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wordstrings · 2 years

Text

Renfaire AU

*splashes into the OFMD pool*

Words: 1,400

—

“Mister Blackbeard?” A child’s voice rises from the small crowd of observers. “What’s that?”

Ed finds the kid, throws her a wink. “That’s Captain to you, lass. And these–” he pats the top of the hardwood structure– “are called stocks. Used for public punishment of filthy criminals, like pirates, or aristocrats. You’re not a criminal, are you?”

The girl giggles and shakes her head.

“No? You sure?” Ed squints out at the crowd, scanning the faces. “I bet we could find one.”

The audience for Medieval Crime and Punishment (1pm, 2:30pm, and 4pm daily) has all the usual suspects: kids with plastic swords, parents in street clothes with tote bags, one guy with a huge Viking axe on his back, a handful of reasonably-costumed enthusiasts. There’s a blond coiffure towards the back corner that catches his attention.

“You there.” He points, catches the man’s eye. The man glances back over his shoulder, but Ed doesn’t mean anyone else and keeps his finger extended until the man, looking surprised, points to his own chest. Ed feels a slow grin growing. He nods, turning his finger to curl it into a beckoning gesture.

“Yes, you, with the fancy coat.” Ed keeps the narration going while the man slips down front through the crowd. The coat does look like a period piece, nicely cut with a matching waistcoat beneath. “That is a very fine garment you’ve got there. Too fine, I think. Where’d you get it?”

The man stutters over an explanation, something about a gift– Ed largely ignores it, instead focusing on guiding the man’s momentum cleanly into the seat of the stocks.

“Mhmm, likely story. Say, what’s your name, scallywag?”

“Scallywag?” The incredulous pitch of the scallywag’s voice nearly makes Ed snort as he lifts an unresisting ankle into the open stocks. “I’m a– a respectable gentleman!” Second ankle. “But, ah, my name is, um. Steve.”

Ed raises an eyebrow while he closes the stocks. “Steve? You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure about my own n– oh, what… what are you doing?” He’s pretty cute when flustered, this Steve.

“Taking your shoes. You won’t need ‘em.” Ed sets each one carefully to the side. The stockinged feet left behind wiggle uncertainly. “Most folks don’t stumble when asked about their name, see. Makes me think we’re not really on the level with each other. And I’m really having a hard time believing that a jumpy fellow like yourself came by all this finery legitimate-like.”

Ed straightens, and puts on his projection voice for the crowd. “What say you? Is this man innocent, or guilty?”

A smattering of responses sprinkle in, but the girl near the front excitedly shrieks, “Guilty!”

“The people have spoken.” Ed pivots back to face the unwitting defendant, and he really can’t help the smirk. “Are you prepared to confess to your thieving crimes?”

“I haven’t stolen anything!”

“Your funeral,” Ed says with a shrug. He cracks his knuckles (the fingerless leather gloves of his costume lend to the intimidating vibe, he’s found), laces his fingers together and pushes them out in a stretch, then drops one wiggling finger onto the center of one vulnerable sole.

“Wait, wai-haait!”

Ed keeps it going and begins his spiel on typical town square “corrective” behavior, while a verse and chorus of giggly protests pours from the seat behind him. He keeps an ear out for genuine distress, like always, but everything sounds bright and bubbly back there.

“…even throwing rocks, but often the punishment of choice is tickling the feet. Harmless, but persuasive. Isn’t that right, Steve? Why don’t you tell me who you robbed blind for that fine outfit of yours?”

“Please, oh it tickles, you scoundrel–!”

It’s Ed’s turn for incredulity. “Scoundrel? Mate, you’ve got this sorely backwards. You’ll address me as Captain Blackbeard, Sir and you’ll speak the truth when I ask you a question.”

It’s time for the first little ramp-up of the demonstration. One tickling finger can only entertain the crowd for so long, after all.

“Fang, would you come give me a hand, please? This deviant needs a little more convincing.”

There are eyelets installed at the top of the tall backrest, with shackles dangling from them. Not quite historically accurate ones, but what here is? (Fang’s choice of headwear is particularly egregious – but the studded pleather does give him a junkyard dog look, and since he’s the assistant muscle instead of the main presenter today, it works.) Ed abandons the foot he’s been gently tormenting and moves to crouch by well-dressed-Steve’s side as Fang lifts the man’s wrists to the shackles. The audience is starting to titter with sympathy.

