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avelera · 1 year

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Genuinely curious, in GS what are some of the reasons Dream starts falling for Hob? In the beginning he’s more open to talking about his grief and relating to another human being, why is that? I do absolutely get the answers of this from the fic I’m just interested in hearing your thoughts 💖

Ooh, thank you, Anon, this is such an exciting question! Consider this an official "Giving Sanctuary" Behind the Scenes look!

Let me just quickly get the Doylist reason for Dream being so in love with Hob from the beginning in GS out of the way first:

I had, at that point, seen a lot of fics where Hob has the uphill battle of wooing Dream and/or Dream spent most of the fic coming around to the fact he was in love with Hob. Which makes a lot of sense! Dream is very closed off with his emotions and in denial about so many things about himself. There is a lot of evidence for a read that any relationship between Hob and Dream is going to require Hob to continue to be the emotionally open one and slowly chip away at Dream's reticence and denial of any and all emotion.

But it's been done. It's been done by really heckin' good writers so around ch. 2 of writing GS I had a discussion with my incredible beta reader @thornfield13713 (without whom this fic would simply not exist) and the outcome of the conversation was, "Hey, what if Dream did know that he's in love in this fic? And what if Dream fell head over heels with Hob in 1689 right there at the White Horse and acted upon it?"

I was so excited and amused by the idea I couldn't resist going with it! Further discussions with amazing people like @fishfingersandscarves made me even more convinced of the hilarity of a fic that extrapolated on Dream's heart eyes in 1689 when Hob says he has, "so much to live for," to full on teenage crush territory, doing the Dream equivalent of giggling and twirling his hair. Why? Because Dream is sadness-sexual and Hob is suddenly (after a bath) hot to him! He has this long romance novel cover hair, an open shirt revealing his manly chest hair, and an air of tragedy about him which was catnip for Depression of the Endless here. (Fishy did some HILARIOUS doodles while we were brainstorming this!).

And the thing is, there is evidence for this version of Dream! Dream goes from zero to a million with Nada, the whole relationship lasts about a day I think?? So there's actually plenty of evidence that once Dream knows he's in love, he's not actually that repressed! He goes for it! Even with Alianora they basically get introduced and he says more or less "if we're to be lovers, I'll give you my heart, my constancy, and my love forever". They just met!

When it comes to love, Dream in the comics is actually quite a romantic! To the point where the popular fanon that he doesn't know love feels like might be a disservice. If anything (and this appears in GS) the reason he's hesitant to be demonstrative at first with Hob is because of traumatic events in his life like Nada?

So I asked myself, what if Dream does actually have a modicum of a sense of responsibility to not repeat that mistake that he made with Nada, and so he knows he's in love with Hob but hesitant to give in until he can be 100% sure he's not going to hurt the person he loves again, and then he's hesitant because, like a self-aware adult, he realizes that Hob feels beholden to him for getting him off the street and so Dream resolves to let Hob make the first move? (Made all the more hilariously tragic because Hob decides to let Dream make the first move because of his fears of losing the friendship.)

So anyway, that was the reason I wanted to write a Dream that knows he's in love from the outset BUT, let's dive into the Watsonian, in-universe answers to your question because I adore talking about it so much!

So in the fic, Dream's original, "Oh," moment where he fell in love was the one we see, in my opinion, canonically on screen in the show when Dream gives Hob that ridiculously soft and wondering look when he says, "Death is a mug's game, I've got so much to live for."

However, the actual divergence point from canon, the reason Dream doesn't just feel the first soft stirring of An Emotion towards Hob but then still just fucks off for another hundred years, is the decision to prolong the night by going to another pub but more importantly, it's when Hob offers his sympathies about Orpheus.

But even then, when Hob offers his sympathies? Dream doesn't offer almost anything back! In fact, if you read the dialogue closely, Dream is pretty much entirely focused on himself and only himself during that entire conversation, up until the very end when he offers Hob a place to sleep for the night.

Thing is, Dream in GS is the softest I ever write him, but he's still not a great person in Ch. 1, he's actually incredibly selfish and self-centered, and there's a very deliberate reason for that! This ties into your question of exactly how and why Dream falls in love so hard and fast with Hob there. Let me explain:

It's my belief that one of the most insidious aspects of grief and depression (clinical or otherwise) is how it isolates us. But more important, how it makes us turn inward, which exacerbates the isolation. Dream has been mourning the death of his son at this point for give-or-take 2,500 years. He's marinated in that grief. He has turned inward, and selfish, and cold, and cruel because of it. The pain is real but it's a pain so intense to him that it makes him completely blind to the pain of others. It has arrested his development, his maturity, and his empathy for others entirely, so he is effectively operating at a teenage or early 20-something emotional level ever since. He sees slights everywhere, he thinks subjectively if not objectively that no one has suffered as profoundly as he has. He feels abandoned by his family and he feels like no one in his life understands his grief.

Some of this is based in fact! He is, in fact, the only Endless to have a child they care about (that I know of so that is canon to the fic) so none of his other siblings could really empathize with him or offer him more than platitudes.

Even worse, Destiny, Destruction, and Death, his three favorite siblings arguably, all directly or indirectly led to Orpheus's death, with Destruction encouraging him to go to the Underworld after Eurydice, Destiny warning Death not to offer the boon of Super Immortality, and Death abiding by Destiny's recommendation since he gives those so rarely. But not only did they not stop Orpheus they didn't warn Dream so he could take this moment more seriously and possibly intervene.

Now, would Dream have listened? Probably not! But with 20/20 hindsight, his bitterness was compounded by the (likely incorrect) belief that if he had just known everything that Destiny, Death, and Destruction knew, he could or would have prevented Orpheus's death. Or at the very least if he had known that he was about to lose his son, and there was no stopping it, he could have at least enjoyed their final days together. Of course that would have altered events significantly but it's also very unlikely Dream would have altered his own actions even with the knowledge that Orpheus was going after Eurydice. Dream's conclusions that he would have taken action if he'd known everything (except that Orpheus was doomed) are illogical thoughts based on grief, not objective reality or self-awareness, but they've compounded Dream's bitterness and isolation towards his own family before the fic begins, unlike in canon, where Orpheus still being a severed head means Dream's grief and blame is much more complicated and thus intractable.

Likewise, Calliope also officially broke ties with Dream as a result of his coldness towards Orpheus after he met Eurydice and his failure to prevent Orpheus's death (viewing Dream much the same way Dream views his siblings' lack of intervention) so Dream was truly alone and stewing with his grief for millennia.

Enter Hob Gadling, who recently lost his son. Who, counter to everything Dream expected after seeing that Hob had a son and a wife he loved in 1589, has not given up on life the way Dream has. Dream is actively wishing to die in GS as a result of Orpheus's death and only held back by the weight of his responsibilities, which I think is pretty much canonical to the comic series.

Now, I've ranged far from my point, but to swing back to it: Dream is still in a very selfish and inward-facing place in Ch. 1, even as he helps Hob. To be clear, he doesn't fall in love for Hob's sake in that moment, he falls in love very narcissistically with the projection of his own grief in another person. When Dream says, "[I'm not weeping for you] I'm weeping for myself," he's telling the truth. He sees in Hob's misery and rags and suffering the outward projection of how Dream feels every single day since Orpheus died. He sees in Hob's isolation how Dream feels after being (he feels) abandoned by Calliope and his siblings. Dream feels like he's looking in a mirror at himself right after Orpheus's death (absurd as that might from a material angle given all the power he has vs. Hob's destitution). He's not quite taking Hob out for another drink at that moment, he's taking "Dream the Day Orpheus Died" out for a drink and only slooowly over the course of the conversation begins to see Hob for his own sake, not just a reflection of himself.

Arguably he didn't invite Hob out to the Penny Whistle to help Hob but because he's having feelings for this reflection of his own pain. He's still too depressed and inward-facing to really be cognizant of Hob's grief, he only sees his own, so being with Hob is still a form of sort of wallowing at this point.

But the thesis of the story, and indeed, my own emotional thesis around grief and depression and healing, is that helping someone else begins to break down those walls. Not entirely, but it's a start. Hob's moment of selflessness, when he takes a break from his own grief to care for Dream, is the first crack in the ice that's encased Dream for millennia. Taking care of Hob over the course of the story helps Dream widen that gap and, in the course of their conversation at the Penny Whistle, just enough light breaks through the grief that has buried Dream that he begins to see that he has been buried by it.

Up until this point, Dream has just sort of... accepted that his pain and grief are just the world itself. It's just the way of things. The fact that other people like Hob (when he's enjoying life, unlike 1689) can't see that the natural state of the world is pain and darkness make Dream think those people are stupid. It makes him hate them and himself and life. This little crack of light that Hob allows in by showing Dream empathy illuminates for Dream that there is something out there besides his pain. That maybe he is wrong that there's nothing to life but misery. Maybe he is, in fact, trapped by his grief. Maybe, in fact, his grief isn't the truth, but has actually blinded him to the true state of the world around him.

That is really the moment Dream goes from fond of Hob and nominally invested in his survival to head-over-heels, Nada levels of love-at-first-sight obsessed with Hob in an instant. And it's still selfish! I'd argue his love for Nada was selfish in a similar way, falling for someone who made him feel things.

But Dream realizes he's in love! He realizes it the moment that Hob takes his hand and won't let him go and tells him he cares if Dream is there in 100 years and he cares not in any sort of transactional way other than it makes him happy to know that Dream is out there, hopefully happy as well, and that it's an entirely selfless love of Hob's or that it's selfish insofar as Dream's simple continuing existence gives Hob hope of a familiar face every century. He tells Dream, whose parents treated love as transactional at best and unwanted at worst, that Dream doesn't have to do anything for Hob to continue to wish the best for him. Nothing is expected! In fact, Dream didn't have to do anything in the first place, even be kind to Hob, to win this love. In fact he's been pretty awful to Hob, but it doesn't matter, because Hob cares about him anyway just for being himself and being alive and being there in accordance with their agreement to meet once a century.

This is incredibly revelatory for Dream, to simply be cared about and wanted by someone who isn't dependent on him (like a subject) where he can argue that they don't really care about him, they care about his function as Dream Lord. Even Jessamy and Lucienne Dream can dismiss as caring about him because of how he fulfills his function. Which, when one is in a deep depression, can overcome the obvious facts that Jessamy and Lucienne love Dream for who he is, not just for being the Dream Lord! But with Hob, even depression can't make the argument that Hob cares about the Dream Lord and not for Dream, since Hob knows nothing about Dream's function as of yet.

It's impossible to understate how revelatory this moment at the Penny Whistle is for Dream. To have someone who understands his grief about his son, who reaches out in sympathy, who basically says he will fight God for allowing Orpheus to die and says it with complete sincerity. To have someone care and be invested in Dream without any possibility that he does so for his role. To have, for the first time, someone ask Dream if he's ok now about Orpheus's death, even though it was 2,500 years ago! Unlike everyone else, even Calliope, Hob is the first one not to assume that Dream is over it yet, or that he never felt anything at all. Hob is the first fellow grieving father to see Dream and ask him, as a father, if he is still grieving his son, and if he's going to be ok, and if he's actively suicidal about it!

This beat was based on real anecdotes I've read from parents who lose a child, how the mother is often flooded with sympathy and support, but fathers are often ignored as far as their need for support after (just one more way toxic masculinity fails men). My partner said it rang true that, as a man, no one had ever really asked Dream if he was ok after Orpheus died, beyond the initial condolences, and he's not ok. In fact, he's been actively buried in the darkest despair about it ever since!

