is Elias, which is also the biggest, and like Xerxi has a beach pub where you can hire a sunlight lounger and parasol.

Elias also offers more private areas at the much ends, preferred by naturists. All three have fantastic sand, while Elias has a backdrop of low Xerxi and dunes are framed by cliffs. You can reach Mandraki by bus, moving away from stop 23 and walking through the aromatic pine forest.

6. Tsougria

The island of Tsougria is noticeable from the clock tower in Skiathos town is a short boat trip away. Leave early each day and you may move a carefree day idling on its four seashores or hiking in the island’s rocky ridge for a panorama of Skiathos and close by Skopelos.

Tsourgria is uninhabited however in the summertime there’s a pub open up at the beautiful general public beach on the northwest coastline. Unwinding here you can watch the motorboats shuttling back and to Skiathos Town forth, and have a drop in the light blue clear sea.

7. Koukounaries Beach

This kilometer-long sandy beach in a bay on the southwest coast is also in an all-natural park, but is a little more animated than the other beaches up to now and could be typically the most popular on the island. Koukounaries Beach is another interface of demand boat outings and will get occupied, which is okay if you want what to be a little more sociable.

You will find beach bars at intervals, playing music and hiring away sun loungers and glasses for €8 each day. In between is plenty of room for individuals who just want to lie on the sand under the pines. The beach gets the type of dazzling, shallow waters that are safe for nonswimmers and kids.

8. Agios Nikolaos Chapel and Timeclock Tower

At night you’ll see this monument in lights on growth above Chora’s old town. Waking up to the lookout isn’t easy but warrants the countless steps, so when you need to do make it to the very best you’ll have the most satisfactory panorama of the harbor, the white homes of the old town and the mountains inland to the western world.

People linger in the evenings to start to see the sun heading down behind these peaks. Both small cathedral and tower are small but photogenic places, while followers of Mamma Mia! may recognize this location from the movie.

9. Agia Eleni Beach

Walking distance from a lot more frequented Koukounaries Beach, Agia Eleni is a west-facing bay named for the close by a chapel. Traveling on the bus from Chora you can log off at stop 25. Agia Eleni is heavenly sandy bay with the most common rows or sunlight loungers, but also colorful smooth couches, all served with a quirky beach club.

If you get bored of laying on the beach you can lease a canoe, or embark on a walk to see what you will get beyond either end. Towards the north is a cape with a great view of the mainland, and on the south aspect, the coastline gets rockier, with caves on the waterline.

10. Troulos Beach

Within the south coast near a bus stop, 18 can be an enticing sandy bay significantly less than ten kilometers from Skiathos Town. The fine sand at Troulos could be the softest on the island, and the beach gets the personal mild slope and superior drinking water that everybody loves.

And being on the southern coastline the beach is completely protected from the Meltemi north blowing wind that blows in the summer season. A couple of hundred meters just offshore is the dome-shaped islet of Troulonisi, a destination for paddle-boarders and kayakers when the ocean is quite enough.

There’s also banana boating if you want a hurry, or you can simply take it easy under a hand sunshade.

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thecoquetteishcontessa-blog · 5 years

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“Grim Grinding Ghosts” (A “Haunted Mansion” Fan Fiction) (NSFW)

The following story was written for the second season premiere of Content Warning: Erotic Fan Fiction Deathmatch held on September 28, 2018 at XYYVR in Vancouver, British Columbia. Eternal thanks to Mockingbird Media Entertainment for allowing us to further peddle this filth. The theme was a return to Disney. A Disney Renaissance, that was! It also gave me the opportunity to revisit an idea I had a little too late for the previous Disney theme show. Step into the Doombuggy for a sensually spooky ride. Enjoy!

Night time New Orleans Square; gusts of wind whoosh through your hair as heavy raindrops pelt down upon your head and shoulders. Thunder rumbles in the air. Lightning crashes through the swirling storm clouds.

“God, could this get any more cliched?” you mumble to yourself as you dash down the soaked sidewalks illuminated by the stately street lamps, desperately seeking out shelter.

That’s when it stops you in your tracks.

Guarded behind a brick fence and a wrought iron gate, a harrowing ivory Antebellum style manor stands out in stark contrast to the dark drenched willow trees. You’ve consumed enough movies and books to know that the mere sight of an enormous mansion on a dark, stormy night brings nothing but misfortune and danger...and that’s if you’re even lucky to emerge alive.

Even against your better judgement, something draws you closer to the gate. Before you can decide whether its the urgency for warmth, respite from the storm or morbid curiosity getting the best of you, you’ve already made your way past the abandoned stagecoach and the peculiar pet cemetery to reach the front door.

No need to knock; the door slowly opens and generously lets you into the lobby.

You’re too busy drying yourself off to realize there wasn’t a single doorman around to properly thank or to take your damp coat much less figure out where that plodding funeral dirge is coming from.

Another set of doors open, leading into a small portrait gallery.

Suddenly, something feels...off.

This seemingly innocent gallery appears to be...stretching?

The portraits reveal the true nature of this home. That portly man in the suit and bowler hat? He’s getting fellated by another gentleman...as said gentleman is on the shoulders of another man, no doubt receiving the same sinful delights...all while succumbing to the quicksand.

Then there’s the beautiful young woman with the parasol...ravished by the crocodile nipping away at her nether regions!

Just as this expanding room couldn’t get more obscene, the lights go out. A flash of lightning reveals a rotting corpse hanging from the ceiling, pants drooping to his ankles and bearing an eternal erection!

Your jaw drops. What perversity is this?!

Bursting forth from the smutty stretching room, you run past the library, shelves no doubt filled with titillating tomes, and into a vast hallway. You look to your right; a candelabra--no! A five pronged dildo floats in the middle of an endless corridor. To your left; a casket rattles. With every thump from the casket comes a grunt of longing.

They’re not trying to get out; they’re trying to get off!

Further down the hallway, the padlocks and chains on the doors do nothing to contain the thuds, bangs and orgasmic moans echoing through the space.

Eventually you reach a door. No doubt praying for something chaste.

Instead, you are greeted by the visage of a sumptuous madame floating around the parlor inside a crystal ball. Licking her lips, she chants incantations that summon all kinds of deviant devices: vibrators, nipple clamps, whips, the works.

Astonished and slightly aroused, you stumble onto the balcony overlooking a decadent ballroom.

A decadent ballroom defiled by an orgy of ghosts.

The sight of spirits writhing atop the dinner table, grinding against each other on the dance floor and thrusting on the chandeliers awakens your inner voyeur as an aching desire builds down below...

Before you can slide your hand down your waistband, deafening heartbeats drown out the playful pipe organ. Is it your throbbing urges or is it coming from upstairs?

Curious, you eagerly make your way up to the decrepit, dusty attic. Brushing aside the cobwebs and rusty trinkets, that’s where you discover her: a bewitching bride. Dressed only in strands of pearls, a cascading veil and a shredded lace wedding dress showing off her slender figure, the ethereal bride softly floats towards you.

“It’s been so long since I’ve felt the touch of a mortal hand,” she purrs, taking your hand and placing it onto her cool ample breast. Her glowing heartbeat providing the only warmth.

“Do you take me to be your...sinfully bedded bride?” she asks, a beguiling grin slinking upon her face.

“I do,” you sigh, craving for her spectral sensations.

“You may now kiss the bride...”

She removes her flowing veil and lets loose her wavy bluish blonde hair. It’s not long before she pulls you in for a lingering kiss. Her frozen lips ignite flames within you as your hands travel towards the back of her dress. With all the buttons undone, the bride’s dress tumbles to the floor. She’s completely bare; beating heart, bones and all.

Your kisses trace over her protruding nipples, across her sternum, down her concave stomach and, ultimately, her unkempt graveyard. Combing your tongue through her musty wisps and folds, that’s when you discover her gleaming clit...not to mention a sharp sensation against your neck.

Turns out you bypassed the hatchet nestled against her garter belt in your pursuit to pleasure the phantom floozy.

Horrified, you narrowly avoid the swinging axe but end up taking a tumble out the window. Too bad the landing isn’t as swift.

Gathering your composure, you brush yourself off only to discover that you’ve found yourself in a cemetery swarming with ghosts. 999 of them. Turns out the swinging wake extends to more than just the ballroom.

“‘’Ey Ezra!” a chubby ghost calls out. “We gots a new one!”

“Excellent, Phinneas! A new edition to our little...jamboree!” Ezra, the spindly, dapper ghost grins.

“D’you think they’re ready?” an elderly bearded ghost in chains and bondage gear croaks.

“They’ve gotten this far, didn’t they, Gus?” Ezra smirks, setting down his suitcase.

He pulls out a strand of anal beads while Phinneas takes a thick buttplug. Not Gus, though. He prefers his tried and true thumb.

Oh yes, there was a little matter I forgot to mention: beware of butt-fucking ghosts!

The End

#fanfic #the haunted mansion #disneyland #second person #self insert

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sparkledeerfr · 6 years

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Mom Said No

The Quarter takes care of most of its own business, with the understanding that it’s to follow the laws.

Which means sometimes Neko decides that just means ‘plausible deniability’.

Warnings: Implied abuse and death, but who cares about that dude.