“I’ll ask you again, Steve. Where did you steal this coat from?”

“I, I didn’t, I promise! It was a very nice present from, from a friend– oh god, ahah!”

Ed’s got a hand slipped inside that fancy coat, tickling now at a helpless armpit. It’s very warm up in there; the autumn hasn’t cooled quite enough to make this many layers necessary yet, and Steve’s body heat has been trapped inside. Ed bets it just feels that much more intense, so he makes sure to keep his touch lightly teasing – even though there’s an urge coiling inside him to really make this man scream.

“Only the guilty laugh when confronted with their crimes, mate.” He addresses the crowd again. “As you can see, we’ve got more than just feet to work with. Everything from legs to stomach, ribs to armpits can help extract a confession. In fact…”

Ramp-up number two. He reaches behind the backrest where his favorite theatrical aids have been hidden, and nods for Fang to do the same.

In tandem, they both reveal large ostrich feathers with a flourish. The crowd laughs and cheers in surprise.

“Usually these are reserved for the damsels and wenches, but you look soft and sensitive enough, my friend. They’re torture for the neck and ears, I’m told. What say you? And address me respectfully, if you please.”

Ed dusts his plume at the crook of Steve’s neck. Fang mirrors on the other side, and oh it’s adorable how their victim erupts with pitchy, snorting giggles while he tries to retract his head like a turtle. His wrists swing in the shackles, fists balling, biceps straining.

“I have nothing to confess!” the accused cries out. “Please, Captain, plee-hee-heese!”

The third and final ramp approaches. Ed guns it.

He drops down on his good knee, keeps the feather dancing, and lobster-claws down the meat of Steve’s thigh. He spiders wickedly around the kneecap before delving beneath to the unprotected, stretched-in-midair knee pit below and, mm, there it is, the scrumptious sound of a scream-laugh. Ed pushes its pitch by continuing down Steve’s leg to his foot once again, where there’s no single-fingertip teasing this time; he rakes the open sole with scrabbling, ruthless fingers while the feather fluff-fluff-fluffs across ear and jaw.

“NO! No, no, nooo-ho! It’s the truth! Please, Ed, stah-haaahp!”

And just like that, everything stops.

Ed creaks his way to standing – feels like it gets harder every season – and regards the sagging, panting man with resignation.

“Maintaining your innocence even in the face the worst torture, eh? Perhaps you’re not a liar after all.” He sighs. “Welp. Disappointing, if you ask me.”

—

It’s barely four minutes after the crowd has dispersed and Ed’s plopped himself into a breakroom chair when Stede barges in to find him.

“You.”

Ed takes a glug from his water bottle, swallows it down. “Hey, Steve.”

“Steve nearly died today, I’ll have you know. Bastard.”

Somehow it sounds like a term of endearment, even as Stede collapses dramatically into the chair next to him. Ed grins.

“Not my fault Steve is so ticklish. Pick a different character next time. I quite liked Reed, though he seemed to have the same problem.”

Anybody else would probably flip Ed off, but Stede just waves a hand like Ed’s a buzzing fly.

“You, just– just shut up.”

“Don’t worry, babe, I’ll make it up to you,” Ed promises. “When the last bus heads out, you and I can hang back to close the torture museum.” He leans toward Stede expectantly and waits for him to sigh and tip his head close enough for Ed to kiss it. “I promise nobody will be around to hear you beg me to tickle your tummy while you’re on the rack.”

Stede swipes the water bottle from Ed’s hand and drains it before settling back with closed eyes and a tiny, tired smile.

“If you promise,” he mutters.

#this does not have a real title and i bet i will regret that later. sorry future me #stringswork #strings does art #tickle fic #tickling #Our Flag Means Death #blackbonnet #Edward Teach #Stede Bonnet #ticklish!Stede #ler!Ed #Renfaire AU #with visual aid!!

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clove-pinks · 2 years

Text

On a low-key yet determined quest to find something I know exists: hairstyling instructions for early-mid 19th century men, ideally illustrated, that spell out exactly how their hair was curled.

There's more than enough circumstantial evidence in fashion plates, portraits, and early photography to demonstrate that Western men absolutely did curl their hair. And the occasional pop culture reference, like the singer of "The Taglioni Coat" who now lives a life of luxury including "A flunkie too, to curl my hair."

TELL ME YOUR SECRETS!