So Dream falls in love with Hob here. Yes, it's for selfish reasons at first, that Hob finally gives Dream the sympathy he's always craved. But that selfish love of Hob for comforting him is the thread that helps lead Dream out of the dark. Then, over the course of their time together in the Manor House, that hole in the walls of his despair begins to break open even wider. Dream begins to see Hob for who he is and his good qualities. He begins to see Hob's grief over Robyn and sympathize with it for Hob's sake, not just his own. He begins to want to help Hob for his own sake, not just so Hob can say more nice things to Dream, but because he realizes he wants Hob to be happy, and that Dream wants to be happy, and that together they don't need to suffer like this. He begins to look around, finally, and see how Lucienne is afraid of his anger, though she's done nothing wrong, and that Jessamy cares deeply for him and suffers discomfort on his behalf because of her motherly love for him.

The selfish love leads him to selfless love and really, that's why it's all over for Dream with regards to Hob. He has been drowning for millennia and Hob is the first breath of air he's had. He's basically high on the first positive emotions he's felt since Orpheus died, and it's thanks to Hob.

Dream's emotions are immature as a result of that arrested development, because Dream hasn't felt anything consistently good since Orpheus died. He is, in fact, effectively a teenager! He gets a crush! He's doing the Endless equivalent of giggling and twirling his hair and complimenting Hob for pointing out blindingly obvious things. Dream's body, that he's been basically ignoring except for possibly the occasional physical release of a one-night stand, suddenly springs back to life in embarrassing ways because he's not buried in misery anymore. Dream begins to feel things, physically and emotionally, because finally someone cares about him in the way he needed to be cared about. And so he falls in love, Big Love, Forever Love, with Hob for being there, being the person he needs, for loving him the way he needs. And very fortunately, Hob is over the moon ecstatic to get the chance to shower Dream with that love, because he feels the same way in return!

This is already insanely long. Obviously I have a lot of feelings about this. But it was amazing even to me how much Dream in 1689 specifically clicked with Hob the minute Hob began to share his grief and offer his sympathy to Dream in return. After that, it was amazing I could keep their hands off each other for as long as the story did! Which was, minus Destiny's intervention, one whole entire week lol.

#giving sanctuary #giving sanctuary bts #1689 fic #sandman meta #dreamling

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rom-e-o · 8 months

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Heaven (Modern!AU) (Constance/Orin) (Constance/Ebenezer)

Trigger warning for graphic depictions of self-harm and attempted su*c*de.

Connie experiences darkness before the dawn.

Something about the entire evening felt just a tad … off.

Orin Spiegler couldn’t exactly pinpoint what exactly was amiss in the couple’s stately 5th Avenue townhouse, but a sense of dread was tugging at him. He felt … anxious, which was not an emotion he felt often. Stock trading on Wall Street and rubbing elbows with some of the richest financial syndicates in the country and world took someone with steel-will and gumption. By self- admission, he had both in spades.

Orin knew there were many select adjectives one might use to describe him, but ‘uncertain’ was not one of them. When he felt or knew something, he believed it with his whole chest and soul.

Something in the air on that very evening was making his uneasy.

Orin sat in an expansive, high ceiling sitting room in the townhouse, the windows showing the top of Central Park’s green canopy. The clouds churned dark gray outside, pregnant with a chilling winter downpour that threatened to turn to snow if the temperature dwindled much more.

It wasn’t the cold or impending weather making him nervous, nor was it the distance scratching of the delicate sapphire needle on the phonograph nearby, playing a crackling blend of Chopin’s most well-known pieces. No. He was used to all that. He was used to the dry newspaper in his hands, ink smearing on his fingertips even if he’d given the damn thing the whole day to dry. He was used to the expensive firewood filling the parlor with the scent of aftershave, and just a little bit of nauseous smoke.

He was a man of routine, and nothing this evening stood out compared to anything else that would have also been commonplace any other night.

Yet, his fingers felt compelled to tap the wooden flourish of his armchair. An itch manifested on his freshly shaven cheek. The silk of his dressing gown suddenly felt as stifling as wool.

A persistent, nagging notion scratched at the base of his skull: Get up, get up, get up.

Something was wrong. But what?

Fuck, he needed a drink.

“Con!” he yelled, voice reverberating through the cavernous room, “Grab me a drink, will you?”

Silence.

A groan of irritation left him as he threw the paper aside and rose to his feet. “Con! Hey!”

He peered down the hall that housed a few of the townhome’s bedrooms. It was dark and still as nighttime pond. Uneasiness returned as he noted a persistent haze filling the hall. Steam from the bathroom, he realized.

Ah, of course, she was in the bath.

Well, she could fetch his drink nude, he thought. That could be fun.

Marching to the bathroom, his fingers curled around the knob like the legs of a dying spider. He gave the door a rattle. As expected, it was locked, the knob frozen in place. “Con. I know you’re in there.”

There was no noise from the other side. Not a sound of exasperation or fear, not the sound of sloshing water, not the sound of a squeaky tap or a groaning pipe. It was as if the room was empty on the other side of the locked door, but that wasn’t possible.

That persistent feeling of dread grew in tandem with the stretch of silence he experienced on the other side of the door. While one hand kept trying the knob, the hardware rattling like tumbling bones with furious flick of the wrist. While his right hand attacked the knob, his left hand rose seemingly of its own accord to tap his fingers against the lacquered wood. One finger to another, back and forth, three or four times.

The entire time, crickets. By now, she would have stirred. She should have stirred.

“Con?” he asked again, his voice growing with the same trepidation that had lured him up from the chair.

Silence.

Had she fallen asleep in the bath and slipped into the water?

“Constance. Constance!”

Panic rose in his throat and he continued to twist the knob over and over, attempting to move the lock’s tumblers by threat and force. The fingers that had previously siphoned out his anxiety through fleeting taps now curled into a fist and banged on the wood.

“I’m going to break down the door if you don’t answer me.”

Less than ten seconds passed before he acted upon the promise. Squaring his shoulders and bracing himself, he reared back against the hall wall before charging forward. The door jostled in place, and after a few strikes, began to buckle around the metal hardware. While the new lock remained in place, the historic door (a heavily restored original from the townhome’s initial construction around two hundred years ago) caved with relative ease.

Adrenaline numbed the pain long enough for him to force the wood forward past the screws and hinges.

On the next ram, it buckled. With the lock still clicked into place, the rest of the door flew back and smacked the bathroom wall.

Orin stumbled inside, and before he saw anything else, he saw red. A pool of blood, thick and black as oil, dripped from the edge of the otherwise pristine, white clawfoot tub. Perched atop the rim was a slit wrist, a jagged flap of skin hanging free from the cut veins.

One of his facial razors was limply cradled between the unresponsive manicured nails.

“Fuck!”

He pushed himself back from the doorway, stumbling away from the stained floor, as if he could push himself out of the dream before him.

“Fuck, fuck, no!” he screamed, voice shattering with each syllable. The world seemed to still in that moment, where each breath felt like an eternity to complete. “H-holy shit…C-Constance….”

Remembering himself, he peeled himself up from the floor and stepped through the metallic-smelling liquid to read the room.

As he looked inside, he saw his fear realized. While one slit wrist was perched atop the edge of the tub, her other slit wrist and head were submerged in the pink-tinted water, only a few bubbles leaving her nostrils and mouth. Her coppery hair wreathed her lifeless face like a halo, eyes already fluttered shut.

Acting instinct, he lunged to her side. Orin reached in and hauled Constance from the tub, all but throwing her onto the floor. She wasn’t nude, but rather dressed in a thin slip dress that reached her mid-thighs, likely to preserve some dignity for whoever found her.

She was already cold and limp in his arms from also slipping unconscious, therefore powerless to stop him bundling her wrists in towels and wrapping her in a robe. He worked in silence, waiting until all her wounds were covered before he began to apply beats of heavy pressure to her chest.

He thumped his hands against her sternum, then frantically tipped her head back and breathed into her mouth.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, mindless of the blood and bath water drenching him. “No. Fuck. No, we’re not doing this.”

He commanded her to wake up over and over again, both shouting the order and muttering it against her blueish lips between breaths. Some of those whispers were prayers, not to Constance, but to any higher power or ghosts that could hear him.

When she finally did sputter up some water, she didn’t even take a moment to breathe. All Constance did was gasp and let out a choppy groan. Her agony was personified in a cry for death rather than a frantic gasp for life.

Ignoring her pleas to let her die, he scooped her up in his arms and rushed to his phone in the sitting room.

While waiting for an ambulance to arrive, he held her like a child cradling their favorite stuffed toy, rocking her softly all the while.

While he murmured sweet nothing, she let out creaking, suffocated groans for physical and mental release.

Release from life. Release from him.

The clawfoot tub in Ebenezer Scrooge’s London flat was large enough for her to practically lay flat in.

Slipping out of her robe (which was actually his robs - she needed to buy one to keep at his place), she tentatively stepped into the steaming tub of water one leg at a time.

Baths always worked wonders for her aches and pains, especially residual injuries from her broken legs.

This one was no exception.

Even when she went to sit down, the size of the bath continued to surprise her. Sitting fully on her bum, the water almost reached her chin. Almost slipping into the deepness, she caught herself with a giggle. She rolled her shoulder back and reclined against the back of the tub with a sigh.

Oh, it was heaven. She felt almost weightless in the tub, since it was large enough for her to move her arms and even wiggle her legs back and forth.

She could even dunk her head under the water (which she did, in fact!) and surfaced with another puff of laughter as she smoothed her curled bangs from her face.

The bath was a place of private solace; a haven to be truly defenseless and vulnerable. It was always one of the most reliable places she could retreat to and never be bothered. Whether it was after a chilly day of childhood snowball fights, a hard day at the office, or a harrowing modelling photoshoot that left her feet sore and ego bruised, she would go to the bath and feel peace.

Everything about this bathroom relaxed her. From the buttery paint color on the walls to the fluffy, freshly washed towels, and even down to the rainy London skyline outside the window, it felt perfect.

Slowly, she risked a glance down and at her wrist.

She turned her wrist over and glimpsed the deep, jagged scar adorning her right hand. While scars lingered on both hands, her wrist list had been badly marred thanks to the added clumsiness of her trying to use her non-dominant hand. It almost made her chuckle, the black comedy of it all.

Inhaling the steam off the bath, she took a deep breath to reground herself.

“You’re okay,” she reminded herself with a nod. “You’re okay.”

Her boyfriend was right outside.

This time, she had nothing, and nobody, to be scared of.

Ebenezer reclined in bed, dressing properly for a quiet evening in with pajamas and slippers. His torso sat propped against two layers of pillows, his legs crossed casually at the ankles. Across his lap was a thick book; an enjoyable endeavors compared to the massive manuscripts he often read daily as part of his job. A set of tortoiseshell reading glasses were perched atop his owlish nose. The frames were a set that Constance had helped him picked out at an optometrist appointment mere weeks prior. It had been a surprisingly domestic experience, he'd found. She'd been so serious about helping him choose the perfect set and offering her opinions. At the time, he'd wanted to pull her into a thankful kiss.

Now, he was eagerly awaiting for her to join him in bed.

Every once in a while, he glanced at the door to the ensuite bathroom. Whenever he heard a splash or giggle from inside, he almost smiled before returning to his book.

Gods, what had he done to wind up so lucky?

When the door finally opened and Constance emerged, her cheeks red and hair damp, his grin turned to a smirk. Wearing one of his robes with the hem of a sapphire-blue night slip peeking from underneath, she looked like a goddess emerging from her private springs.

“Hello,” she said with a shy smile.

“Hello, indeed,” he crooned, putting his book aside instantly. He opened an arm to her, and she crawled into his embrace. She sidled up to him, fitting perfectly in the nook between his chest and arm. “Enjoy the bath?”

She nodded and hummed. “Very much. It was so relaxing.”

He dropped a kiss upon her copper head. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“What are you reading?”