It was the annual spring marketplace, one of Neko’s favorite times of year. There was no chill in the air, the heat hadn’t yet settled in, and there was a cooler breeze that tended to wipe away the humidity that naturally came with Plague. She’d wished that Belladonna had saw fit to come with her as she weaved around the stalls set in the open courtyards, the various traders, food sellers and buyers moving around each other in the packed space. Even in one of her more demure walking dresses people tended to glance up and get out of her way, though she ignored this and focused on how proud she was to have seen this place grow with a feeling like one assessing a well tended garden.

Ah well, Neko thought, eyeing a flower stall and moving over to it with what she hoped had not been an overly obvious smile that the seller had caught. She had been rebellious enough in her youth, though she had hoped that Bells would grow out of that particular phase. Neko would’ve bought her anything she asked for if only she’d come, and why spend time with a man who seemed to speak only in insults?

Neko tried to push that from her mind in order to just enjoy the day- the pennants, bright colors and mix of wonderful smells all around her, and looked over the flower bunches. There was something sort of satisfying about buying a little bunch or two all twisted in twine, displayed in wicker baskets versus simply ordering them, a sort of farmgirl or wistful notion. She was about to search through the lavender to find the best bunch when she noticed someone standing about a dozen feet away, someone even harder to miss than herself- Snowblood, in that thick oiled leather jacket and hat, hair falling far past her shoulders and obscuring a face mixed with scars and a red smoke coloration that made it difficult to tell exactly what was a former wound. There was something solid about Snow, like everything else faded into the background when you looked directly at her.

Neko immediately stood and walked over to her. Snow knew her boss’ preference, and wouldn’t be bothering her if it was nothing. “Something wrong?” Neko asked in a lower voice, glancing around, though she couldn’t see anything immediate. Snow jerked her head to the right, indicating for her to follow, which of course she did.

They weaved past people and stalls, Neko glancing occasionally as they passed to people or vendors, both eyeing them over and to get an idea of what she might like to buy, but as soon as her vision left them her mind went to whatever task Snow was interested in. Snow walked in between two tents, stepping over the ropes tied to spikes in the ground, and into the back areas.

Soon enough she stopped just behind a tent and jerked her head again. Neko scanned the area and then saw a gap between a tent and a stall that showed directly into the back of a food vendor’s, with black iron grills spewing smoke. There were two people working back there...two skinny people. Working a food stall.

Neko’s eyes narrowed and Snow grinned, pulling a thin fawn colored cigar from a pocket and putting it to her mouth as her boss continued assessing. Neko noticed faded scars, cuts, and bruises barely hidden under worn clothing. Both of them also wore metal bracelets and things that could be necklaces if you didn’t look too hard, but also resembled collars. A taller, much more healthy looking man came past to grab the finished food, and you could see the two duck slightly each time he did.

“That what I think it is?” Snow asked, her voice always kind of a low scratchy rumble as the end of Neko’s tail twitched, and even from here Snow could sense a rising anger.

Neko was about to answer when the two noticed her staring. “Can we help you, ma’am?” the girl asked. She was a slight thing, obviously, but taller and weedier than her companion, who seemed to want to hide behind her. They both looked so young, though perhaps she was getting older. “You want to order something?”

Neko straightened and put on a thousand watt smile, waving in a way that could be considered embarrassed. “No! I’m so sorry, I was just talking to my friend here and it seems I’ve spaced out! Sorry for the bother, didn’t mean to stare!”

“Arright, you have a good day,” the girl said, still eyeing her suspiciously as Neko turned and walked away.

“I think I’ll be handling this,” Neko said to Snow, hitching the front of her dress as she moved slightly faster, Snow tailing her without much trouble. The barest hint of a grin showed as Snow lit her cigar.

----

A few people received messages, and when they saw it was being delivered by a well cared for Trick of the Light, the tiny scroll tied to the collar glimmering with either gold or an enchantment made to emulate it, they nervously took it as the creature dipped its head and disappeared.

Most breathed a sigh of relief when it was only a small thing, asking if they could please move their carts a few feet? So sorry for the bother, it seems the safety crew had noticed it could be a hazard. Rules would of course be updated so as not to trouble anyone with having to move their things again in the future. Please enjoy the festival.

Some noticed that the Trick of the Light (named Brioche, though of course they wouldn’t know that) seemed to hang around for a while afterward, appearing on eaves and rooftops, occasionally cleaning itself with a sort of bored indifference. Maybe it just wasn’t that well trained yet. It’d go back home on its own soon.

----

“Luca!” They heard behind them, and involuntarily jumped at both the sudden noise and the overly sweet way of the person saying it. Luca had been working on the main stage, setting up fireworks for the display tomorrow night.

“Um, hello Neko,” they replied, glancing over their things and tools just to make sure they’d done nothing wrong. “Something I can assist you with?”

“No, no,” Neko said, waving a hand. “It’s just that we don’t get much of a chance to talk when it's so busy. Pity you’ll be going on break soon, I wanted to catch up.” Luca immediately caught on to what she was getting at, and the fact that Neko was holding out a hand with several gems clutched inside it, looking the other way as though simply observing her surroundings.

“How long am I going on break for?” Luca asked, gently palming the gems and stuffing them into their coat.

“Oh about forty five minutes?” Neko said breezily before turning to her with a smile. “You are part of the safety crew. Don’t want the place to burn down without you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Luca said, then paused and looked at the ground by the stage. “There’s some accelerant back there, so...you may wish to be careful.”

“Thank you dear, you’re always so helpful.”

----

Jesse sat on the rooftop of The Diamond Palace, swinging her legs and twirling her open parasol though dark had fallen some time ago. She supposed it was mostly habit, and the fact that she liked when people looked up to see a woman in all black on a roof with a lace umbrella. It gave a very particular sort of impression.

“Hey,” August said, climbing up and sitting beside her in a clumsy sort of way that was very him. “Got something called a spaghetti taco from a vendor. Wanna try?” he asked, holding it out. Ugh he was lucky that he didn’t get that all over his suit.

“No, thank you,” she said, looking back over the grounds, seeing the glow from lanterns and personal campfires people had lit as things settled down for the day.

“It’s good,” he replied. “Kind of weird though, who would think-”

“Ah, there it is,” Jesse said, watching a glow from one particular fire grow.

“So should we call for Luca or is that something we’re not supposed to have seen?” he asked, taking another bite.

“Second thing.”

“Cool,” August said, watching for a moment as the light grew and flickered. “You know sometimes I think we need more stuff to do. Remember when we used to-”

“And we almost died several times, yes,” she replied, still swinging her feet and leaning back to prop herself up on a hand. “Occasional boredom is a small price to pay for wealth and safety, don’t you think? Besides, we make our own fun.”

---

They returned to find the cart on fire, a blaze lighting up the night as several people rushed around them, trying to find water or to look for help. Indrid set down the crate she’d been carrying and looked with a mix of horror and, if she was being honest, a little bit of hope.

That was when she noticed a woman standing in front of the fire, a hand to her chin as though in contemplation. She looked slightly familiar, though Indrid couldn’t place her. The woman turned, her bright curls bouncing and reflecting the light with a healthy sheen. “Oh, hello!” the woman said, smiling. “My what a pity! Is this your cart?”

“Not...I guess sort of, ma’am,” Indrid replied as she could feel Collins duck behind her.

“Oh yes, you’re the two I saw earlier!” the woman said, still with that chipper, cheery voice as the bottom of the wagon blackened and fell in behind her, the firelight making it hard to tell her features aside from like a cutout. “The barbeque stand, wasn’t it? Well, at least you still have that. And I think I saw someone running away a few moments ago, the other man working with you?” Indrid tried not to feel her heart sink, even as she was scared and unsure of what was going on, what was going to happen. “You know I do believe he just plain ran away, but I’ll send someone to look for him. In the meantime why don’t I offer you two some food and lodging?”

Indrid’s mood immediately shifted to suspicion. “Where at…?”

“How very rude of me!” the woman said, reaching out a hand as someone else approached, and another behind them. One slim figure in black, pink, and furs and the other glowing orange, covered in black metal plate. “My name is Neko, the owner of The Cat’s Meow. I’m terribly sorry about this accident, and I don’t want you to leave with a bad impression. Please allow me to make it up to you.”

“I...I guess?” Indrid said, shaking the hand but still wary and just plain not understanding what was happening. The slim figure began to pull and move the fire, seeming to push it into the glowing figure, and the blaze began to die down.

“Really this is such an odd thing,” Neko said, moving over to the person behind Indrid and gently touching his shoulder. The way he flinched under her fingers made her more assured that she’d made the right call. “Occasionally we do have strange objects pop up around here. Perhaps one of you accidently picked up something...magical?” Neko glanced down to the bracelets on their wrists. “We do have a very good enchantment breaker nearby, if you think that’s the case.”

The boy...man? It’s difficult to tell... behind Indrid rubs a wrist and finally speaks up. “How much would it cost, ma’am?”

“Oh my goodness, free of course,” Neko said, wanting to take him by the shoulders and reassure him. “Didn’t I say I’d be treating you two?”