Did 19th century men use papillotes (curling papers)? 18th century men definitely did, and they were pretty open about it. If you do a Google Books search "his hair in papers", 19th century only, you will get a lot of coy, sometimes mocking references, and a clear implication that a man is too vain, too effeminate for his own good—unless he's from the 18th century, when that was acceptable, albeit weird to late Victorian types.

Gorgeous are Mr. Dombey's new blue coat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac waistcoat; and a whisper goes about the house, that Mr. Dombey's hair is curled.

— Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son, which also has the line "All the young gentlemen tightly cravatted, curled, and pumped" [wearing dress shoes]

N.B. 19th century men's pumps are not high heels, they are low, slipper-like shoes.

Costume de Bal, 1833.

Thackeray sneers about a waiter with curled hair (doubly ridiculous, that a low-status man curls his hair); and Captain Marryat, who has some very suspicious coiffures and a large collection of toiletries, takes a potshot at "the man what puts his hair in papers!" in his novel Newton Forster. (Some real-life politician I'm still trying to figure out—but way to be a huge hypocrite, Fred).

The hair-curling is definitely an earlier 19th century thing for men, and post 1850 or so, if not by the 1840s, books aimed at men's hygiene and grooming make no mention of it. You can see the lack of curls in contemporary men's fashion. No man in 1870 is putting his hair in papers; but maybe a man in 1825? (Still, Albert Smith complained about men curling their hair in The Natural History of the Gent, 1847).

Anecdotally, I don't think it's an 1810s thing. Regency men were obviously using product in their Bedford Crops and Titus and Brutus styles, but they made a break with 18th century curled hair. It's an 1820s and 1830s look, and to a lesser extent an 1840s look: Romantic and early Victorian.

A useful and interesting reference that I have found is an 1847 'Handbook of Travel Talk' by John Murray, intended for an anglophone tourist in Europe. It provides French, German, and Italian translations of example dialogs for the well-heeled traveler. It not only lists articles of dress for the gentleman, and the translations are helpful for understanding European fashion plates, but the "Gentleman's Toilet" section includes a servant asking the gentleman, "Shall I give your hair a curl?"

I have found a number of these "travel talk" books, with similar dialogs—but the later 19th century editions do not have a barber asking the gentleman if he wants his hair curled. Curling papers, and talk of curling the hair, are for ladies only. (This is why late Victorians are boring and horrible).

#historical men's fashion #hairstyles #hair #1820s #1830s #1840s #fashion history #hair curling #papillotes #curling papers #does 'shall i give your hair a curl' imply hot curling tongs??#me with a time machine busting into some gentleman's dressing-room circa 1830 #i also suspect that period hair-curling manuals for men might be in french not in english #masculinity #romantic era #early victorian era #shaun talks #historical hair curling #albert smith

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mrsbbridgerton · 3 years

Text

In Amongst the Roses

Colin Bridgerton x Reader

Word Count : 1387

Warnings: fluff, pining

A/N: I don’t know what I wanted to write but I wanted to kiss Colin so there’s that.

***

Your mother rushed around you as you kicked your slippers off and walked to the window. You had just arrived at Aubrey Hall at the invitation of the Dowager Viscountess and your mother was most excited that all of the Bridgerton men were in residence, not to mention a fair few more that had been invited along with their younger sisters or wards.

“Come now Y/N we must change out of these travel clothes, there are already several young ladies in the gardens and we can be certain that there are no eligible gentlemen in this room.” She bickered, busying around the room as your lady’s maids unpacked your luggage.

“Mother, half the rooms are not yet occupied – and I am fairly certain at least a quarter of those that are, are occupied by Bridgerton’s.” you sighed, looking out over the large rolling estate, spotting a glistening lake and dappled forest in the near distance.

After a swift half an hour in the hands Iris, your lady’s maid, your hair was re curled into a neat coiffure and your favourite muslin dress was carefully slipped over it before you were whisked downstairs by your mother to thank your hosts, yet again for their gracious invitation. Unfortunately for your mother, as you descended the stairs you found only Violet Bridgerton in the entrance hall, still greeting incoming guests.