“Crime and Punishment,” he said. “I wanted to read it as a boy, but never got to it. I’ve been wanting to get back into reading more, my dear. I used to do it so often as a child when I could. Even when money was tight, libraries were always free.”

She hummed.

“Have you read it?”

“I’ve read Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Anna Karenina, but never Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment,” she said. “That’s the novel about the student, right? Raskolnikov. The one who kills his elderly neighbor with an axe?”

“…Yes,” he said, then laughed nervously. “I suppose it is a bit of a morbid choice.”

“Well, most literature is morbid in some way,” Constance giggled, readjusting herself so she laid alongside him. “Are you far along?”

“Not terribly – 10 pages or so. Barely a dent of a dent for a book of this size, I’d dare say.”

“…Can we both read it?”

“What?” he asked, glancing down at her. “Like, read it together? In turns?”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes. Is…that okay? Just a chapter or so a night before bed every night. Maybe … I could read a few times, and you could read other times?”

Touched by her sincere interest, he would have agreed even if he hadn’t liked the idea. Oh, he was overjoyed by the thought. Any opportunity to bond with her filled his proverbial cup, so to speak.

“Well, then,” he started, holding the book open with one hand while his other hugged her close. “Let’s start over, shall we?”

She reached out to grab the other side of the novel, helping to hold it upright for them.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

Inhaling again, she nodded and let her eyes flutter shut.

“It feels like heaven.”

@quill-pen I was inspired by our convo the other day. Just a bit.

#tw self harm mention #scroogeverse #oc constance dogoode #scrooge x oc

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roguephenon · 3 months

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have you ever had the childish urge to make a "trailer" for your fanfic? I have. below is a spoiler tease for Cold Reception's next chapter, because I like to have fun too.

You asked.

So I said it.

There’s no hope in the world where we’re headed…

“Hey,” David’s soft voice sliced through the fog of her anxiety. From behind his brunette fringe, his eyes met with hers. His smile was small, soft, but trembled with the slightest bit of apprehension. Despite his own misgivings eating at him, he wanted to least offer, “We…we don’t gotta do this.”

His hesitance was watering for her own fears, letting them bloom again tenfold. Alessandra patted his hand reassuringly before gently breaking contact. Her gaze returned to the windshield. “We’re not doing anything yet.”

Nestled behind the radar station, Constance grumbled, “Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

“Numbuh 0.5,” was the warning growl, signaling she had been caught. The pigtailed girl flinched. Alessandra noticed and closed her eyes to sigh. “We’re just hearing him out. That’s it.”

Pissed off.

Offended.

“Then enlighten us, poindexter,” Bruce spat. He positioned himself protectively in front of his team, hands splintering the desk as he slammed them down. He snarled up at the adult menacingly. “Who would take in unruly, uneducated, dirty little street brats like us?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe…” Benedict sunk back into his chair, lips curling into a delightfully devious smile. “…me?”

There’s nothing we can do…

SO JUST FUCKING FORGET IT!

Abby landed sloppily, feet stumbling over vines and foliage. The balloon cobra was vicious, not letting up in the slightest. One stray trip and the girl found herself encircled in its tail. The rubber squeezed the air out of her lungs in a gasp.

Seeing this, Hoagie flew low in a desperate gambit to free her.

The Delightful Children merrily skipped forth, ignorant to their chaos, eyes closed and feeling the rain sprinkle their faces. They sighed ecstatically. “We can’t think of a morning—”

Abby freed an arm from the cobra’s grasp, waving and reaching towards Hoagie. His fingers brushed against hers, only to scream as a horde of robotic pinatas collided into his exposed flank.

“—where we haven’t woken up—”

With a scratchy hiss, the cobra jerked up its tail, jostling Abby around before slamming her to the ground. Her face was dragged through the mud, only to be brought up and forced to face the cobra’s masters.

Her eyes widened as crazed, vengeful blue ones bored into her soul.

“—to the thought of ANNIHILATING YOU!”

Take away the choice,

What

Have

You

Got?

“But…we’ll always be together,” Lenny whispered, tears blinding him as he buried himself into the team hug. “R-Right?”

Alessandra’s lips trembled, David and Bruce’s hands drawing her closer. She buried her chin in Constance’s hat, the smaller girl bawling into Alessandra's scruffy jacket. She mulled Lenny’s words, the unspoken ones loud and clear.

Everything they would give up.

Everything they would turn their backs on.

Every freedom they would forfeit.

“Of course we will,” Alessandra answered, steeling her voice. She went in, pulling her team—her family—close and never, ever intending to let go. “Forever and always.”

Benedict gave an agitated flick of his watch, foot tapping against the carpet. “Wrap it uuuuuup.”

It’s better to be loved,

For

What

You’re

Not.

The unfortunate truth, they learned, is you couldn’t have your cake and eat it too. They were the undesirables of society, the ones that fell through the cracks unnoticed. Their bond was one of trauma, shared grief, found family, and a whole mixture of things normal kids—lucky kids with loving parents, aunts, and uncles who wanted them would never understand.

So, if conforming to a man’s delightful ideal meant they would not be split and shattered, that would be how the cookie crumbled. To a child with nothing left, dealing with the devil was better than risking yet another unknown.

The Supreme Leader begged for them to trust her, but the truth is, they couldn’t.

Sector Z had no trust to give out like candy. For better or worse, they hoarded it exclusively among themselves.

For now and for always.

I better shut my mouth,

I’ve said too much…

“Why weren’t we worth it?” they shouted over the thunder. The machine’s fist brought him close and they grinned. Their expressions were mad, hair slightly askew, looking absolutely barbaric but the Delightful Children didn’t care. No, any and all imperfections would be nothing compared to the sweet, delicious satisfaction of them getting him to admit it! “Why didn’t you save US, Nigel!?”

And finally, after everything, Nigel let it all out as he couldn’t bother to pretend anymore.

“BECAUSE YOU RUINED MY LIFE!”

Just obey!

Hoagie grunted, kicking off the debris as he rose. Horror struck his core as the shadow of the Incredibly Destructive Machine eclipsed his entire body.

Pay the price!

“Tell the Kids Next Door we’ll miss them.”

Sell the dream!

The Delightful Children sneered. With a final roll of their eyes, they scoffed and mockingly asked, “Any last words…Soopreme Leaduh, sir?”

Fists trembling, body aching, but eyes burning bright, the youngest, the silliest - the last kid of sector V stood. Kuki watched as the Incredibly Destructive Machine was illuminated by lightning, poised for one final blow.

“…code: X-Seven-Nine.”

Don’t let the party die!

“Don’t Let The Party Die” – Sleeping With Sirens

While you wait, have some TEA. NURSE's orders.

#knd #my writing #fanfic #cold reception #the delightful children from down the lane #this fic is just my last chance at putting to word old headcanons honestly

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thorin-is-a-cuddler · 1 year

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A little convincing

A/N: I made it. Despite uni actually forbidding such things. I had to write this. It made me feel happy and I hope it will make you feel happy as well. Imagine whichever Aramis you like best. Romain Duris has my heart. Aramis x littke sister reader.

You were quietly sitting on the windowsill, overlooking the busy, dusty, loud street of Paris that led alongside the musketeer‘s corps. It was a fresh, lovely morning, the sun peeking out behind an array of clouds and the smell of spring whispering promises about the upcoming summer. The sun light reflected in the tin rain gutters on the Parisian roofs blinded you, so you looked behind you, eyes fixing on your brother putting on his jewelry in front of his mirror. Yes, it was HIS mirror. Neither Athos, nor Porthos ever spent any time in front of it. He did that sufficiently for the three of them. He was humming softly, fixing his moustache the way he liked best and trying not to make a tangled mess of his twelve different necklaces. No one in Paris walked about as extravagantly as he did. It made you feel proud of your brother. He was carrying about a security of self that was charming and good-natured, never rude and rarely arrogant. When someone mocked him, he just smiled. When someone tried to outdo him, he just laughed. Aramis‘ face only ever darkened when you or his brothers were in trouble. He could be terrifying then, even to you. His dark side was just as dark as his bright sight was shiny.

While tending to his appearance that very morning, he seemed particularly shiny. You couldn‘t help but smile, when he noticed your attention and moved his head around in a swift motion, granting you a waggle of his eyebrows. You tried not to show it, but a sadness was wearing you down. He would be gone for an entire week and despite the fact that Treville and Constance never allowed you a quiet moment in the reoccurring absence of your brother and his friends to keep you from worrying, you were always on the brink of dropping into the terrible imagination of losing him. He must have noticed a weakness in your smile - he always did - because he suddenly altered his voice, talking in the most comedic American/English accent and getting to his feet dramatically.

„MISSUS!!“ He exclaimed and you felt your lips twitch. „Is that a saaad little twaankle I see in your moonyshiny eyeess?“

With a huff, you started shaking your head at him. „You‘re such an idiot!“

He gasped, so overdramatically offended, he almost threw himself off his feet. „MADAMMME, do you have the faintliest idea who ya talkin to??“

You tried to glare at him to keep from laughing or grinning, but he merely mimicked your expression and hunched over in a most concerningly predatory way.

„Oh, I see,“ he growled, back to his normal voice, sending a feeling of fearful anticipation through your stomach.

„Aramis!“ You warned, tenseley sitting up straight on the sill.

„That laughter needs a little more convincing, huh?“ He continued to growl, slowly advancing in your direction. You were getting really bouncy there, extending your hands defensively in front of you and slowly backing away from the window. A nervous smile slipped on your features.

„No, thank you, I think it‘s not available today!“

He laughed softly at that, his eyes glittering. There was a silent consent shared between you: in the way you didn‘t really try to get away, in the way he blinked slowly and knowingly, reassuringly. It was your game and you would play it the way you wanted to.

„I think I can coax it out of you!“ He grinned fondly and suddenly the backs of your knees hit his bed. Your eyes widened and he was too freaking fast. With a squeal you tried to avoid his arms coming for your middle by throwing yourself on the sheets. You quickly robbed backwards on your back, hysterical sounds leaving your throat in a melody of your own design. He was right there with you, trying to get a hold of your arms and cackling at the way you kicked him in the ribs.

„Ooooh, feisty!!“

You shrieked in panic, when his hand managed to hold on to your leg and quickly tried to pull yourself away from him, but he pulled you right back into the middle of the bed and caged your body with his arms.

„Well, well, looks like you‘re in trouble,“ he huffed with his deep voice, smirking as his eyes locked with yours. You were already smiling wider and brighter than the tin roof gutters of Paris, feeling the love for your brother flush out all the anxiety for the moment. In an attempt at self-defense, you shoved your hands under his arms and tickled the mostly unprotected armpits, making him recoil and break out into a short flow of laughter, before he got a hold of your wrists and pinned them above your head.

„You little snake,“ he mused, humming happily when you started to shout out breathless, giggly „No“s, all pinned down and delivered.

„No, no, no?“ He teased, delighted at the way you already tried to protect your neck by shaking your head quickly from left to right. „You still think I cannot convince that laughter to come out?“

You cursed yourself for the breathless giggles that were already shaking you, despite him not having even come near to tickling you. With a deep breath you put your head back and looked at your brother smiling softly at you. In a last attempt at defying him, you stuck out your tongue and said: „Actually it‘s harder NOT to laugh at you in general, but somehow the boys and I manage i- NOOO!!!“

You squealed with laughter when he dipped his head down and blew a raspberry under your ear, his beard bristeling against your skin ticklishly.

„Dohohohohon‘t,“ you got out half-suffocated, before a second and third raspberry sent you into more delirious waves of laughter.

„Are you laughing at me right now??“ He asked fake incredulously when he moved his head back up to look at you shaking with mirth. You could barely breathe as you shook your head from left to right, pulling at your pinned wrists.