“How are they doing?” Neko asked Lysander as she sat behind her desk. The room was octagonal in shape and opulent in a way- glistening wood, hints of gold and copper, small brass statues and lamps with tinted green glass. She did not so much go in for tacky, but well made and sturdy was much more her style. Neko leaned back in her chair, smoking a specialty herbal cigarette and tapping it into a faceted crystal ashtray. She hated the smell of smoke, but these perfumed the air, and even if they weren’t as satisfying she rarely indulged anyway. She liked to think she kept her vices small and contained.

“Still a bit shaky,” Lysander said, just a hint of drawl to his speech. Neko often wondered if that was an affection meant to be charming. It certainly seemed to work for him, in any case.

“And you hinted that I would be happy to hire them?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Lysander nodded. “Don’t know how keen they are on it. Suppose I don’t blame them not trusting employers.”

“Me either,” Neko said, breathing out a plume of smoke and tapping the cigarette into the tray before continuing. “Thank you for staying late and helping me with this, Sander. Please leave some money in their rooms in case they decide to take off in the middle of the night.”

Lysander moved towards the door and opened it, pausing once his natural flirtiness was screaming at him to not waste the opportunity. He tipped his hat and winked at her. “Always happy to stay up late at night for you, ma’am.” She giggled and waved a hand at him in an ‘oh, you’ sort of way. He smiled and shut the door behind him.

The Trick of the Light Brioche appeared on her desk, and Neko slid the waiting silver tray of food towards her, Brioche gently taking one of the hors d’oeuvre sized snacks in her mouth and chewing like an unimpressed golden cat. Neko put out a hand and gently scratched behind her ear as the creature squinted her eyes contentedly. “Honestly,” Neko said. “Some people just think they can do whatever they want.”

#sparklelore #neko you could've just gotten Booker #'Yeah but that would have taken forever and maybe scared the kids off'#'my way is much better'

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chemicalperfume · 6 years

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Secret Splendour program - Interview with Sagiri Seina

After a very long spell of (ridiculously busy, behind the scenes) radio silence, here is a translation \o/

Edited by me, I am posting this on behalf of a wonderful contributor, who prefers to remain anonymous, to whom I also owe a huge apology for taking forever and a day to get around to it. orz

Some of Chigi’s fresh post-graduation thoughts, as she was about to venture on her -thus far amazing- journey as an OG.

Enjoy~

3 months have passed since you graduated from the Takarazuka Revue Company. Looking back, what memories do you have from that day?

It is a distant memory. Like it happened to someone else. Maybe…because I’m now deeply focused on creating a show. The day after graduation, I had to pack up to move. I had lots to do, and I felt that if I “switched off” I would end up taking too much rest so I just kept moving while feeling fulfilled and satisfied.

You strongly felt you had to keep moving forward. What new and fresh things have you done after graduation?

Until now, because I have hardly gone outside in the daytime, I was surprised to see so many people walking in the city every day, even though it’s so hot outside. The first feminine item I got was a parasol, because the sunlight was so intense, I felt I need to get one, so I did. That is probably the biggest change for me (laughs). It was refreshing to spend 24 hours as I liked in ways other than practicing and performing .

It wasn’t long enough to count as a “recharging period” but how did you spend it?

Actually, I was unexpectedly extremely afraid of starting rehearsals (for this show). It seemed the song “kittokuru”* drifted into my head everyday (laughs). I felt, “waaa … what should I do?”. At some point, I analysed myself – why I was this worried. When I was a Takarazuka otokoyaku, I enjoyed imagining what I would do if I had time off. But now, as I continue as a performer, I thought, how do I pass the time, what kind of person should I be during my time off. I was lost puzzling over these things and it felt like this is all I kept thinking about these 2 months.

This was an important time for you, was it not?

I felt bewildered until the first day of rehearsals when the entire cast got together, but since practice actually started, I had something to do again and I could see the path to creating the show’s world view. I had to memorize a lot of things, but I was relieved because there was still a place where my heart could belong. I had more fun after I started communicating with everyone (members of the production).

How did you feel when you heard about the show structure from Ogita-san?**

I heard about the show format 2 days after graduation but I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. However, rather than doing the things I wanted, I felt I should go with whatever aspects of myself he thinks it would be better to highlight in this show that has me as main material. I never liked saying “NO”in the first place. And yet, I am also cautious and timid, so I have to pluck up an enormous amount of courage to plunge into something. But, I think, to always be the same, never changing, is even more frightening, and I want to keep discovering new things about myself.

There are many different types of scenes in this show. How did you feel about it as rehearsals progress?

I think the old me would have panicked somewhat, been nervous and driven herself into a corner. It might be that I needed that in order to be an otokoyaku at the time. I realized this after graduating. Although it was my choice to do that, I was aware I couldn’t continue forever in this mindset. A part of me always felt that.

Does this mean you will not push too hard and accept reality?

Yes. A long time ago, even if there was a high wall or hard rock in front of me, I would go straight at it – believing it was the right thing to do. But now I would do something like think of how to make a detour or try to bring a ladder. Having this attitude, I may be the calmest I’ve ever been these past few years. Although I’m trying to reassure myself every day like, “Don’t worry, It will be ok”. Now, I try to believe it and put it into practice.

During this time of significant transition, what insights have you had?

I came to feel that otokoyaku only works inside the Takarazuka Revue, otokoyaku is unnecessary when there are also men in the rehearsal room. Nonetheless, I am now neither man nor woman, so there are also strange scenes (laughs). It is also my first time dancing with men and being lifted, so I am seeing a completely different view. While accepting the various changes, I will push on with rehearsals so I can get used to it all, step by step.

Now, aside from this program, you will be releasing your first visual photobook after graduation.***

I think this is a mood I won’t be able to express in a year or two. That is why I am grateful to be able to capture the mood just after graduating from Takarazuka and preserve it in a photobook.

How do you want to be, from now on?

I always ask myself, “What should I do, how should I proceed”. I’ve asked myself this for years, not just since I graduated from Takarazuka, but since I was an underclassman. From now on as well, no matter where I am, this will probably not change. I want to challenge myself while hopefully making everyone happy, without setting limits on myself, only expecting more from myself. Going forward, as I live up to and betray expectations, I will go on living as myself (laughs).

* kittokuru – It will surely come – a song from the Ring Trilogy horror movies **Ogita Kouichi, ex-Takarazuka director, he was in charge of directing “Secret Splendour” ***the photobook in question was part of the “Secret Splendour” concert merchandise

Buy Secret Splendour dvd: [TCA] [Rakuten] [cdjapan]

#takarazuka og #sagiri seina #secret splendour #translation by chemicals #(NOT a translation by me but using this tag so this post can be found more easily)#buy secret splendour #this interview is almost a year old now #and apparently Chigi has changed her views on otokoyaku-ing around men xD

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 1: In Which Lucy Preston Makes An Entrance

Rating: M Summary: Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Notes: I made this edit a few days ago. We all knew this was going to happen next. I regret everything. Sort of.

From the air, London resembles a vast, sprawling clockwork curiosity, a city of wheels and gears and steel and steam, the gothic towers of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament rising through the mist alongside the capacitor and telegraph aerials and the murky, coiling line of the River Thames spanned by new ironwork bridges. There is not much green, aside from the neat rectangle of Hyde Park and the smaller isosceles of St. James’. It is a world of bronze and brick and brass, stone and soot, burning coal to such a degree that faint yellow fog lies over the city even on clear days (and this being London in any century, there are not that many of those). But the yellow is mixed with the finer gold of the aetherium, which burns the brightest at sunrise and sunset and casts an eerie, lovely sheen over the crowded rooftops and old church steeples, the dome of St. Paul’s and the narrow crookback lanes that lead to forgotten medieval cemeteries and shops that murmur of magic. There is plenty about this London that is not at all beautiful, that is deprived and crammed and brutally poor in tenements and workhouses, opium dens and sleazy dancehalls, but when the aether falls on it, you tend to forget.

Lucy Preston sits by the isinglass window as the airship starts its final approach, firing its thrusters and easing down toward the Greenwich docks rapidly taking shape below. This is a comfortable passenger liner that nonetheless has made the transatlantic float from New York in only four days; its owners, the Great Western Airway founded by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, will be taking out advertisements in the papers to boast of speed records. Lucy has traveled second class, somewhat shockingly unaccompanied, and she glances at her faint reflection in the window. She is dressed for traveling in a striped-silk gown, belted overcoat, and broad-brimmed hat, parasol propped by one gloved hand and matching clutch held in the other. Women in 1887 require an obnoxious amount of accessories.

There are several bumps and jerks as the zeppelin’s crew throw down mooring lines and the well-dressed passengers get to their feet, preparing to disembark. Lucy subsides inconspicuously into the crowd and waits her turn in the queue like a proper Brit, feeling the cool, damp September air on her face as she starts to file down the ramp. Porters in caps and shirtsleeves are pulling the luggage off, trunks and portmanteaus and hatboxes, crates and birdcages and what looks like an entire household. Lucy waits until she is reunited with her own modest movables, pressing a penny into the porter’s sooty hand. She hasn’t gotten more than a few steps from the looming airship before a boy in a grubby neckerchief comes speeding up. “Carry your bags for a bob, mum? Fetch a hansom cab for you, mum?”