“You’re entirely welcome.” She said with a beautiful smile. “I am so sorry my son isn’t here to thank you himself, though having been in town for so long he has many matters to deal with at the moment, I’m sure you can understand?” Your mother fawned in agreement, going off about the delicate décor of the ceiling and the wonderful portraits on the walls. Your eyes drifted to the open doors around you, all of them offering you glimpses into each of them. “Please, feel free to wander Miss Y/LN.” Violet Bridgerton said, drawing you out of your daze. “Some of the ladies have already gathered in the drawing room and several guests have gone to the gardens” she gestured through a door to the open French windows.

“Yes, Y/N. Go along” your mother gestured eagerly. You nodded your thanks and curtsied before making your escape down the hall. Making your way into an unoccupied room you found yourself in the library. At least you expected it was the library, it was full of books. Walking over to the French windows in the corner of the room, the early afternoon light shaded by encroaching ivy, you spotted some young children running on the lawn in the distance. You watched them play for a while, the small boy whipping the ribbon from the hair of the little girl before running off over the hill – only to be chased back up it by a young gentleman.

You opened the doors and stepped out onto the secluded patio, watching as the man played with the young children as if he was still their age. You smiled and crossed your arms as you walked towards them, noting the distance from the rest of their party as you crossed the short distance.

“Miss Y/LN” he looked up from his kneeling position, surprised at your sudden appearance. The children halted for only a moment at your appearance before the young girl took the opportunity to bolt across the lawn to take refuge behind a tall gentleman holding a mallet.

“Mr Bridgerton” you greeted, smiling as he stood and brushed the dirt from his sleeves.

“Y/N” he whispered lower, looking around before stepping closer to take your hands in his.

“Colin” you replied, matching his love-struck look with your own blushing grin. He held your hands tighter and pulled you just an inch nearer to him as a loud cheer went up in the distance, catching your attention – only to find the company distracted by a ball rolling away down the hill. Finding his opportunity, Colin pulled you away into the covered rose garden: hidden with high hedges and climbing roses, he guided you through the perfectly manicured bushes, down the cobbled path and around the small water feature to the deepest, most secret spot he knew hidden. You laughed at his boyish dashing when he tugged you along with him, until you were nestled away in your quiet corner, the sounds of guests dulled by nature and the gentle splash of water.

“Y/N” he whispered again, softer this time, as he allowed the distance to close between you; bringing a hand up to your soft cheek to brush his finger over your heated skin. “I’m so glad you came.” His soft full lips brushed your brow as he spoke, as if speaking words into air.

“My mother would not have refused the invitation had there been a gorilla in attendance.” You joked “she does wish for me to make a prosperous match” you sighed, avoiding his eyes.

“And I am still not good enough to please the great Mrs Y/LN?” Colin questioned, pressing you back into a tree as he nuzzled the side of your face.

“Colin do not jest” you pushed at his chest, drawing his attention back to your face. “I love you…”

“And I you.” He interrupted, his hands burning into your skin, through the almost sheer muslin of your dress. Your hand came to cup the back of his neck, playing with the soft curls at the base as a silence settled between you.

“She thinks you too young,” you paused, watching as his brow creased to dismiss her “and a rake in the making for all the women that fawn over you.” You smiled, up at him, glad to halt his protest. Colins arms wound around you further, fully holding you too him as he spun you around and sat you on his knee as he took a seat on a bench.

“But I suppose my brother is still an excellent match in her eyes?” he prodded again, satisfied with the new position he found himself in.

“Oh of course, one can overlook anything for a title!” you laughed, mocking your mothers flustered wittering’s whenever Anthony was near. You wriggled out of his loose grip and stood to wander back to the tree. Colin kept a hold of your hand as you walked away, making you turn when he didn’t release. “I wouldn’t care for a title.” You said out of the blue. “I don’t think I’d suit it?”

“I think you would suit the title of Mrs very well” Colin said, standing up to sweep you back into his arms and against the tree once more.

“Colin, stop” you smiled and his wandering hands tickled your skin.

“I will marry you” he whispered into your ear through your laughter. Your laughter died down as you caught his eye. “I promise. I will talk to my mother, and Anthony” he added. “And I will talk to your mother” he said softer “I will make her sure of my love for you so much so that she cannot deny us.” His lips were a hairs width from yours, his emerald green eyes appeared almost black at the distance between you. His lips brushed yours with such softness you were almost brought to tears. Memories of your first stolen kiss came flooding back as his lips captured yours. The soft, sweet smell of him engulfed you as he pulled you ever closer. His tongue licked against the seam of your mouth, pressing for entrance which you happily granted. You stayed like that for what felt like an age and a heartbeat all at once – locked in each-other’s arms as nothing but pure love flowed between you.