„Nohohoho, I swear!!“

He chuckled and dipped his head down anew, meeting a particularly mean spot on your neck. You bucked your body up and tried to throw him over, but he simply repeated to blow on the same spot several times, succeeding in making your laughter explode too much to still have any strength for that manoeuver.

„Plehehehease stop,“ you giggled when he‘d moved his head up again, smirking triumphantly.

„Oh, come on, I have to make up for an entire week here.“ He chuckled, but the mentioning of his absence quickly changed the mood.

Your smile vanished and your eyes grew less bright than before.

„Hmmm,“ he made, letting go of your wrists as a sadness tinged his carefree expression a shade less happy. „Little sister doesn‘t like me going.“

„No, she hates that really.“ You answered, pulling your arms down and starting to play with one of his necklaces hanging a little lower than the rest.

He put his head up on one of his palms, the other arm still keeping you from getting away. The kindness in his eyes never vanished, a huge amount of sympathy weighing you down like a warm blanket.

„I would take you with us, if I could.“

„Would you?“ You asked, using the crucifix pendant of his necklace to draw the lines of his chin.

„Mhmmm,“ he answered, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. „I would keep you in a saddle bag the entire time to make sure you don‘t get lost, but yes I would!“ He chuckled when you gently punched him in the chest for that, but quickly turned more serious again when he saw how worried you really were.

„You know, (Y/N), when I‘m gone, I know exactly what and who I come back for and that creates a power you can hardly imagine. I would slice, slash, burn and kick my way back to you, always. Even if I‘m hurt, even if I‘m dying, I will always come back here to you. The last time you see me will never be when I leave.“

Your eyes started to burn as you looked into the honey brown eyes of your brother during his little speech. His words made you sad, but all the more they reassured you and made you want to cling to him for as long as you could.

Your arms were thrown around his neck in one swift motion and he caught and held you against him with one arm, nuzzling your hair and breathing you in.

„I love you so much,“ you whispered, allowing one single tear to drop onto his shirt.

„Oh, if you knew how much I love you, if you only knew how powerful that makes me.“ He answered gently, smiling against your ear and holding you even tighter than before.

„Powerful enough to crush me apparently,“ you wheezed, laughing when he dropped you back on the sheets all of a sudden. The mischievous sparkle was back in his eyes.

„Right, where were we actually? Wasn‘t I very busy doing something funny right there?“

„Oh no no no,“ you protested, giggling with a new wave of nervous laughter, your hands quickly coming up to push against his face, to keep that beard away from your neck.

He chuckled softly, not even seeming bothered when he used one hand to brush your own away and pin them on your side now, using his body to keep them stuck between you two. You were already wiggling around hysterically, twisting and turning but never escaping. And soon his ticklish beard on your neck and his skilled fingers raking over your ribs had you shaking with laughter again. Until Athos and Porthos entered the room and Aramis was off of you in milliseconds. They were always on your side. And he was painfully aware of that.

A similar cornering situation like the one between you and your brother took place and Athos and Porthos had your brother down in seconds, making him burst with adorable giggles in the most practiced manner, cutting off his access to his sides and tickling him there until they could have made him promise anything in the entire world.

You loved watching them play, feeling good about yourself and the morning spent with your brother. Seeing the fondness in the eyes of his friends reassurred you further that Aramis was well protected by the eagle eyes of the two of them. They would never let anything happen to each other if they had a say in it.

You couldn‘t wait to hear him laugh like that again.

#the musketeers #tickling #tickle imagine #ticklish!aramis #little sister reader #aramis little sister #the three musketeers #athos #porthos #hurt/comfort

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maydayblake · 1 year

Text

Ok I'm Bored So Send Me Asks, Or Any FF Ideas Cause I Have Nothing To Do...

I Write For :

The Black Phone

Finney Blake

Robin Arellano

Bruce Yamada

Vance Hopper

Billy Showalter

Griffin Stagg ( Platonic Only )

Donna Clarke

Gwen Blake ( Platonic Only )

Harry Potter

Ron Weasley

Fred Weasley

George Weasley

Hermione Granger

Draco Malfoy

Tom Riddle

Mattheo Riddle

Lorenzo Berkshire

Theodore Nott

Blaise Zabini

The Walking Dead

Carl Grimes

Enid Rhee

Ron Anderson

Fear Street 1994, 1978, 1666

Simon Kalivoda

Deena Johnson

Kate Schmidt

Josh Johnson

Samantha Miller

Ziggy Berman

Cindy Berman

Thomas Slater

Nick Goode

Sarah Fier

Abigail Berman

Constance Berman

Hannah Miller

Isaac Kalivoda

Fluff *

Angst •

No Smut Cause First Of All, They're All Minors And It's Disgusting No Matter If You Age Them Up

And Yeah 👍👍

#tbp x reader #finney blake #robin arellano #bruce yamada #vance hopper #billy showalter #griffin stagg #donna the black phone #gwen blake #the black phone #fear street 1994 #fear street 1978 #fear street 1666 #the walking dead #carl grimes #enid rhee #ron anderson #harry potter x reader

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ghoulsister1 · 1 year

Text

His Treasure Rochefort x Reader.

Hurt/Comfort. TW: Blood. Physical hurting. Kidnapping. Don't worry there's a happy ending. Reader is Rochefort's love. Rochefort rescues you and kills your abusive captors. Musketeers come to help him. Cardinal is alive in this AU too.

Y/N is Rochefort's lover and she often spends time with him at the Palace or when he comes to visit her at her home. She is good friends with Constance and Captain Treville, along with the Musketeers. Though the Musketeers aren't fond of Rochefort, they care about Y/N very much despite her relationship with the captain of The Red Guard.

One day, Y/N does not show up at her and Rochefort's meeting spot and when Treville finds a letter addressed to Rochefort, the captain of the Red Guard discovers his beloved has been kidnapped and held ransom by Spanish spies who will kill her if Rochefort doesn't give them the money. Livid with rage and desperate to save Y/N, Rochefort rides out to rescue Y/N and punish her captors.

●Prompt: "You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now".●

You and Rochefort have been together since last spring. You met while on a visit to the Palace to bring your friend Constance some baked goods you made. He was handsome but stern and a little cold at first. But over time you saw his soft side, especially when it came to you.

A kiss on the hand, a warm smile, a little bow of the head and a smirk, those little things just made you blush and grow close. For Rochefort, he loved your gentle nature, how well-spoken you were though you were quiet and little shy at times but he found it endearing, along with your smile and personality. Soon you two grew closer until officially you were a couple.

Constance was not happy about it, but for your sake she tried to make the most despite her dislike of Rochefort. It wasn't easy, and it was more difficult since you were good friends with Captain Treville and the Musketeers, friends to you but not to Rochefort. But Captain Treville was a little more accepting, only offering you a word of advice.

"Just be careful with him, you've seen his temper flare before Y/N" Captain Treville advised. He wasn't wrong though, you had seen Rochefort throw a punch and run a sword through someone. You've seen his mood when he was angry at people. You understood. But you knew Rochefort would never harm you, he had said so himself one night as you two lay in bed, spent from your recent coupling.

His head laid upon your chest as you ran your delicate fingers through his long, blonde hair slick with sweat yet still soft.

"I know many people have told you to be wary of me, to watch for my temper and such" Spoke Rochefort, his voice low and soft. You frowned and looked down, still running your hand through his hair as he continued.

"Just know this mon ange, I could never, will never lay a hand upon you in anger. I couldn't, no matter how upset I am or get. You are dear to me, dearer to me than gold itself. I just wanted you to know that, you don't ever have to fear me" Continued Rochefort, pressing a kiss to your bosom. You smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"I know Rochefort, I know. I trust you. I know you'll never hurt me. Don't worry my dear, I love you Rochefort" You Replied.

"And I love you more, mon ange" Rochefort Whispered lovingly as you two engaged in a passionate kiss.

And so you two have been together for a quite a while now. Today was going to be a special day since the King and Queen were away for a bit and Rochefort had sent you a letter, telling you to meet him in the garden by the fountain.

"Dearest Y/N,

The king and Queen are away for a bit. Come meet me by the fountain today in the Palace's gardens. I'll be waiting for you.

See you soon, mon ange

Sincerely Yours,

Rochefort".

You smiled, wondering what Rochefort had planned for you two. You excitingly got dressed and went out, making your way through the streets to get to the Palace. Unaware that you were being followed.

It was the last time anyone saw you.

Rochefort stood by the fountain in the Palace gardens, gazing around at the scenery and beautiful flowers that were blooming. He was waiting for Y/N to arrive. He looked at the pocket watch.

"Still early" Rochefort Thought before putting away the pocket watch. He began to pace up and down, his head turning around at the slightest sound thinking it was Y/N. The mins passed but no sign of Y/N. Now an hour passed and Rochefort grew anxious.

"Where is she? She should have arrived by now! Where could she be?" Murmured Rochefort to himself. Thoughts flew around his head, the worst thought thinking she went away with someone else but Rochefort quickly shook that from his mind.

"Y/N loves me. She is faithful and honest. Now I'm just getting ahead of myself" Thought Rochefort shaking his head. Suddenly Captain Treville appeared.

"Waiting for someone?" Asked Captain Treville. Rochefort scowled at the intrusion, but Treville just stood there not bothered by the dirty look Rochefort gave him.

"On the contrary, yes I'm waiting for Y/N. She should have been here a little earlier but she's probably just talking to an old friend or neighbour" Rochefort Explained.

"Or she's done the smart thing and found some other Prince Charming" Treville Remarked.

Rochefort's eyes darkened and his mouth twisted into a snarl as he glared at Treville.

"Never. Y/N's an honest woman, she loves me and she'd never do such a thing! Never speak of Y/N in that way when in my presence again Treville!" Snarled Rochefort stepping closer to Treville.

Treville smirked. "Have your Red Guards seen her?" Asked Treville. Rochefort scoffed at Treville.

"You make it sound like she's incapable of looking after herself. She's clever and is just as fierce Treville. I think your precious Musketeers taught her a few things" Remarked Rochefort.

Suddenly one of the Palace Guards appears, letter in hand. Treville takes the letter but doesn't open it upon seeing it is addressed to Rochefort.

"Appears this letter is for you Rochefort" Said Treville handing him the letter. Rochefort took the letter and opened it. His blood ran cold when he read the letter and it's contents.

"Rochefort,

We have your puta here with us and she's in a frightful state. We plan to kill her but not before destroying her pretty little face. If you want her still warm and breathing, give us a thousand gold francs and your puta lives.

If you do not comply with our demands, we slit her throat. You have until sunset.

From Diego Ramirez".

Rochefort's blood began to boil and he clenched his fists angrily, crumbling the letter. His hands shook.

Treville noticed the change in Rochefort's demeanour and stepped closer.

"Rochefort?" Asked Treville, taking note of his trembling form. Rochefort turned to Treville and shoved the letter into Treville's hands. Treville read the letter before looking at Rochefort with a grim expression.

"This is very serious Rochefort" Admitted Treville grimly. Rochefort shook with rage.

"How dare they! How DARE they lay their hands on her! This won't stand!" Shouted Rochefort as he stormed off.

"Where are you going?" Shouted Treville. Rochefort turned and glared at the Musketeer captain.

"To get Y/N back from those Spanish pigs!" Shouted Rochefort and he stormed off to fetch his horse from the stables.

You sat in the corner, quivering. Your nose was bleeding, your lip cut and there was a bruise on your arm, cheek and stomach. They had kicked you, slapped you and beat you. You did try to fight back and managed to claw one in the eye with your nails, wounding one of your captors. You succeeded but were given a harder beating for it.

Your only hope was The Musketeers or Rochefort were on their way to save you. You closed your eyes and sobbed.

"Please, Rochefort help me" You Whimpered tearfully as you curled yourself up.