Lucy is aware that if she starts handing out too many tips, she will have half the urchins in London following her around (to say nothing of pickpockets) and she’d prefer to maintain close control of her possessions until she gets her bearings. She politely but firmly shoos him off, has to repeat the process five seconds later, and finally reaches the street. She could go by river, as there are plenty of small craft bobbing along the Thames, but decides she is not quite brave enough to step onto any of those. She hails a hackney carriage, climbs inside onto a hard velvet seat and a dim, musty interior, and gives the driver an address in Bloomsbury. He shuts the door, climbs up behind the horses, and with another jolt and a jerk, they roll off.

It turns out that it would definitely have been faster to sail. It’s a miserably slow, stop-and-start journey into central London, the cobbled streets crammed with horses, carts, broughams, hansoms, costermongers and their barrows, a reeking tarlike slop six inches deep that should barely be dignified with the name “mud,” and here and there one of the new clockwork carriages, running on steam and driven by automatons that almost look human until you get close enough to see their blank metal faces and spinning-gear hands. Strictly speaking, they don’t need to look like that, but the wealthy Londoners who can afford the carriages have a certain expectation of what they should look like. Still need to show that they have underlings doing their bidding, mortal or mechanical.

It’s getting dark, the gaslamps striking on in small islands along the street, by the time they reach the boarding house in Bloomsbury, not far from Russell Square, and the hackney rolls to a halt. Lucy accepts the driver’s hand down, pays him, and allows him to carry her bags up the front walk as she rings the bell. After a few moments, a maidservant in a starched black dress and pinned apron comes to answer it, and Lucy, with a final thanks to the driver, steps inside.

The boarding house is suitable, if plain, and the landlady, one Mrs. McBride, seems friendly enough, if clearly confused why Lucy is traveling alone. “Are ye meetin’ your husband then, mum?”

“No,” Lucy says. “I’m here to take a lecturer’s post at Somerville College, in Oxford. I’ll be traveling up there in a fortnight, when Michaelmas term starts.”

“Oxford, is it?” Mrs. McBride clearly is not sure how to react to that. She seems to decide that since Lucy is, after all, American, that may explain some of her more outrageous peculiarities. “They’re taking on ladies now, are they?”

“Not all of them,” Lucy says wryly. “Or most of them. But Somerville was founded for women, I’ll be teaching history there.”

Mrs. McBride nods cautiously. “Your husband will join you up the country, then?”

Lucy starts to open her mouth to explain that no, in case it wasn’t clear, there is no husband anywhere in this equation. But given as she is thirty-four years old, and spinster status starts anywhere past twenty-five, that seems likely to provoke an outpouring of sympathy as if she has a terminal illness, or askance looks as if there must be something seriously wrong with her to stop an otherwise eligible young lady from getting married (is it the books? It must be the books) or more questions than she feels like answering. “Yes,” she says. “He’s coming to join me later.”

This momentarily settles the issue, though it leaves Lucy wondering if she’ll have to invent a husband, and Mrs. McBride summons her son, a strapping seventeen-year-old redhead named Seamus, to carry Lucy’s things up to her room. It has a narrow bedstead with a brass headboard, a wardrobe and side table, and a roll-top desk with a chair, as well as a filament lamp. The lavatory, Seamus informs her proudly, is just through the door there, and they’ve got a toilet done by the same chap who’s done the Prince of Wales’ at Sandringham House, holds a Royal Warrant. None other than the famous Thomas Crapper.

Lucy chokes a little at this, though she manages to avoid letting him see, and goes in to look. The hot water is not unlimited, so there will be no long showers, but there’s a claw-footed bathtub, a sink, and a pull-chain toilet, CRAPPER emblazoned over the back in raised porcelain letters. Lucy thanks Seamus, assures him that it’s suitable, and waits until he’s gone. Then she ensures that the door can lock, glances out the window to check the sight lines, and draws the curtains. Goes to her suitcase, undoes the catches, and looks to see if the knots she did up in a certain way have been undone or changed at all, or if there’s any sign of her things having been rummaged through. She doesn’t think anyone could have gotten to it on the airship, but she needs to check.

As far as she can tell, everything looks the way she packed it, and she’s kept the most sensitive bits in her valise, which never left her possession during the whole trip. Lucy digs through the skirts and petticoats and jackets, stockings and garters and blouses, takes them out and hangs them in the wardrobe, then opens the valise. She removes a six-shot Colt “Peacemaker” revolver and a box of bullets, loads it, and spins the chamber with her thumb. There is also a smaller one-shot, pearl-handled derringer, a gun barely powerful enough to do more than threaten cheats at cards in a smoky saloon, and a disassembled Winchester Model 1886 lever-action rifle, the heaviest thing she’s got going. It should be enough to drop anything coming at her, as long as she doesn’t miss. And depending on who – or what – is coming at her, it is an essential precaution.

Lucy pauses, then hides the Colt in the side table drawer, assembles the Winchester, and stows it beneath a loose floorboard under the bed, finishing her unpacking and stifling a yawn. The bunk in the airship cabin was not particularly comfortable, she was close enough to the droning engines that it was always loud, and she had to maintain the same level of vigilance on the crossing, which means that she’s starting to run in a permanent state of sleep deprivation. That is not useful for the kind of work she is going to be doing, so perhaps she should try to catch up. Supper first, however. She doesn’t exactly have anyone to cable about her safe arrival.

Lucy changes out of her traveling clothes into a plainer shirtwaist and buttoned skirt, peering into the small mirror to tidy her messy bun. She briefly wonders if she should bring the derringer, then decides that if she really thinks she’s going to get murdered over dinner in the boarding house, she’s doomed from the start and all of this is a waste of time anyway. A bell rings to call the lodgers to mealtime, and she goes back downstairs.

Mrs. McBride dishes up portions of her hearty Irish cooking (Lucy has a feeling that potatoes in some shape or form will constitute a large part of her culinary experience over the next fortnight) for her current boarders: Lucy, a pale, wheezy young parson on his way to a new living in Hampshire, and a slightly self-important-looking fellow from Cambridge in the city to present a paper on aetheric science at the Royal Aeronautical Society. Lucy is the only woman, so after the parson has said grace (Mrs. McBride tactfully overlooking the fact that it is Protestant grace), the men both turn their feelers on her. The Cambridge fellow patronizingly congratulates her on a post at Oxford (the implication being that of course Oxford is a suitable place for someone of her second-tier intellectual caliber) and the parson wants to know about when her husband will be joining her. Lucy apologetically says that Mr. Preston is very busy in America and it may be several months. God, she hopes she doesn’t have to suffer through too many pleasant dinnertime conversations with these planks. Or perhaps she should search their rooms and –

No, no. She is getting too relentlessly paranoid (she has some reason, but still). Lucy makes a compromise with herself that she’ll look into them further if they do anything suspicious, but they’re both due to be gone by the end of the week. Neither of them have any particular reaction to her name or American accent, aside from the usual oh-dear expression of Brits confronted by expats from the colonies, and if she is going to suspect every condescending Victorian man of being a Rittenhouse agent, it will be a very long stay indeed. At least her polite fuck-you smile will get a lot of use, but that’s nothing new by now.

With that sorted, Lucy makes it through the rest of dinner, then graciously excuses herself and heads upstairs. As she’s reaching the top landing and about to turn down the corridor to her room, she pauses at the window, pushing the lace curtain aside for one last glimpse. She’ll just look, settle her mind that there’s nothing, and –

There’s someone standing just out of sight of the streetlamp, cast in shadow. They’re wearing a trench coat and bowler hat, initially looking like any other Londoner out for an evening stroll, but as Lucy looks harder, she can see the flat bronze gleam off its face that means it’s not a person, it’s an automaton. This one is entirely in a different mold from the ones that were driving the carriages, and for just as obviously a different purpose. Clockwork servants have been advertised as the new fashionable modern innovation (almost makes you wonder if the British Empire, currently at its height and owning a literal quarter of the earth’s landmass and population, would stop exploiting it, but nah) but this automaton has not been designed to scrub laundry boards or sweep floors. It is huge, square, and solid, has pneumatic pistons for arms and some kind of broad-barreled blunderbuss strapped on its back. Its head turns to either side with eerie, mechanical slowness, as if scanning the street and passerby. Back and forth, back and forth, for as long as it keeps ticking. It will need to return to its clockmaker to be re-wound at some point; most automatons can’t manage more than twelve hours independent, so they are still vastly inefficient for long-term operations. But who does Lucy know that got their – got his – start as a clockmaker? Who would be very interested in this new technology?

Rattled, she jerks the curtain shut, and speeds to her room, shutting the door and turning the key. Not that the door would be much deterrent if the automaton suddenly bashed its way in, and even her Winchester is not likely to drop a murderous metal giant that doesn’t feel pain and is operated according to esoteric scientific principles. God, she wishes Rufus was here, but even he is not likely to be much help. This is entirely different from anything he has ever studied.

Right, Lucy thinks. Risk or no risk, she needs to go out tomorrow and see about acquiring herself a weaponry upgrade. It could just be a coincidence that a skull-crusher of a mechanical soldier is stationed right outside her boarding house, but that is really pushing it, and it unfortunately seems to vindicate her fear that Rittenhouse is already on the lookout for her here. Is that thing going to be there every night? Don’t risk pushing curfew or coming back too late after sundown, or – squish? It can’t stand there all the time, the neighbors would notice, and as noted, it needs to get rewound. It has to leave eventually.