Rochefort reached the place where you were held, this Diego Ramirez was a criminal and was well known. The Musketeers along with Treville went along with him despite his insistence that he had this himself but ultimately let them join.

"I'll guard the entrance with Aramis, Athos you guard the exit with D'Artagnan" Instructed Treville.

"Me and Porthos will go inside" Added Rochefort. Treville nodded and the plan was set into motion as Athos and D'Artagnan snuck around to the exit, eliminating anyone in their path. Treville and Aramis secured the entrance and Rochefort and Porthos broke in, guns firing.

There wasn't many men so Rochefort and Porthos made quick work, Rochefort eventually finding the cell Diego kept you in. Unlocking it and freeing you, Rochefort was ambushed by Diego.

"Come to save your puta!" Shouted Diego.

"Spanish pig, I'm more than happy to gut you like one!" Roared Rochefort as he engaged Diego in a sword fight. You watched as Rochefort battled, his need to protect you on full display. Your heart warmed at that.

Soon Diego was disarmed and Rochefort pinned him down. Rochefort loomed over him and he noticed a scratch on Diego's eye, still bleeding. Rochefort looked over to you.

"Did you do that?" Asked Rochefort, smirking proudly at you as you nodded. Rochefort turned to Diego.

"You dare lay your filthy hands upon her? I'm going to enjoy running my sword through you" Hissed Rochefort. Porthos arrived to lead out. You heard Diego scream as Rochefort extracted his revenge.

That night you were returned to your home by the Musketeers and Rochefort. The doctor looked you over and reassured Rochefort, you and the Musketeers you had no broken bones or internal injuries.

Rochefort asked the Musketeers and Treville to stay if they liked and so they did though they were surprised.

"Change of heart?" Asked D'Artagnan.

"Rubbish. He's just worried about Y/N. Same as us" Replied Porthos.

"True" Added Athos yawning.

"Though we aren't on good terms with Rochefort, he seems to really care about Y/N" Spoke Aramis.

Treville nodded at that. "He does. He does" Said Treville thoughtfully.

You laid your head upon Rochefort's chest, his arms wrapped around gently but securely. You trembled a bit as your mind flashed with horrid memories. You felt Rochefort run his hand through your hair, soothing you.

"Rochefort.....I..." You Began but Rochefort shushed you gently.

"You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now" Rochefort Spoke softly.

You trembled a bit and snuggled closer to Rochefort.

"I was so scared" You Whispered. Rochefort's jaw clenched at that, seeing how frightened you were. He knew that fear, especially when he was in the Spanish prison.

"I understand Y/N, but they're dead now. And no one will ever hurt you again Y/N" Rochefort Whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled and kissed his chest.

"I love you Rochefort" You Whispered.

"I love you too, mon ange" Whispered Rochefort softly.

You are his treasure and he'll protect you no matter. And if he has to, he'd kill anyone who dared lay a finger upon you.

#comte de rochefort #rochefort #rochefort x reader #bbc musketeers #bbc the musketeers #musketeers #alexander dumas #fanfiction #comfort

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rosie-love98 · 7 months

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Headcanons For The Snape-Hardbroom-Hobbes Family (From 1984-1987):

*CONTEXT: From August 1st, 1984 to April of 1987, Severus Snape and Constance Hardbroom were married. Yet, the union had to be secret (with a few in the know) due to various reasons; Severus had his Death-Eater past, was serving as Dumbledore's spy (factors Constance was aware of before the elopement) along with the pair being of different Wizarding "breeds". Constance (and the rest of the Murphy Wizards/Ex-Codices) were forbidden to marrying magical Imperiums (Rowling Wizards) with Squibs and Muggles being the exceptions. So, when signing the marriage documents, Severus went with the alias of "Basil Brennan" while Constance went with "Sophronia Maidenhair". Unfortunately "Basil' and "Sophronia" were forced to annull under the ruling of the Ex-Codice's High Magic Council when the then 5-month-old Nicholas was plagued with a ailment due to his mixed magical heritage. With Severus and Constance being forced to seperate, little Nicholas was placed in the Ex-Codice's orphanage, Orbana Hart's Home For Wizarding Children. Heartbroken and desperate to keep Constance and Nicholas safe from Voldemort or any Death-Eaters, Severus had Dumbledore remove his memories. Much to the upset of Constance.*

Ok...with all of that out the way, here are the headcanons:

-Severus had told Constance of his Death-Eater past and his indirect role in the deaths of James and Lily Potter. Needless to say, Constance was shock and furious. She wouldn't have seen Severus again had it not been for Cackle's Academy hosting a dinner during the Summer Holiday. Severus, as one of the teachers, was invited (at Dumbledore's behest).

-After a battling a group of wizard terrorist that had nearly killed them, Severus and Constance decided to elope the very next day (they blame it on adrenaline).

-Elphinestone Urquart (husband of Minerva McGonagall) was the officiator due to his former job in the Ministry Of Magic.

-When the two first started dating, Severus would write Constance poems with flowers. In turn, Constance would gift Severus with things he needed (updates potions books, journals, etc.). These exchanges would continue throughout their marriage.

-As they had their own jobs at Hogwarts and Cackle's, Severus and Constance would only communicate via writing. To do this, Severus would use various owls at Hogwarts to through any suspicious outsider off the scent.

-During the holidays, Severus and Constance would meet at the former's home at Spinner's End (as Constance lived at Cackle's Academy).

-When together, the two would study spells, concoct new potions, and engage in friendly duels. Other activities would include strolling along either the Cokeworth streets or at the nearby river. They preferably did these walks either at night, in the fog or when it would rain.

-Both Constance and Severus could speak Latin, and French to each other. Comes in handy when they're in public.

-Though Severus adored Constance, he was still secrective with her whenever the subject of his own fears were involved. Even when he'd had horrible dreams of being an abusive husband/father, he still be on gaurd about it.

-Nicholas wasn't born at Spinner's End thanks to Dumbledore. Albus was a close friend of Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel who gave Constance a safe haven from March all the way to thee middle of November. All while Amelia Cackle, Minerva McGonagall, Madame Pomfrey along with the Flamel's bodygaurd, Olu Kama and their healer, Shari Kowalski, helped out.

-As for Severus, he would stay at the Flamel's House with Constance during holidays. But when he had to return to Hogwarts he would continue writing her letters, helping Madame Pomfrey provide safe potions and try to seee Constance during the weekends thanks to portkeys.

-To prepare themselves for parenthood, Constance and Severus read and took notes from the books Cackle and McGonagall had given them. For further help, Severus would help (an unknowing) Pomona Sprout with the latest batch of mandrakes.

-On the 5th of November, Bonfire Night (a Wednesday), "Nicholas Stephen Hardbroom-Snape" would be born a healthy baby. He would even prove his strong magical abilities when sneezing sparks at only an hour old. As Ex-Codices were usually more "Muggle-Like" and never really show their magic until going to wizard school, Constance was concerned. Severus, on the other hand, was rather proud.

-Nicholas could hold up his head at a two days old and roll over at five weeks. He was a pretty adamant and smart baby. And a mischevious one at that...

-With Nicholas born in November of '86, this mens he was born during the Third Year of "Hogwarts Mystery".

-Nicholas was named after Mr. Flamel, himself. As for the "Stephen", it was the only other name Severus and Constance could agree on. Severus wanted "Salazar", "Tybalt" or "Jareth" while Constance wanted "Xander", "Mercutio" or "Heathcliff".

-When the new family returned to Spinner's End, Cackle, McGonagall and even Dumbledore would help out.

-Constance's cat, Morgana, would be rather fond of Severus and later of Nicholas when he came along.

-To put Nicholas to sleep, Severus enchanted a baby mobile to jingle "In Noctem". Little Nick would sleep within seconds.

-At about 4 months old, Nicholas may've set Severus on fire. Constance told Severus not to give his wand to the baby...

-McGonagall would gift little Nicholas the "Railway Series" by the Rev. W. Awdry along with "Tales Of Beetle The Bard". As for Miss. Cackle, she'd gift the boy with Grahame's "The Wind In The Willows" and Andersen's "The Snow Queen".

-To enable herself to go out with baby Nicholas, Constance got the idea to put the (temporary/reversible) "Witch-Over" spell on herself and on Severus when he's with her.

-By Ex-Codice law, Nicholas would be an Ex-Codice by his mother's side. As a result he would be given a staff instead of wands or brooms. He also wouldn't go to Imperium's Hogwarts or Durmstrange, but to Codice schools like Camelot College, or Moonridge High. That still didn't stop Severus, Minerva and Albus from dressing Nicholas in Slytherin baby clothes or giving him a toy broomstick...no matter how much the tradionalist Constance would protest...

-As Constance already had some experience due to having a younger brother, she was more than able to handle baby Nick with no problem. As for Severus...he struggled. It wasn't the feedings, nor the crying, not even the nappy-changes (he could handle all of that). Yet, he never thought any kid he would have could be so CUTE "endearing".

@snonions-and-cream @sevvysn4pe @yaviae @m1lfinghot @theworstwitch @theworstwitchforever @darlenicy @snapeaddict

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bethanydelleman · 1 year

Text

Lady Susan Readthrough Letters 25 & 26

Summary: Lady Susan related her triumph over Reginald to Alicia. She told Reginald that she would leave the house after their argument, which resulted in a reconciliation. However, she is planning revenge because she was forced to give up the Sir James plan for the present. She tells her friend her next plan is to go to London.

Alicia says town is the best option, as Mainwaring is threatening to visit Churchill (that would be bad!). She advises Lady Susan to think of herself (lol) and leave Frederica behind. She also says her husband will be out of town so they can party like it's 1799.

-+-

Honestly, the best worst line:

Silly woman to expect constancy from so charming a man!

But also, what a tip off for both Willoughby and Henry Crawford! If Jane Austen teaches us to fear anything, it's charming men. I think Wentworth is the only hero who is described as charming...

This is also such a sad commentary on gender dynamics. Mrs. Mainwaring's money was almost entirely under her husband's control. He is now rich and feels able to cheat on his wife without consequences.

Its effect on Reginald justifies some portion of vanity, for it was no less favourable than instantaneous. Oh, how delightful it was to watch the variations of his countenance while I spoke! to see the struggle between returning tenderness and the remains of displeasure.

Lady Susan has this strange duality of being very proud of herself for having the ability to do this, but then also hating Reginald for needing it to be done. It makes me wonder about the mysterious Mainwaring. Because Lady Susan does not like the very placeable Sir James, so maybe Reginald is just too moral and Mainwaring is the happy medium of intelligent and devoted?

Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive him such an instance of pride, and am doubtful whether I ought not to punish him by dismissing him at once after this reconciliation, or by marrying and teazing him for ever.

The very difficult choice of whether to dump or marry him!

I must punish Frederica, and pretty severely too, for her application to Reginald; I must punish him for receiving it so favourably, and for the rest of his conduct. I must torment my sister-in-law for the insolent triumph of her look and manner since Sir James has been dismissed; for, in reconciling Reginald to me, I was not able to save that ill-fated young man; and I must make myself amends for the humiliation to which I have stooped within these few days.

Poor Frederica! Reginald is being punished for... *checks notes* trying to save a distressed teenager and Catherine must be punished for being smug. I feel so sorry for all of Lady Susan's "humiliations"

Flexibility of mind, a disposition easily biassed by others, is an attribute which you know I am not very desirous of obtaining; nor has Frederica any claim to the indulgence of her notions at the expense of her mother’s inclinations.

Lol, "Being open minded is for suckers"

You should think more of yourself and less of your daughter.

Well... okay.

I would ask you to Edward Street, but that once he forced from me a kind of promise never to invite you to my house; nothing but my being in the utmost distress for money should have extorted it from me.