To say the least, however, this is not a recipe for peacefully catching up on lost sleep, and after she’s undressed and shrugged on her nightgown, she makes sure the Colt is in reach and warily closes her eyes. Opens them every time the floor creaks, of course, but it’s an old house and it does that often, and one advantage to the automaton being so godawfully huge is that it would definitely make a lot of noise breaking in. Not exactly a stealth operator.

Lucy manages to doze off, though it takes a while, and wakes in the morning without having been crushed into pulp by the rise of the machines. She washes in the small amount of hot water she can get, dresses and does her hair, and puts on her hat and gloves and boots. It’s grey and drizzly outside, so the parasol will function for more than just the aesthetic, and she looks out the window on the landing before venturing any further. The spot by the lamppost is empty; there’s no sign of the automaton anywhere. A solitary hansom cab clatters by, iron-shod wheels making a racket on the cobblestones. Otherwise, the street is quiet.

Lucy decides she’ll buy breakfast while she’s out, checks that the Colt is snug in its inner pocket in her belted tweed overcoat, and takes a deep breath. All right. She can do this.

She pushes through the door and out into the mist, adopting a confident stride as she heads south, toward Covent Garden. London at least looks mostly like she remembers, with the streets and neighborhoods in the same place, though there are of course countless new side lanes and unfamiliar buildings and no other familiar points of reference. But she has a good sense of direction and she doesn’t get lost, or at least too much. Covent Garden Market is just opening for the day, butchers hanging fresh-slaughtered pig carcasses, bakers and greengrocers and cheesemongers and milkmen setting out their goods, and all of it smells very good, but aside from paying a halfpenny for a hot roll, Lucy doesn’t stop. Makes her way to the back of the market, and the dusty door there, set down several steps and barely visible among the slimy bricks that surround it. Here goes nothing, probably.

Lucy finishes off the hot roll and then digs in her purse, pulling out a small bronze obelisk and fitting it into one of the carvings on the door. It briefly seems to glow of its own accord, casting the alcove in burnt-umber shadows, and she turns it, hearing a whirring of gears clunking and clicking behind the door. After another moment, it slides open to the side, as if running on a track, and reveals a steep, narrow staircase that descends out of sight under the earth. The steps are cracked and mossy, uneven underfoot, and Lucy keeps one hand on the wall as she starts down. The last thing she needs is a dramatic facer into the Croft.

The door rumbles shut above her, sounding like a tombstone, and for several moments, the way is entirely dark, so Lucy has to feel with each foot for the next step. The Croft is not the Night Market, which was raided, destroyed, and put out of commission thirty-six years ago, and it is much more prosaic in its goods and services on offer, but it’s the only place in London she’s going to find heavy automaton-killing weapons without immediately drawing unwelcome attention. Everything sold here is, strictly speaking, terribly illegal, but that is a trifling account in Lucy’s life now, and it’s not like any of its denizens are very fond of coppers (or peelers, she thinks that’s what they’re usually called right now, after Sir Robert Peel, founder of the Met). Especially if enough money is involved, nobody should be talking.

After a few more minutes, Lucy can see weak grey light ahead, reaches the bottom of the stairs, and steps out into a long, low hall of indeterminate placement whether above or below ground. There are windows, but it’s not clear if those correspond with any particular light from outside, and the water that drips on the walls looks as if they might be in one of the countless old tunnels under London, near the Thames. The Croft, like Covent Garden, is a market, with stalls set up and sleepy-eyed proprietors boiling coffee in tin pots and pulling colored scraps of cloth off their wares, but everything you can get here should not be tried at home.

Lucy glances around, spots something that looks likely to cater to her needs, and starts off in that direction. It takes all of two minutes, however, for the usual problem to return. “You want what now, mum? If it’s a lady’s pistol you’re looking for, I’ve some handsome ones here, fit into a handbag and not too heavy for a – ”

“I have a derringer,” Lucy says impatiently. “I want something that could take down an automaton. I assure you, I know what I’m about.”

“Something that could do for a tocker?” The proprietor does a double take that would almost be comical in other circumstances. “The bloody hell would – sorry, sorry for the language, mum, sorry – a lady like you need something like that for?”

Lucy senses that the fuck-you smile is going to get a lot of use indeed, but she still needs to convince him to sell to her. She’s just wondering if she should casually pull out the Colt and twirl it like a gunslinger, when the faded bit of calico in front of the stall is pushed aside, and a man comes strolling in. He’s slightly weaselly-looking, with a sandy mustache and a pocket watch chain looped across his dirty waistcoat. ��Morning, guvnor. You got the guns ready?”

“Ah – ” The proprietor shoots a guilty look at Lucy, as if a lady should really not have to witness this grubby transaction. “Got as many as I could get me hands on. Given the trouble of collecting ‘em, I really think it should be another guinea on the price? Or – ”

“It’ll be two, like we agreed.” The man glances at Lucy. “Didn’t know you had your trouble visiting today, eh? Looks much too good for you.”

“No, not mine, she just – ” The proprietor is clearly hoping that Lucy will remember some pressing business and clear out on her own accord. “This bird turned up and wanted a piece as could do for a tocker, would you believe that?”

“Did she?” The man’s attention is now fully on Lucy. “Why’d that be, mum?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was the Spanish Inquisition.” Normally she might just go off and come back later, though she’s not certain that attitudes will have become progressively more enlightened in six hours, but now Lucy’s mad, and she isn’t leaving here without that gun. “Why exactly are you here, Mr. – ?”

“You can call me Karl.” He shrugs. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in the Croft before, Mrs. – ”

“You can call me Lucy.” She stares at him narrowly. “I’m new in town.”

“Apparently.” Karl raises an eyebrow. “How about you run along, then?”

“I want to buy a gun, and if that’s too – ”

“Can’t,” Karl interrupts, looking smug. “I’m here to buy all of them. None left for you anyway. Nothing against you being a lady, I’m sure, but – ” He reaches into his trouser pocket and after a brief interlude of digging, removes two tarnished but still-good golden guineas. “Go on, Dooley, there’s a good man. I’ve got the lads just outside, waiting to carry them off.”

There is another uncomfortable pause as Dooley, as the merchant’s name apparently is, glances between Karl and Lucy. Then he gives her an apologetic shake of his head and disappears into the back of his stall, reappearing in a few minutes with the first of several crates. Karl whistles, and several strapping-sized men troop in, crowding Lucy back against the plywood wall with no more notice than if she’s a wax figurine at Madame Tussaud’s (currently a highly popular attraction on Marylebone Road). There are three crates of guns, and these are not just polite little pistols that shoot ordinary bullets. Lucy catches a glimpse of highly modified stocks with aetheromagnetic receptors, electrical filaments and broad-bore muzzles, until it looks as if Guy Fawkes has turned up almost three hundred years later and really does not intend to fuck around. Who the hell needs this many guns? You could take down a whole airship. Or blow up the Tower or London, or –

It is obviously a less than advisable idea to be standing here as a clearly identifiable witness to a large-scale illegal arms deal, and unless Lucy is going to drive a private bargain for them to skim one off the top, she should in fact get out. She ducks out of the stall as Dooley is bringing the last crate out, but she has only gotten about a dozen yards when someone grabs her arm. “Where’re you off to in such a hurry, ma’am?”

Lucy turns and glares icily at Karl. “Let go of me.”

“In a minute.” Karl does not appear in any hurry to do that, until Lucy reaches up and pries his fingers off. He looks momentarily startled at the strength of her grip, and adopts an obnoxiously ingratiating smile. “Just thought – no need to make any trouble for anyone, now, is there?”

Lucy continues to stare at him coldly. She knows that no good can come of asking him flat-out why he’s buying so many guns, and she searches his face, trying to decide if he looks Rittenhouse. Not that Rittenhouse is so obliging as to wear a sign around their neck, but she does have some practice at it by now. Finally she says, as neutrally as possible, “Big party?”

“Something like that.” Karl shrugs. “Look, I’ll sell you one of the guns, if you really want. As long as you keep your mouth shut and don’t get in our way.”

Lucy wonders exactly what that means. Nobody is buying this amount of high-powered weapons just to put them into a cellar somewhere, and it seems more than likely that things are about to get very interesting, whether in London or outside it. She does need the gun, but she’s left unsure if this is a bargain she should be making. Is Karl a noted underworld figure? That is currently a thriving element in London, mundane or otherwise, and the Croft is, as noted, the hub for the extra-legal activities that spread their feelers through this strange steam-powered Victoriana. He doesn’t look like a feared crime kingpin, but that means nothing. They never do.

“Oy, Karl.” Right on cue, one of the henchmen pops up, gun crate in his beefy arms. “We got to get moving. Boss won’t be happy if we’re late.”

Karl turns to shoot an annoyed glance at his associate, even as Lucy notes that down with interest – Karl himself isn’t the boss, they’re working for someone else, though Karl seems to be some sort of trusted, arms-procuring consigliere. With a long look at Lucy warning her that he is definitely going to remember her face, but now is in a hurry to blow this joint, Karl opens the crate, pulls out a midsize, short-barreled musket with a heavy stock and an aether coil, and hands it to her. “On the house,” he says. “This time. Like I said, you better not arse it up.”

With that, and no apology for his coarse language whatsoever (not that she needs it, but still a decided contrast to Dooley), Karl jerks his head at his trio of muscle-bound thugs, and they make a smartly paced exit. Lucy is left with a gun that she doesn’t really know how to operate, a hundred more questions than when she entered, and a lingering sense that she might have just made (another) powerful enemy. Who, she has no idea, and after a long pause, she stuffs the gun into her valise and ducks back into Dooley’s stall. “So who were they? Regular customers?”

“Wha – Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you scared me.” Dooley was clearly hoping very badly that he was done with unexpected visitors for the morning, and Lucy does feel for him, but she also needs some answers, and she’s willing to play a little dirty to get them. “Mum, you just saw – they bought my whole stock, I couldn’t sell to you even if I wanted.”

“I believe you,” Lucy says pleasantly. “You clearly had prepared their order, though. Admirable service. Who in London is buying that many guns, though? Any chance someone might know that they all came from you?”

Dooley’s eyes flicker back and forth. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, mum.”

“I’m fairly sure you do.” Lucy folds her arms. She is definitely going to take the opportunity to make misogynists squirm. Though it isn’t really something outstanding or personal in any case, not that that excuses it, but just what polite Victorian society has taught them from the ground up. The National Society for Women’s Suffrage was founded twenty years ago, and Emmeline Pankhurst lives and works in Russell Square right now, but still, change is going to be slow. “You’re frightened of whoever Karl works for, aren’t you?”

“Be a bloomin’ idiot if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?” It’s hard to place Dooley’s origin – his surname is Irish, his accent is generally working-class London, though at that, it turns broad Cockney. “You want to get in trouble with that maniac? Be my bleedin’ guest.”

“Maniac?” Is this some notorious local bruiser and small-time mafioso that Rittenhouse has recruited to terrify the London underworld and coordinate some of their incidents? Lucy leans forward. “What maniac?”

Dooley looks as if he very deeply does not want to be having this conversation, but out of an apparent charitable desire to help prevent her from getting herself killed, he sighs and begrudgingly spills the beans. “Name’s Flynn. His lads come along, it’s just better you do what they say, easier for everyone. Only been in London a few years, but he’s taken down big fish already, bigger than ‘im. You want some advice, mum, stay away from all that. And please, for the love of Christ, don’t go telling anyone about. . . all this. I’ve got me the three nippers.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” That, at least, Lucy can promise him. But since it is readily apparent that he owes her a favor, and she still hasn’t quite forgiven him for making it so difficult and inadvertently getting her entangled in this when he could have just sold, she pulls the gun Karl gave her out of the bag. “I need cartridges for this. And anything else it takes. I expect you’ll give me a good rate on the price?”

Dooley cringes, but can clearly tell that he has made his own bed with this, and busies himself in fetching the required items. Its bullets are an inch long and half as wide, looking heavy enough to take down big game on safari, and there’s a hand pump that activates the electrical current if it is to be used on, as Dooley calls them, tockers. Since the only legally owned military automatons are those belonging to the Army and the Met, it is plainly obvious that anyone buying this weapon is going to be getting into trouble with important people. And the mysterious Flynn sent his henchmen to buy three crates? Clearly, he is taking no chance that there is any important person in all of Great Britain that he might accidentally neglect to piss off. No wonder Dooley doesn’t want his name anywhere near it.

However, this fact is still gnawing at Lucy’s head as she leaves. Flynn could very easily be Rittenhouse, just because they like to have a monopoly on force and/or weapons of any kind, and certainly don’t give a Thomas Crapper whether or not it’s legal. But they have also always preferred to go the shadow-in-the-halls-of-power route. Recruit important people in high-ranking positions, get the system to work for them, turn the institutional wheels to their own advantage, rather than operate as rogues or outlaws. Rittenhouse is the law, that’s their strength. They make it, they are its organization and its enforcement. They’re much more likely to be using the automatons as their lethal weapon, in other words, rather than getting guns to destroy them. Flynn could be buying up the guns on Rittenhouse’s behalf in order to get rid of them, thus making it harder for the masses to oppose the tocker takeover, but it’s just strange enough that Lucy frowns. No matter what Dooley has said, she wants to know more.

By the time she climbs up the stairs from the Croft and emerges into Covent Garden, it’s midmorning, and London is awake and teeming with noisy, dirty, colorful life. Dodging past taverns, tenements, general stores, guildhalls, gentlemen’s clubs, booksellers, banks, hurdy-gurdies, townhouses, telegraph offices, tea shops, cemeteries, churches, more churches, insurance companies, statues, streetlamps, sideshows, park squares, museums, and houses of ill-repute, not to mention the countless boys flogging the Times or the Telegraph or other bastions of considerably yellower journalism, Lucy tries to think how to do some more digging without being totally obvious. She can’t get too far off track with her other little project either, but she can’t walk straight into Westminster and ask if anyone here is an agent for a dangerous American secret society. It’s always been hard hunting Rittenhouse, but here she feels like she’s doing it with a blindfold on and both hands tied behind her back.

Lucy stops to get a hot pasty for lunch, eats it while strolling down the Mall, and glances at the square grey oblong of Buckingham Palace at the end. Victoria has been queen for fifty years now; in fact, they celebrated her Golden Jubilee in much style and expense this past June. After a dip in popularity resulting from her decades of mourning and withdrawal from public life following Prince Albert’s death, she is once more a beloved, grandmotherly figure, prone to forming deep attachments to younger men – first John Brown, her Scottish equerry, and more recently to Abdul Karim, the Indian “Munshi.” If Rittenhouse was making some sort of play for her and her vast empire, wanted to make sure it was their sun that never set, would they send in a new favorite, a good-looking young fellow instructed on what to say and do to draw the aging queen’s attention? Disrupt Victoria’s attachment to Abdul before it becomes too deeply set (they only met a few months ago) and provide a more suitable (read: whiter) candidate for the tastes of the deeply starchy, conservative, and racist British court? It seems possible, at least.

Lucy tries to think if William Gladstone or Lord Salisbury is presently prime minister, as it changed back and forth several times during this decade, and that assumes that everything happened the same way here. It is obviously very close, with the addition of clockwork men and flying airships and other minor differences, but surely some things have changed, events nudged one way instead of another. How consequential is that? As well, it shakes up her usual rule of thumb for dealing with this. She doesn’t know what has happened, or what is going to happen, and that leaves her without any frame of reference for what she should or should not try to save.

After a pause, Lucy tosses the rest of her pasty to the ravenous pigeons, hails a hansom cab, and rides back to Bloomsbury, where she heads to University College, London. It started admitting women nine years ago, but that does not mean that the human fossil who peers down at her from behind a high wooden desk is happy to see her. “Can I help you, Miss. . .?”

“Professor.” Lucy smiles pleasantly. “Professor Preston. I would like to go into the Royal Historical Society’s library, please. I hold a position at Oxford – Somerville College, I’m on my way to take it up. So if you’d just – ”

She can sense herself about to be taking about her tenth Misogyny shot since landing, when there is a loud tut-tutting noise from behind her, and a small silver-haired woman, possibly in her seventies, appears from around the corner. “For goodness’ sake, Hubert,” she snaps. “I did promise I’d ensure you got the sack if I saw you being obnoxious to the lady students again, and I can entirely see to that happening. Surely you would prefer to avoid that? Otherwise do let me know, and we can make life altogether simpler for everyone.”

The porter – Hubert, apparently – opens and shuts his mouth, comes up with nothing, and is posthaste browbeaten into admitting both Lucy and the old lady, who is carrying a bronze-clasped case in one hand and her walking stick in the other, into the RHS archives. Lucy glances sidelong at her, feeling obliged to thank a fellow female academic, and someone who clearly has considerable standing around here to just sail in and shut people up. “I do appreciate it, ma’am. I’m Lucy Preston, by the way. I’m taking up a lectureship at Somerville in October.”

“I heard that.” The old lady regards her with a shrewd dark gaze, head slightly to one side. “Mary Somerville was my tutor and teacher, I knew her well. I am Ada King, Countess of Lovelace. She taught me mathematics as a young girl, and we were quiet close.”

“You’re – ” Lucy’s jaw drops. “You’re – oh my God, Ada – Countess Lovelace, I’m – I’m honored, I’m very honored to meet you. I just thought – well, never mind, I – I didn’t know you had – had a post here?”

“I don’t,” Ada says aristocratically. “I do stop by on occasion to tweak the Analytical Engine, though. It does need a terrible lot of fiddling, and I’m still really the only one who knows how to do it. Will you have read any of my papers, then?”

“I – yes, I’ve – I’m familiar with your work. You and – and Mr. Babbage, you managed to actually build the Engine, then? I didn’t think you did.”

“It was quite a trial.” Ada glances around the library, then starts toward a door from behind which a faint whirring and clicking is emanating. Lucy trails worshipfully after her – after all, it is Ada Lovelace, only legitimate daughter of Lord Byron, mathematical genius, and essentially the first computer programmer, in partnership with the great inventor and eccentric Charles Babbage. She has clearly lived well past the age of thirty-six, enjoyed a successful career, and become a respected intellectual powerhouse in the age of steam. Ada pulls a key out of her case and unlocks the door, revealing a room containing a large, clattering machine. Treadles stamp, cards are punched, pistons spin, gears clank, and keys slam, and it smells like oil and hot metal. “Don’t stand too close, dear. It can tend to spit.”