How intelligent, Mr. Johnson.

Her folly in forming the connection was so great that, though Mr. Johnson was her guardian, and I do not in general share his feelings, I never can forgive her.

We know that Mr. Johnson basically disowned Mrs. Mainwaring over her foolish choice of a husband. And now it is proven to be a foolish choice. One wishes poor Mrs. Mainwaring would have listened.

INSANE Alicia Conspiracy Theory: I feel like this theory gets less crazy the more I write about it. Alicia is actually suggesting that Lady Susan send back Mrs. Mainwaring's husband:

Besides, if you take my advice, and resolve to marry De Courcy, it will be indispensably necessary to you to get Mainwaring out of the way; and you only can have influence enough to send him back to his wife.

Which sounds like what Mr. Johnson would want. After all, it is disgraceful for Mrs. Mainwaring to be abandoned, even if her husband coming back feels icky to us today.

Alicia also advises Lady Susan to leave Frederica with the Vernons, where Frederica will be happy and safe. I'm telling you, she's on Frederica's side. Mrs. Johnson is a double agent!

#insane alicia conspiracy theory #lady susan readthrough #lady susan vernon #lady susan #catherine vernon #frederica vernon #reginald de courcy #mr. mainwaring #alicia johnson

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entangledmuses · 8 months

Text

MOBILE MUSES- CANON

By Fandom

9-1-1: Lucy Donato

The ARTFUL DODGER: Belle Fox

BAD BOYS: Kelly Lewis

BITTEN: Elena Michaels BRIDGERTON: Daphne Bridgerton Kate Sheffield/Sharma Sophie Beckett

BUFFY/ANGEL: Cordelia Chase

CRAZY RICH ASIANS: Astrid Leong

DCEU Harley Quinn (Selective) Dawn Granger

DIVERGENT Christina

FANTASTIC BEASTS Lally Hicks

FEAR STREET Cindy Berman

GAME OF THRONES: Margaery Tyrell

HANSEL AND GRETEL:WITCH HUNTERS: Gretel (With AU verses)

HARRY POTTER: Astoria Greengrass Demelza Robbins Ginny Weasley Hermione Granger Padma Patil Parvati Patil Pansy Parkinson Victoire Weasley Lily Evans/Potter Rowena Ravenclaw

HEMLOCK GROVE: Letha Godfrey

The HOST: Melanie Stryder

HUNGER GAMES: Madge Undersee

JAMES BOND: Paloma

Jurrasic World: Claire Dearing

KINGSMAN: Roxy Morton

LAST KINGDOM: Eadith of Mercia

LITTLE WOMEN: Amy March

LOCKWOOD AND CO: Lucy Carlyle

MCU: Maria Hill Michelle ‘MJ’ Jones Natasha Romanoff Sharon Carter Yelena Belova

The MUMMY: Evelyn Carnaham

MUSKETEERS: Anne of Austria Constance Bonacieux

MYTH/LEGEND/LORE: Amphitrite (Greek) Artemis/Autumn (Greek) Hera/Helena (Greek) Persephone (Greek) Athena (Greek) Aphrodite (Greek) Mina Harker (Dracula) Guinevere (Arthurian)

NARNIA: Susan Pevensie

OUTER BANKS: Kiara Carrera

REACHER: Karla Dixon

REIGN: Mary Stuart Lola Narcisse

ROBIN HOOD (BBC): Marian of Knighton

The ROOKIE: Bailey Nune Grace Sawyer Lucy Chen

SECRET CIRCLE: Diana Meade (Book based)

SHADOWHUNTERS: Sophie Collins (Infernal Devices) Tessa Gray (Infernal Devices) Izzy Lightwood (Show based)

SHAMELESS: Fiona Gallagher

The SOCIETY Helena Wu Kelly Aldrich

STRANGER THINGS: Chrissy Cunningham Nancy Wheeler

SUPERNATURAL: Bela Talbot Claire Novak Lisa Braeden Jo Harvelle Donna Hanscum Sarah Blake

TEEN WOLF: Braeden Lydia Martin Hayden Romero Cora Hale Laura Hale

THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY: Belly Conklin Taylor Jewel

TRUE BLOOD: Jessica Hamby Nora Gainesborough Sookie Stackhouse

VAMPIRE ACADEMY: Jill Mastrano - Dragomir Lissa Dragomir Rose Hathaway Sydney Sage

VAMPIRE DIARIES: Bonnie Bennett Caroline Forbes Katherine Pierce Rebekah Mikaelson

VIKINGS: Amma Katia Lagertha

WEDNESDAY: Wednesday Addams

The WITCHER: Yennefer of Vengerberg

+++++++

SINGLE SHIPS: Rose Larkin Clarice Fong Emma Brunner Connie Matthews Ariel Megara Alice Chambers Zoey Miller

#Mobile muses list-Canon #jst updating links and shit!

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gellavonhamster · 2 years

Text

half savage and hardy, and free

The Musketeers BBC || pre-canon || how Constance first met Athos, Porthos, and Aramis (alternatively, how to make friends as an adult)

ao3 link rus || ao3 link eng

When Constance was ten years old, she spent a night at the cemetery. To be precise, she spent there merely an hour, but it is a grand undertaking for a child to slip away from home at night without waking up the father, the little brother who would start begging to come along and wake everyone up with his whining, and the big brother who would pull her by the ears and not let her leave – and then to make it to the cemetery in the dark, hang around for an hour, and get back home, so it really felt like she stayed there from midnight till the break of dawn.

“You can head back as soon as the tower clock strikes one,” told her Jean-Luc, the middle brother, the one she bet with that she would dare such a feat. “And bring me something from there, or I won’t believe you were there.”

“What can you bring from a graveyard?” Constance asked. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she could cheat and spend that hour, say, hiding behind the neighbouring house. She was no coward, and she was going to prove that to the entire world – or at least to Jean-Luc, who loved to set all sorts of challenges for his little sister.

“Whatever you like,” Jean-Luc permitted graciously. “But if you lie and pick up something in our yard, I will find out!”

“Bah!” Constance stuck her nose up in the air.

“Well, then you’d better be there by midnight.”

“Can I take Simone with me?”

“No way, sis. You’re going alone. Or are you scared?”

“Bah!” Constance spat up again, and stomped her foot in indignation.

“What are you doing?” asked little Thomas, entering the kitchen with a kitten in his arms.

“Nothing,” his siblings replied in unison, and did not discuss their plans that day anymore.

That was how it came to be that little Constance wrapped herself up in her mother’s old shawl and took the dusty road to the graveyard. And the memories of that summer night wouldn’t leave her mind another summer night twelve years later, when she, also wrapped up in a shawl, was walking through the streets of Paris at a brisk pace after midnight, making haste to get home.

Well, she thought, at least this time it’s all because I’m stupid and kind, not just stupid.

It went like this: as she was returning from her acquaintance’s that evening, Constance ran into Mme Vannier, the aged mother of the cobbler who the Bonacieux spouses usually took their shoes to for mending. Constance had only ever exchanged greetings and pleasantries with her before, but as she saw the old woman wiping away the tears and looking utterly defeated, she felt compelled to stop and ask if she could help her in any way.

The old lady unburdened herself at once, seemingly abashed by her own openness. Her son had been drinking like a fish for the last couple of days, in and out of taverns where he lost at cards everything he hadn’t drunk away yet. That day, having gambled away all he had, he took the money his mother had been putting aside to ensure a decent burial for herself, and disappeared with it. In hopes of salvaging her savings before it was too late, Mme Vannier went to the inn her son used to frequent, but he was not there, and his usual drinking companions ordered her to tell her son to pay them back all that he owed them – and ordered that in a highly threatening way. Mme Vannier was already waiting in fear for those ruffians to make her empty her pockets and surrender them the mere pittance she had on her, but the innkeeper intervened and pacified the rowdy guests. Still, the distress she experienced reduced her to tears.

Constance really wished to express all she thought of the cobbler out loud, but the feeling that his mother might not appreciate that held her back.

“Don’t worry, Madame Vannier,” she said instead, and took the wizened hands of her interlocutress into her own. “I will help you find your son.”

They made the rounds of four more establishments in search of Vannier that evening and left all four empty-handed. The prodigal son was in none of them. Instead, there were a lot of brazen, noisy people who just laughed at Mme Vannier’s timid inquiries and tried to attract Constance’s attention in a most unpleasant manner. Meanwhile, it was growing dark outside, the sky was being sprinkled with stars, and there were less and less passers-by, especially the kind whose presence caused no anxiety. Constance was about to propose tactfully that they should stop searching when they finally had the luck to find Mme Vannier’s son at the fifth inn.

The misadventures did not end there. Vannier was thoroughly plastered; it was not that he refused to leave, he just didn’t look like he’d be able to. Fortunately, he hadn’t managed to spend all of his mother’s burial money, but the suggestion that they could take it from him and go home was met by another fit of sobbing – whatever her son might be like, now that she had found him, she didn’t want to leave him God knows where for the night. With a promise of payment, Constance enlisted a boy that worked at the inn to help them take the cobbler home. The lad agreed – and when Vannier had been finally dragged into bed and the poor old lady had thanked and kissed Constance about a dozen times, he disappeared with his earnings at once. Constance was left alone on the twilit streets before she realized she would have to get home on her own then.

Of course, Cercy-la-Tour had nothing on Paris, and a graveyard populated by the dead was not the same as a city populated by the living. Still, as her quick steps struck the paving stones, Constance couldn’t help thinking back on that one night and the fear and excitement she felt back then. She had already been living in Paris for five years at that time, but she’d never went anywhere so late without her husband. On the one hand, she felt quite ill at ease all alone, even though the August twilight and the city lights let her pick out the way without much effort. On the other hand, it was awfully interesting to see Paris the way it had never yet appeared before her eyes. It must have been darkness hiding the litter and the cool of night relieving her fatigue after wandering the city for so long, but in spite of herself, her wariness and disinclination to encounter someone like those boozers she and Mme Vannier had had to deal with earlier did not stop Constance from enjoying the way everything looked so unusual and mysterious.

It was an adventure – such as it was – and her life had been lacking adventures for quite a while. However, there was no point thinking about it. Bonacieux, who was away on business, was to return from Troyes the next morning. It would be nice to catch some hours of sleep before his arrival so that nothing in her appearance evidenced that she had a late night. Another kind of man might have admired her compassion, or might have been amused by her bad luck, but not Bonacieux.

Sunk in thought, Constance didn’t notice at once that the sound of someone else’s footsteps had joined her own, so she flinched when a squat man with his hat askew appeared in front of her. She recollected herself, and moved aside to let him by.

The man moved in the same direction.

“How much?” he asked. The way he said that was enough to see he was drunk.

“Pardon?”

“I said how much?” and the man reached out for her. Constance took a step back.

“You are mistaken, Monsieur,” she pronounced, offended. “I am going home.”

“Are you now? Wanna make some money?”

“No, I don’t.”

The man stepped towards her.

“You sure?” he asked. The smell of bad wine hit her nostrils. “I’ll be quick, honest.”

Constance turned around to run, and he immediately grabbed her by the waist from behind.

“Going somewhere, gorgeous?”

“Help!” Constance yelled, struggling to break free.

“Don’t buck, sweetheart, or I will… Argh, you bitch!” she must’ve managed to hit some sensitive or sore spot with her heel because one of his hands quit his hold of her, but she could not break away because that same hand instantly, and painfully, seized her hair. “Well, you asked for this, cunt!”

“Let her go at once!” a new voice rang out. Some man was approaching them; there was no discerning his face in the semi-darkness, but she could make out a sword at his hip. He was approaching them – and swaying a little.

Wonderful, Constance thought with resignation, another drunk.