Lucy takes a precipitate step back as Ada forages in, removes a pair of goggles from her case and puts them on, and takes a wrench out, regarding the machine like a doctor preparing for a complicated surgery. She expertly ducks as it throws a bolt, shakes her head at it, and levers it back into place, tightening it a few turns and checking the cards that come chittering out. Then she tips her head at Lucy. “Here, give it a try. Ask it to find something in the library for you.”

“Is that what it. . .” Lucy supposes there must be several operable Analytical Engines, designed for different tasks, and that University College owns this one, at enormous pride and expense, so its students don’t have to dig through card catalogues like everyone else. Wary of any more bolts, she steps closer. “Do I just ask it out loud?”

“Yes. Just there.” Ada points at a bronze speaking trumpet. “Nice and clear.”

“Er.” Lucy glances reflexively over her shoulder. There’s no one there, but she feels nervous anyway. As quietly as she can, she says, “Rittenhouse?”

“What was that? Don’t mumble, dear, I can’t abide mumblers. The machine won’t understand you, anyway.”

Lucy raises her voice. “Rittenhouse.”

There is a corresponding clack and whir from the Engine, riffling through punch cards, but it does not last for very long, or spur a second phase of operations. Ada shakes her head. “Nothing on that topic, I’m afraid. What on earth is Rittenhouse?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.” Lucy considers, then clears her throat. “Flynn?”

This time, there is a louder and longer flurry from the machine, and a trapdoor bangs open, a tray comes rattling through, and then another, containing several stacks of newspapers and a few books. Lucy, after a glance at Ada to confirm that is what she is supposed to do, takes out the papers and carries them out to the reading room, spreading them on one of the tables. They are all the articles or other items containing the word Flynn, and Lucy quickly discovers she should have been a lot more specific, as it is a common Irish surname and there are apparently five hundred Patrick Flynns in the city, to say nothing of all the other names. Just as she’s about to give up, she comes across an article in the Times from last year, condemning the disruption and mayhem of one Garcia Flynn, and the lawlessness he has brought to London’s underworld (not, one has been given to understand, a particularly lawful place to start with – they probably don’t even take tea at four o’clock, the hooligans). It is the opinion of the Editorial Board that he is riffraff, and a gipsy to boot. They really cannot wait until some public-minded citizen gets him chucked into the Old Bailey where he belongs. Newgate gallows are not out of the question.

Lucy stares at it for a long moment. She can’t be sure, but this sounds like her man. She was figuring he was Irish, and a gipsy could mean that, as it’s used to refer to Irish Travelers, but it could also mean an Eastern European more generally. Garcia isn’t an Irish name, though, and the blurry, three-quarters photograph affixed shows a tall, dark, sharp-featured man, face turned away from the camera; he is obviously not about to sit still for the several minutes it takes for a full exposure. He is wanted for questioning in regard to several unexplained incidents of a violent nature. A substantial reward is offered for information.

Since this article is from August 1886, and it’s presently September 1887, Lucy can assume, given her run-in with Flynn’s boys this morning, that they have not in fact caught him. Dooley said he’s been in the city a few years – was this just the first time he brought himself to the attention of the authorities? Either way, he doesn’t fit the profile for a likely Rittenhouse mole, not if his name and (most of) his picture are in the paper urging the public to turn him in. Who the hell is this man? She’s heard of a lot of people, but she hasn’t heard of him.

Having sifted through the rest of the papers and not found much else, Lucy carries them back and puts them in the tray, pushing them back through the trapdoor. Ada is continuing her tinkering, and Lucy supposes it’s best to leave her to it; besides, she’s nervous about cutting it too close with getting back to the boarding house, in case the automaton returns at dark. It’s only midafternoon, but dusk comes increasingly early in London in autumn, and she can make a few stops beforehand. She tells Ada once more how amazing it was to meet her, and hurries out.

The rain has stopped, though it’s still murky and cool, and Lucy weighs up where she wants to try next. She’ll probably have to venture to the rougher parts of the city at some point, and even with a good deal of heavy weaponry, that will be a gamble as a woman alone. Her feet are getting sore in their fashionable buttoned boots, and she wants to sit down, so she crosses the road to a coffee shop and goes inside. The faint reminder of home briefly makes tears sting at her eyes. It’s been a long time, after all. In more ways than one.

Lucy drinks her coffee from a porcelain cup and saucer with a white-gloved waiter solicitously at her service, spaces out for a while, and then, hearing the nearby church bells call four, decides that she should definitely get a move on back to the boarding house. It isn’t far, since she’s still in Bloomsbury, and should be a swift walk, but the air is pink and blue and grey when she steps out, and it makes her hurry her steps. The automaton didn’t turn up at sundown last night, but if it – or rather, its masters – know for a fact now that she’s there –

Lucy is waiting at a corner for a trolley car to pass when she hears a murmur from around her, which quickly deepens into a shocked hiss. Fingers point upward, necks crane, and people stare at the sky. It is generally well-trafficked with airships – passenger cruisers, pleasure barges and tourist flights, cargo freighters, Royal Navy aeronauts, and steam balloons – but at the moment, there’s only one that has caught everyone’s attention. It’s a zeppelin about the size of the one Lucy arrived on, in fact might have been making its way to the Greenwich docks for a scheduled touchdown, but that will remain a mystery. It’s on fire near the tail, coming in hard and low, and there’s an alarmed outcry over the instinctive fear that it will crash directly onto their heads. As soon as that fire reaches the hydrogen supply – but while accidents are not uncommon, a world that relies so much on airships should have found a better way to –

At that, a dark, unformed suspicion crosses Lucy’s mind. She really does hope she’s wrong, and she will happily eat any amount of crow if she is, but she personally saw all those guns being bought this morning, and even had the thought that that was enough firepower to take down an airship. She should definitely get out of here, but she stares up at the burning zeppelin, hesitates a moment longer, then starts to run.

The airship swerves and veers overhead, almost close enough for Lucy to hear the flames crackle, as she tries to fight her way through the crowds running, sensibly enough, in the opposite direction. It’s not going to make it much further; it looks like it’s going to crash in Regent’s Park, which at least has a lot of open space for it, though it’s surrounded by expensive villas and has the possibility to put a lot of rich people unhappily out of their houses. The zeppelin is burning in good earnest now as it plunges, and there’s the sound of breaking glass as passengers decide to smash windows and jump out rather than wait for the crash. Lucy dodges as someone falls out of the sky in front of her and hits the paving stones with a gruesome sound, but doesn’t stop running. She doesn’t even know what she’s going to do or what she’s looking for, just that if this is what she thinks –

The zeppelin blocks out the sky above the street, its pilot house scraping on the gate with a massive fountain of sparks, as it does a half-somersault and plows nose-first into the green expanse of Regent’s Park. Lucy can feel the heat lashing her face, and skids to a halt, staring, at the oiled-silk skin charring away to reveal the bones of the frame. People are still stumbling from the wreckage, coughing and gagging on the smoke, and the distant sound of alarm bells means that the London Fire Brigade is on its way – there is nothing that Lucy can do to help anyone, and she needs to go, she needs to go, she needs to go. But for some inexplicable reason, her gaze is drawn up as if by a lodestone, across the way to where a tall dark figure is just turning as if to run for it. For a horrible moment, she thinks that it’s the automaton from last night, that it has somehow followed her here, or even that it downed the airship itself – but why?

And then, a gout of violent firelight falls on half of the figure’s face, and Lucy sees that it’s a man, not a tocker. A man that, even from distance and from a bad newspaper photograph, she somehow recognizes at once.

Garcia Flynn.

#timeless #timeless ff #lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #starlight & strange magic #steampunk au #look i resisted for my standard twenty minutes and then #oh well

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aticklishtem · 7 years

Text

Something to Laugh About

((welp so~ I’m pretty new to writing this kinda thing but this Concept wouldn’t leave me alone, so I decided to give it a shot and yeah, maybe someone else will also enjoy this self indulgent trash pile, idk \o/ any kind of feedback is always welcome!!))

For a dame who made, employed, lived in and was even made out of so much candy, that Baroness Von Bon Bon could be an awful sourpuss.

In fact, Beppi wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her truly smile, and it sure wasn’t for lack of trying. Nothing filled his heart with more joy than a genuine, honest-to-goodness smile - the kids whose faces lit up with excitement when he handed them another of his balloon animal menagerie, the crowds who came by his tent to watch him willingly make a fool of himself, his fellow carnival workers and isle-dwellers, he treasured every single smirk, chuckle, giggle and reluctant grimace. Way back before he’d so much as dabbed the first lick of paint on his nose, Beppi had made it his mission to bring a smile to the faces of all of Inkwell, and he was proud to say that so far he had an almost perfect track record. Almost.

The Baroness’ place was over the other side of town, but the isle was small and even she had to venture outside to peddle her wares, so Beppi and Bon Bon had crossed paths plenty. Often enough that it seemed like he’d tried everything - his best jokes, his worst jokes, the pie gag, the seltzer, the banana peel, even his killer impressions of Djimmi and Wally and Grim and anyone else he could think of - to see her lips so much as twitch, but she still just looked at him like he was a piece of taffy stuck to her shoe.