“And who the hell are you?” the first one asked, holding Constance with an iron grip as she desperately tried to get away.

“I said let her go,” the other repeated, pointing his sword at him. The light of the lantern fell upon a pale face with an unreadable expression and unshaven cheeks.

Constance’s assailant let her go at last – or rather, flung her away so that she almost fell.

“All right then, you bastard,” he said grimly and whipped out a short knife.

She should have run. Instead she froze, pressed to the wall, unable to look away from the fight unfolding in front of her. Despite clearly being under the influence of alcohol, the stranger who came to her aid wielded his weapon confidently, but his opponent was displaying unexpected agility by managing to dodge him until the sword and the knife crossed each other. For a few very long moments a blade pressed hard against a blade, but the one who assaulted Constance apparently was stronger – he also looked larger than the other. He succeeded in repelling the attack, pushed his opponent away, and stabbed him in the thigh. The musketeer – and he was a musketeer, Constance could make out the uniform and the pauldron – gave a feeble moan.

Constance rushed to the nearest porch and hammered at the door.

“Help!” she cried. “Somebody help! Call the guards!”

Just as when she was caught, no one responded to her call. The windows of most of the houses remained black, and the one that had light seeping through a crack between its shutters immediately went dark. No one was going to risk their life for heaven knows whom.

No one except that stranger who stood up for her even though he could have just walked by.

Constance took a fevered look around. By the porch next door, a bottle was lying on the ground. Giving a wide berth to the fighters, she darted to that house and picked up the bottle by its neck.

The men were engrossed in a fight and didn’t notice her come closer – quietly, carefully, mentally berating herself for moving too slowly. The first thing she was concerned about was not getting accidentally hit by the knife or the sword; the second was not accidentally hitting the wrong man. However, when she approached them, both had already lost their weapons and were engaged in hand-to-hand combat on the ground – more specifically, the wounded musketeer was lying on the ground and making all effort to throw off his enemy, who was on him, pressing his thumbs on the musketeer’s eyes.

Constance crept up on him and smashed the bottle on his head.

The man stopped. Hiccupped. Turned around slowly. That momentary confusion was enough for the musketeer to punch him twice on the jaw, throw him off, get on top of him, and deliver several blows more. The drunkard went limp and stopped fighting back.

Constance dropped the bottle she had been nervously clutching until the fight was over, and made a dash for the musketeer, who was crawling away from the vanquished foe, breathing heavily.

“You’re wounded,” Constance said in alarm, casting a glance at the blood-soaked pants of the musketeer.

“I have noticed,” he replied in a low voice and tried to sit up. Constance dropped on her knees next to him, holding him up – it looked like he was about to pass out. Suddenly he jerked away. “Move aside!”

Constance was taken aback.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Move aside, I said!” the musketeer pushed her away roughly and turned his back. Next thing he vomited – all but on his opponent, who was stretched out nearby.

Constance let him wipe his face with his sleeve without being embarrassed as she crawled away to pick up the drunkard’s knife off the ground, and then sighed and set to tearing a piece off her petticoat.

“Let me bandage it,” she ordered.

The musketeer obediently let her bandage his thigh.

“Thank you,” he muttered. After that one moan when he got stabbed, not a single sound gave away that he was in pain, except for loud breathing. Nevertheless, Constance saw that his face – a young face still, he didn’t look more than thirty years old – had an unhealthy pallor, and his forehead was covered with a film of sweat.

“Thank you for saving me,” replied Constance. It seemed like her body had been keeping all her senses strained to the limit since she was caught, and when the danger had finally passed, it was surrendering to exhaustion. But it was too early to relax – she still had to get home (would she get there tonight at all?), and now a man was bleeding out in her arms.

She cast a sidelong look at their enemy, who still hadn’t tried to stand up or at least sit up.

“Did you kill him?” she asked, dropping her voice. It felt wrong to speak of such things aloud, even though there was no one around.

“I don’t think so,” replied the musketeer. As if to confirm that, the wretch stirred and whined.

“You pieces of shiiit…”

Constance fiddled with the knife. A fleeting memory flickered before her eyes: here she was, trembling with fear and agitation, picking up a strange stone at the cemetery. She wrapped the knife in a handkerchief and stuffed it into her pocket.

“I am taking this,” she announced vengefully. “As a compensation for damage.”

The man spat out a couple of words which, according to him, described her exhaustively, and continued whining.

The musketeer tried to stand up and almost succeeded, but lost his balance at the last second and had to lean on Constance.

“You need a doctor,” she pointed out. “Sit on the porch, and I’ll find someone to call one.”

“No need… I’ll walk… my friend lives nearby.”

“Can he help you?”

“He knows how to treat wounds.”

“Where does he live? I will help you get there.”

“I told you, I’ll walk…”

“Walk where, into the gutter? Where does he live?”

“Between the Rue Cassette and the Rue Servandoni. I’ll show the way,” suddenly he frowned and touched his neck, then lowered his head and looked at his chest. “The devil!”

“What is it?”

“I lost my locket. That brute must have torn the chain,” the musketeer looked first under his feet and then around him. “Wait.”

“Is it so important?” Constance asked impatiently. “You are bleeding out.”

“Yes, it is important, and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve found it.”

Constance rolled her eyes.

“Sit on the porch, and I’ll look for it.”

The locket turned up in a few steps from her – a small, delicate thing on a long broken chain. It was open, probably by force of hitting the ground. Usually such lockets had someone’s locks of hair or miniature portraits inside them, but this one contained just a dried flower – a forget-me-not. A gift from his ladylove, without a doubt.

“Here,” Constance held out the locket to the musketeer. He looked at it in an odd way – as if she was offering him not a piece of jewellery he wanted to find so much, but a rope to hang himself, or a pistol to shot himself with. In a moment that shadow passed.

“Thank you,” he said calmly, took the locket from Constance, and put it in his pocket.

Constance helped him get up, he leaned on her, and they set off together, leaving behind their acquaintance, who was still lying down but must have built up a little strength, because his whining gave way to loud swearing.

“What is your name, monsieur?”

“Athos.”

“Is that a name or a surname?” Constance was only familiar with a mountain by such name.

“It’s a name, and that name is enough. Turn left here. And your name is?..”

“Constance Bonacieux. Are you unwell, monsieur?”

“No,” Athos replied firmly, closed his eyes for an instant, reeled, and continued walking.

If he faints, I won’t be able to carry him, Constance thought grimly. She needed to engage him in a conversation to make sure he stays conscious.

“Where to now?” she asked aloud.

“On that corner… turn right,” all of a sudden he stopped and she felt him grow heavier against her the way people do when their legs give way, but he mustered his strength and stepped forth again.

“Have you been in the Musketeers long, monsieur?” Constance inquired, trying to think what to ask him on the spot.

“For two years. What of it?”

“You must have been returning from your watch.”

“I was returning from a tavern.”

He smelled like wine indeed, even if less than the one he had fought.

“And your friend that we’re going to…”

“Is also a musketeer. His name is Aramis. And, mademoiselle…”

“Madame,” she corrected him reflexively.

“Madame Bonacieux, if you believe that… oh, damn it… that I’m about to swoon, you are mistaken. This is far from being the gravest injury I’ve received.”

“Said the man who can barely move.”

“As I’ve told you, I was returning from a tavern,” Athos remarked, mildly irritated. “What about you, Madame? Not a tavern as well?”

“No!” Constance exclaimed in outrage. “I mean, yes, but I wasn’t drinking. I was looking for the cobbler.”

“What on earth did you need a cobbler for at night?”

“Not I; his mother.”

As she was recounting their search of Vannier to Athos and observing his reaction – grunting, nodding, most importantly not passing out – they reached a small house lost in greenery. Tall bushes and tangled vines of wild grapes all but completely obscured the entrance Athos pointed out – a plain door much like one for the servants.

“Here,” said the musketeer, leaning against the banister. Drops of sweat were rolling down his face.

Constance banged down the door.

“Monsieur Aramis!” she called. “Your friend’s here, he needs help! Monsieur Aramis!”

She stopped, gulping for air, and listened. Fortunately, there obviously was someone inside – she could hear the noise and muffled voices. Hoping to hurry up the resident and whoever was there with him, Constance began knocking again. Finally, the door flung open, and she was face to face with a young man of about the same age as Athos, wearing an open shirt, barefoot.

“Madame,” he flashed a dazzling smile, smoothing down his tousled dark hair. “How can I…” then he noticed Athos. “Good God,” he uttered, instantly turning serious. “Porthos!”

Another man appeared in the doorway – big, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned. It was unlikely he really was the tallest person Constance had ever seen, but she’d never met anyone who just towered over everything the way he did.

“Damn it, Athos,” the giant said, pushed the other man aside, and hurried to the wounded. He was dressed much as his comrade, but he was wearing boots. “Good evening, Madame.”

“Good evening,” Constance nodded wearily.

“Help him in, and I’ll prepare everything we’d need,” said the one who apparently was Aramis, and made an inviting gesture. “Come inside, Madame.”

“And no ‘good evening’ for me?” Athos asked Porthos behind Constance’s back.

“You’ll manage,” Porthos replied. Constance didn’t see his face, but his voice sounded good-naturedly. “Let me guess, the Red Guard?”

“Didn’t look like one of theirs, no.”

The summer night and the light of two half-melted candles on the table and one on the small chest of drawers by the wall let Constance view the surroundings – a bottle of wine and a pack of cards on the table, the unmade bed, the washstand, a chest crowned with a small pile of books, a chair with pistols on its seat and coats on its back. The room was furnished rather modestly but looked lived-in and cozy, particularly in that soft light. Constance felt the awkwardness characteristic of the uninvited guests who are not without the sense of conscience.

“Madame Bonacieux,” said Athos as he entered the room, leaning on Porthos, “let me introduce to you Monsieur Porthos, the best fighter of our regiment, and Monsieur Aramis, our best shot.”

“Look, Madame, how he’s fawning over us so that we don’t come down on him too hard for getting in trouble without us again,” declared Aramis. While Porthos was helping Athos lie down on the bed, he poured water from a jug into a big bowl and opened the chest of drawers to take out a case containing tools, the purpose of most of which Constance couldn’t determine at a glance, save for scissors, a skein of thread, a needle, and a short knife. “Deeply pleased to meet you, and sorry for the mess.”

“The pleasure is mine, monsieur.”

“And I’m pleased to meet you too, madame,” said Porthos, “too bad it is under such circumstances. What happened?”

“I was attacked on my way home, and your friend stood up for me.”

Porthos smiled, which gave him dimples that completely ruined his formidable image.

“Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“Madame Bonacieux,” Aramis turned to her, “I am not sure you would like to watch this.”

“I am a married woman, Monsieur Aramis,” retorted Constance. She felt vaguely displeased that after she changed the course of a fight by whacking a stranger on the head with a bottle, someone still worried about offending her sensibilities. “You won’t shock me with a sight of a naked man.”

“I rather meant the sight of his wound.”

“I’d venture to suggest any woman has seen no less blood than you.”

Having blurted that out, Constance blushed – the joke was far from proper, to put it mildly. People like her husband’s friends would have been scandalized. But their host just laughed, and his friends, even the worn-out Athos, laughed with him.

“Upon my word, madame, I like you,” Aramis said merrily. Constance frowned a little under his mischievous glance; handsome men who were aware of their handsomeness were usually insufferable, and that one evidently was aware of his. “Well, in that case, let us begin.”

Out of respect for Athos, Constance looked away in the end while the other two musketeers helped him take off his pants and smallclothes. However, the long shirttail thereafter concealed everything that might have embarrassed a lady, at the same time not covering the wound, which certainly looked unpleasant but wasn’t bleeding as much as it did at first. While Aramis carefully cleaned the wound, Athos kept on enduring stoically, with his teeth set and his eyes closed, but when the needle pierced his skin for the first time, he let out a stifled groan. Porthos took the bottle off the table and helped Athos sit up, but the hand of the latter was trembling, so the Porthos took the bottle from him and put it to his friend’s lips himself. Athos drank greedily until he gagged and the wine ran down his chin. Perhaps these gulps renewed the influence of what he had dunk earlier that evening at the tavern and sufficiently numbed his senses, for he didn’t groan anymore, although his face was far from serene. For a moment Constance wished to take his hand, but she wasn’t sure how he’d take that and didn’t want to impede Aramis’s work, so she went with a look she hoped was reassuring enough. Athos nodded slightly, and in his eyes she read gratitude.

“You know, Madame Bonacieux, if I were in his place, there’d be no wine for me,” Porthos observed. “These two would’ve just knocked me on the head and proceeded to stitch up my senseless body.”

“Because your body yells too loud when it’s not senseless,” said Athos through his teeth as he lay down again. Aramis chuckled, keeping his eyes on the wound. He was sewing it up with concentration, a slight frown on his face, and Constance couldn’t help thinking she liked that sobriety more than his former archness.

“So you’re also a doctor, Monsieur Aramis?” she asked.

“I am many things, madame,” he replied, without pausing his work, “as we all are.”

Are all of us, really? Constance thought. When she looked at the three of them, she was filled with a strange feeling, one she found hard to name.

Porthos moved the weapons to the table and put the chair closer to the bed so that she could sit down while remaining close to Athos, and gave her a glass of wine.

“We should’ve offered it sooner – you must be tired and thirsty,” he said as he sat back down on the bed next to Athos. “Sorry. There’s also water if you’d rather have it.”

“No, thank you, wine will do,” shook her head Constance. And smiled. “A whole evening spent in taverns without having a single drop, and now…”

“Taverns?”

Athos laughed – hoarsely, weakly.

“Tell them about your cobbler, madame,” he suggested.

To the accompaniment of Constance’s tale of the prodigal cobbler, Aramis finished treating Athos’s wound and bandaged it. Athos sighed and tried to sit up, but winced and went for just propping himself up on one elbow instead.

“Thank you,” he told Aramis, who was washing his hands over the washstand, and then turned to Porthos and Constance. “All of you.”

“Why, you’re welcome,” Porthos winked. “You know, one for all and so on.”

“It seems you happened to include Madame Bonacieux into ‘all’, my friend,” Aramis smiled, “but she gave no promises to watch your back in combat.”

“Madame Bonacieux helped me defeat her assailant,” Athos said with that subtle curl of his lips that in his case must’ve stood for a smile, “with a timely knock on his head.”

“Whoa!” Aramis exclaimed, sitting down on the edge the table. Porthos whistled in approval. “A heavy hand you must have.”

“More like a heavy bottle in that hand,” Constance smiled modestly. It was a strange compliment, but it pleased her.

“Good move! A classic,” Porthos approved. “But still, you’d better have some sort of weapon on you when you go out so late.”

Constance took the knife out of her pocket and unfolded the handkerchief.

“Now I will,” she said. She had no such intention when she took the knife from that man, but at that moment she suddenly realized that is what she should do.

“Whose blood is this?” asked Aramis.

“Mine, I fear,” Athos said and yawned. Porthos grinned and ruffled his hair, which made Athos furrow his brow a little, but he didn’t pull back. Constance shifted her gaze to Aramis, and the fondness with which he was looking at his friends brought back that strange feeling which pressed down on her chest and made her angry with herself for some reason.

“One of you should escort the lady home,” Athos told his friends. Constance felt a slight pang of shame. It was so agreeable here after the streets and their dangers that she had completely forgotten she should be on her way if she wanted to catch at least some sleep that night.

“I’ll go,” Porthos volunteered, and got up. “Just a moment, madame; I need to sort out which of these are mine,” he indicated the weapons on the table with a wave of his hand.

Constance put the knife back into her pocket and approached the bed.

“Get well soon, Monsieur Athos,” she said. “Thank you once again, and farewell.”

He must’ve felt self-conscious about lying down when she was on her feet, so he managed to sit up.

“I’ll be fine, Madame Bonacieux,” he replied, and bowed his head solemnly and courteously. “Goodbye. You two,” he looked at Porthos and Aramis. “Stop this right now.”

“But we’re not saying anything,” objected Porthos.

“Exactly. Stop glancing at each other and kindly speak a language everyone understands at least when a guest is present. Goodbye, madame.”

“Goodbye.”

“We’re just happy to see you make new friends,” Aramis smiled slyly. “Goodbye, Madame Bonacieux. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Before she could answer, he took her hand and swiftly put it to his lips. Constance tried to glare at him, but it didn’t come out that impressive.

Porthos was waiting for her on the porch.

“Well, madame,” he gave her a lopsided smile and offered her his hand, “lead the way.”

Finally I’ll get home, Constance thought, and sighed.

***

Jean-Luc hadn’t specified where exactly she should wait at the graveyard for the stroke of the clock and what she should do all that time, so that night twelve years ago Constance started by spending about half an hour glued to the spot behind the crypt of a local noble family. After neither ghosts nor werewolves nor, most importantly, the caretaker appeared, she grew bolder and began strolling among the graves, looking for something to bring her brother as a proof of her coming here. There were flowers on some graves, but it seemed improper to steal from the dead.

Here and there clover was growing, and Constance picked a few flowers, found her mother’s grave, and placed them on it. It had only been three years since mother passed away, and the hole it left in her chest hadn’t even nearly begun to close. Constance stood in front of the grave until the sleeve she wiped her eyes with was completely soaked.

Then she looked up and saw a white face in the bushes.

Later Constance learned that it was none other than Jean-Luc. “Like I would’ve let you go alone! Father would’ve killed me if anything happened to you!” But he only made that confession many years later, at the feast in honour of her wedding to Bonacieux. As to that night, she had no idea that the creature staring at her was her brother, so, naturally, she shrieked and bolted. At some point she fell down, and her fingers found some sort of stone in the grass; she grabbed it without thinking, got up, and ran onwards.

When she was past the cemetery fence, she dared to look back. No one was following her. Then Constance felt ashamed – she wasn’t going to be a coward, after all. She made some steps at a leisurely pace but then ran anyway, except this time it wasn’t out of fear. It was just that the relief and the realization that she was completely alone that brisk and silent night and she could do whatever she wanted, and no one would tell her how to behave – it all filled her with a desire to run. It gathered all the summer wind, and put it into her lungs and into her legs.

As she was approaching home, she examined the stone she picked up for the first time. Turned out it was not just any stone but an adder stone with a little hole. People said those brought good luck. She didn’t even want to give it away, but an agreement was an agreement. That was why next morning she crept on Jean-Luc and pressed the stone to his neck.

“Dead man’s finger!” she cried in triumph. Jean-Luc yelled like he was younger than her, and dropped a pitcher full of milk. The pitcher broke to pieces, and both of them got some stick for that, but it was still worth it.

No one else knew about her – their – night foray. Constance didn’t even tell her friends anything – partly because she was worried their parents would find out and tell her father; partly because at some point that night she had been scared, and it didn’t reflect well on her. Likewise, twelve years later, she didn’t tell anyone about the events of another summer night, but mostly because she had no one to tell it to. Not her husband, that was for sure. He returned in the morning in high spirits – the trip hadn’t been for nothing, he managed to strike a good bargain – kissed her benignly, and sat down at the table. He saw neither the knife she cleared of blood and hid in a drawer among her undergarments nor the torn petticoat she stuffed into the same drawer, and if he noticed the dark circles under her eyes – she only got to sleep a couple of hours; it was as if her body refused to relax – then he made little account of it.

Soon after his return, Mme Vannier knocked on the door.

“Dear Madame Bonacieux,” the old woman offered her a little basket full of cherries, “this is for you.”

“Oh, Madame Vannier, you really shouldn’t have…”

“Constance, who is it?” Bonacieux called. The next instant he was peering over Constance’s shoulder. “Ah, Madame… umm…”

“Vannier,” prompted Constance.

“Right, yes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, I just brought a little gift for your wife, Monsieur,” the old lady, apparently made shy by his self-important demeanour, pointed at the basket. “She helped me so much yesterday…”

“To carry some heavy groceries,” Constance finished with a wide smile. “Thank you, Madame Vannier, that’s so sweet of you.”

All that day Constance was not herself. As she was cutting vegetables, patching an apron, shaking out the rugs, she could not rein in her wandering thoughts. The previous night had shown her that the daredevilry she possessed in her childhood and youth was still with her, and she didn’t know where to put it now.

The next day there was a knock on the door again – and this time it was Athos, leaning on a cane.

“I don’t believe a new petticoat to replace the one you tore for my sake would be an appropriate gift on my part,” he observed almost primly, after they exchanged greetings and Constance asked how he was feeling. “But I know a craftsman who would make you a fine sheath for your trophy, and I would gladly pay him for it. We could visit him together so that you could describe what result you’d like to see yourself.”

“Now?” Constance was at a loss.

“At any time you like when we’re both free. I am on duty and thus don’t belong to myself, but I have to thank you accordingly, so I’ll definitely make time for you.”

Constance smiled.

“Well, Monsieur, that’s nice to hear. Thank you. Where will I be able to find you?”

“At the garrison of Captain de Tréville’s regiment – and if I’m not there, they would likely be able to tell you where to find me. Perhaps Messieurs Porthos and Aramis will be there as well; they’d be happy to see you.”

“Particularly Aramis, I believe,” Constance remarked dryly.

Athos chuckled.

“Pay him no mind, Madame. No doubt he’ll try to flirt with angels in heaven when he’s dead – if he goes to heaven, of course – but he would never impose himself if a lady isn’t interested. Of course, unless you…”

“No, I’m not,” laughed Constance. She was young and not blind and she could see that all three of her new acquaintances were good-looking, but she could also clearly see that to want a sword, a pistol, the heat of the battle, the sweetness of adventure was not the same as to want the one who has all these things.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“You love your friends,” Constance said, a statement not a question. Athos shrugged.

“I’d be lost without them,” he admitted matter-of-factly, as befits a fundamental truth.

Envy. That was what she felt looking at Athos and his friends – envy. And in her heart she’d been aware of what it was from the very beginning, but she could not admit that, for envy is a bad thing. But she wished these young men no ill, not at all, she just longed for what they had – fellowship, familiarity, unspoken understanding. The certainty that somewhere there’s a house where all your wounds would be cured. These three had each other. She had brothers who were far away, some acquaintances, none of whom was as close to her as her childhood friends in Cercy-la-Tour, and a husband she, frankly speaking, had never truly loved.

But she was brave. She remembered that now: she was brave. Brave enough to admit that she was lonely, and brave enough to do something about it.

“What time does that craftsman of yours open his shop?”

“About eight in the morning, usually.”

“Excellent. I’ll have to go to the market to buy some groceries tomorrow. If I drop by the garrison on my way there, say, at nine, will you be there?”

“I shall try to.”

Later, the knife Constance chanced to obtain was provided with a well-made patterned sheath, and she made a habit of carrying it any time she went anywhere, in case she came across someone like its previous owner again.

Later, that winter, when a strange young man grabbed her at the market and kissed her, it was that very knife that she pulled out.

But all of that – as well as many other surprising, at times happy, at times distressing, always thrilling events – came later.

#the musketeers #the musketeers bbc #constance bonacieux #athos #porthos #aramis #the address is where aramis lives in the novel and i believe it should be a much posher place #but the show threw book accuracy and historical accuracy out of the window so i decided not to worry about that #the title is from wuthering heights obvs #my fic #talk talk talk #gella talks musketeers #alexandre dumas #has next to nothing to do with this but i need author tags for organizational purposes

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