Beppi wasn’t quite as much of a fool as he acted - he knew she fancied herself above him, above all of their colourful corner of carnival. She turned her nose up at their hot dogs and candy corn, declaring that her confectioneries were made with only the finest ingredients Inkwell had to offer, and she couldn’t imagine why anyone would opt to shovel all that greasy garbage down their throat instead. But he hadn’t gotten to where he was by giving up easy - it was that dogged determination that had coaxed chuckles out of some of Inkwell’s grumpiest inhabitants, after all. And it would’ve been too tragic just to let them all carry on their way, stomping through town so sour-faced: he couldn’t imagine anything worse than a life of stony silence. Laughter was Beppi’s lifeblood, long before it had been his living; it filled him up, made him feel big and shiny and swell like a balloon (metaphorically and sometimes literally) until he could just about burst, in the best way. He wanted - no, he needed to spread the joy all over town, all over Inkwell, every way he knew how, and remain hopeful that it’d prove just as infectious as it was irresistible, even for the sourest of pusses.

He was optimistic for another day of sunshine and smiles, during a brief break in the afternoon’s frivolities to relax under the shade of one of the colourful parasols in the square. Beppi had been in the middle of telling Djimmi all about yesterday’s unfortunate yet hilarious incident involving an overzealous balloon giraffe and a fruit hat when Bon Bon shimmied into view.

Without missing a beat, he broke off into a comical double take, and then figured he might just as well fall out of his chair in shock that the esteemed Baroness had seen fit to grace them with her presence. Djimmi just shook his head fondly, long used to his friend’s antics; Bon Bon opted to ignore Beppi entirely as she and Djimmi exchanged polite greetings, simply manoeuvre around him like a colourful puddle as she took the chair on the other side.

Typically tough crowd, but Beppi was prepared for that - and he had a good feeling about today, the fact that Bon Bon had willingly descended from her fancy castle to mingle with the common folk suggesting she might be in a good mood, or at least not quite as much of a sourball as usual. If he could pull just the right rib-tickler out of his hat, maybe she’d even -

Hot dawg - Beppi had to glance up to check if someone hadn’t lobbed a lightbulb right over his head as he scrambled back upright, because had he just been hit with a doozy of an idea.

“Hey, hey, Bonnie.” Beppi leaned in closer to her, his usual ear-to-ear grin turning just a tad more mischievous than usual as he nudged at her elbow. “Gotta question for ya.”

Bon Bon turned to him with a long-suffering sigh, her eyebrows knitting together as though it pained her even to look at him. “What do you want? And don’t call me that.”

“My sincerest of apologies, Baroness.” Beppi just managed to resist putting on his snootiest voice in response as he bowed and tipped his hat - he was happy to humour her this time, since her hoity-toity act would only make his eventual victory all the sweeter. “Aaaanyway. How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?”

“I neither know, not care to -“

“Ten-tickles!” he popped the punchline gleefully, sliding an arm around her waist and squeezing before she could get away. “One!” He felt her jump a little at the unexpected contact, but no giggles followed; undeterred, he kept it up, searching for a sweet spot with a few pokes to her ribs. “Two!” Still nothing: Bon Bon was just staring at him like he was doing something utterly ridiculous - which, in all (fun)fairness, was kinda what he was always doing. But this was getting weird, and not the fun kind - was this woman made of rock candy? “Three..?” Faltering for just a moment, he scribbled his fingers across her midsection and finally she reacted - but not how Beppi had hoped, as she seized his wrist and pushed him roughly away.

“Get off! What in the world do you think you’re…” Bon Bon’s big doe eyes widened even further, her eyebrows shooting up as realisation dawned. “Oh, I see - you were trying to tickle me, weren’t you?” Before Beppi could protest his innocence, she scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls. “Tough luck, Chuckles - you won’t get me to crack with such a cheap trick. Hmm, but I wonder…” Something almost in the vicinity of a smile slowly spread across her face, and it was more than a little unsettling, sharp as the glimmer of an idea in her eye as she glanced Beppi up and down, drumming her dainty fingers on the tabletop, and - whoops, he might’ve bitten off a tad more than he could chew after all. “Perhaps someone else around here just might?”

“Ah - heh…” A nervous chuckle escaped as Beppi edged slowly away from her, until his back bumped against Djimmi’s broad chest and he pounced on the potential distraction. “Oooh - you talking about Djimbo here? He’s plenty ticklish - just watch this…”

Before he could attack, though, two strong arms shot out and grasped his noodly ones. Beppi let out an outraged squawk of protest as Djimmi effortlessly held him captive. “Hey - what gives…?”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Djimmi replied with a shrug and such a grand-piano grin Beppi was surprised his pants didn’t burst into flame, “but, as karma dictates, what goes around…”

“Well said.” Bon Bon nodded, her gaze positively predatory now as it lingered on Beppi’s now-compromising position; a bundle of nervous butterflies fluttered in his belly as she took a few steps closer. “I’m glad to hear someone around here has some respect - putting your greasy paws all over royalty like that? Why, I could have you executed. But…” She paused, actually licking her candy-heart lips as they twisted into a sadistic smirk, and with the slightest wiggle of her fingers Beppi knew he was done for. “I can think of something more fun.”

“N-nohohow, Bonnie, no need to be too hasteeheeheehee…!” Giggles spilled out the moment she spidered her fingers up his sides, barely touching him yet somehow unbearable all at once.

“Isn’t it funny,” Bon Bon purred, her sugary teasing sing-song only intensifying the torture, “how one who so desperately chases the laughter of others can be so easily reduced to such a giggly mess himself?” As if to prove her point, she dug right into his vulnerable underarms, and Beppi’s laughter pitched; with Djimmi holding him just a couple inches off the ground, he could do nothing but cackle helplessly. “It’s kind of cute, though. I might even prefer you like this, laughing too much to prattle on with your pitiful excuse for comedy.”

Beppi might’ve felt himself blushing even redder under his makeup at that last remark, if he could focus on anything other than her wicked fingers as they danced down across his ribs. “We may even have a new attraction!” she continued cheerfully, pausing to squeeze at his hips a few times; he could feel the tips of her nails through her silky gloves and his thin suit, digging in just enough to drive Beppi loopy as the teasing circles she was now tracing around his stomach. “Forget the dunk tank - how many coins for a go on this silly, terribly ticklish clown?”

“Bohohohon, nohoho - nohohot there!”

“Hmm? Not here? But that’s right where the target is!” Bon Bon just sped up, drawing faster and smaller circles until without any warning, she dug one of her devious digits right into his bellybutton; Beppi howled, writhing and bucking uselessly in Djimmi’s iron grip in a vain attempt to escape. “Oooh, look at that, I believe I just hit the bullseye! Where’s my prize?”

She wiggled away until Beppi was honking and wheezing like old Charlie, unable to even beg her for mercy or at least to think of his makeup, which was bound to be in ruins from the tears starting to roll down his cheeks. So this was how it ended - tickled to death by a candy lady. Well, he did always say to always leave ‘em laughing…

“Alright, now, Baroness, I think he’s learned his lesson,” Djimmi’s deep voice intoned, as he dropped Beppi back on his feet, Bon Bon finally ceased her attack - sure, she’d listen to him - and he gasped in relief, gulping in sweet lungfuls of air as he flopped back into Djimmi’s arms in a giggly heap, before remembering that he was a dirty traitor. “We don’t want the poor fella to literally laugh his head off.” He grinned, apparently unconcerned by Beppi’s best wounded glare. “It’s been known to happen.”

“That,” Beppi eventually managed to say, pointing an accusing finger at the both of them, “was cruel. And unusual.”

Bon Bon tittered, smoothing down her dress. “Oh dear, funny boy, was I too much for you? Can’t even take what you attempt to dish out? Well, I’d best be taking a powder anyway - time is candy, fellas.” She caught Beppi’s eye as she rose to her feet and shot him a sly wink, and his heart might’ve done a tiny somersault when she fluttered her fingers at them. “Let’s do this again sometime, shall we?”

She turned to saunter back off to her candy land, leaving Beppi and Djimmi to sit/float under the parasol in silence. Well, he’d better get used to it, because Beppi was definitely never speaking to him again. Not a word, not for the rest of their days, no matter how much he begged or -

“Djimbo.” Whoopsie - he’d just have to ignore him forever later, as he was already leaning over to nudge him repeatedly in the side. “D’ja-hear that? Bonnie thinks I’m cute.”

Djimmi chuckled indulgently, taking a puff of his pipe. “Perhaps you should be more careful how you address the Baroness,” he pointed out, eyes twinkling with gentle amusement, “lest you find yourself in another such ticklish predicament.”

Beppi shuddered dramatically, but his goofy grin only grew wider - because, well, Bon Bon had been smiling when she’d been tickling him to pieces. More than he’d ever seen her before, so maybe his plan hadn’t backfired quite as spectacularly as it might seem.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind letting her get the last laugh every once in a while, after all.

#tickling #tickle fic #tickle fanfic #cuphead tickling #slightly candyclown? you can interpret it however #i have No Clue how to tag this so i'll just #leave it here with the rest of the fire #tem writes #my fic

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