Pulling back only a little, Colin had to almost physically restrain himself from pressing you up against the tree once more and taking further liberties; the warmth and redness of your lips and the soft heavy pants of your breath driving him to distraction. “I will speak with them now.” He set you down and stepped back “I can wait no longer.” He almost shouted as he hastened back towards the house, leaving you breathless and panting by yourself against the shady tree. With a smile on your face and a cool breeze washing away your flush, you knew everything would work out in the end.

#bridgerton #colin bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton imagine #my writing

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ohmightydevviepuu · 3 years

Text

the part of a swan

for @cshistfic (an extension of one of my august prompts)

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination. She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

But Killian Jones is not concerned with who she was--he's interested in who she is. And he might be the only one smart enough to uncover the truth.

AO3 part 1/? ~2.6k

Emma was twenty-eight years old when she stepped into a ballroom for the first time since she was ruined. The first time she was present for the judging stares, the awkward silences. For the public shaming and the elaborate ritual that surrounded it.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

Lady Emma Nolan—for that was who she was, though she barely deserved the descriptor and never claimed the surname—delighted in her ruination, and had done for years. It had given her freedom.

It had given her Henry.

Emma had faded into the background as she was expected to after her fall, after her scandal—watched the man she thought she loved continue to live his life as the toast of the ton, the darling of his father, the scion of a powerful family—and swore to herself it was the last time she would do what society expected her to do.

Until tonight.

Emma stood before the crowd, acutely aware of all of the eyes upon her, assessing her, from the style of her coiffure—a ridiculous confection of curls and white feathers—to the tips of her shoes. Surely, they were saying to themselves, surely it is her brother’s money that supports her.

Emma could read them as easily as if they were speaking.

But they were wrong, and that was her secret.

Still, they whispered to each other, muttered remarks hidden discreetly behind fans and glasses of Champagne, and their eyes followed her. Judged her for her past.

And for her presence.

They knew why she was here, and they hated it.

(So did she.)

“Lady Emma.”

The voice was lush and warm with roughness at its edges. Dry—acerbic—the syllables drawn out. He seemed to appear out of nowhere and Emma could do nothing but hold his stare, watching him as he watched her. Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones unfashionably marred by unshaven shadows.

It suited him.

“Sir,” she said. “We have not been introduced.” It was both a rebuke and a lie, for she knew who he was. Killian Jones, the son of no one of name, who had made his career in the navy, nearly cashiered out of the service but not before making his fortune in captured prizes; now the writer of several prominent newspapers.

More importantly, a broker in the most potent currency of all—information.

“And you are lurking in the dark.”

“Then do allow me to rectify that on both counts,” he said, stepped forward and bending low over her hand. His breath tickled her skin even through the elbow-length gloves as he looked up at her through his eyelashes.

She pulled away. “What need has Killian Jones for an introduction?”

His eyes glittered. Blue, like the place on the horizon where the sky met the sea, made brilliant by sunlight; Emma held her breath and prayed he would not notice her slip.

Lady Emma Nolan was not the kind of woman who should know—or recognize—Killian Jones.

Finally, he said, “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Emma exhaled. “Why should mine be the only one?”

He laughed, a short bark that seemed to escape him unwillingly, and Emma smiled. It was a small, tight smile. She gestured at the ballroom and said, “I should return to my sister-in-law.” “How is the Duchess?” His tone was conversational, his eyebrow raised. “Not dancing, I hope? In her condition?”

Emma’s smile tightened. She shifted, uncomfortable in the ill-fitting corset her sister-in-law had pressed upon her, and started to walk away.

He followed her movement, his gaze traveling from her neck to her navel, and Emma blushed.

“Let’s not play games, Lady Emma,” he said. “You’re here for a husband. You’re here for your son.”

He leaned in, coming closer, and Emma held her breath. Anywhere but here—now—she might have welcomed this battle, this back-and-forth—welcomed him, for he was devastatingly handsome—

But she had felt that way before, and fallen for it; left broken, and alone, though it had not been Neal who had destroyed her. She had never said his name aloud since the day he’d left, never told anyone the identity of the man who had, however unwittingly, given her freedom.

Fathers’ sins, after all, never stuck.

It had been them—the gaggle, the gossips, the matrons. The glittering ballrooms of the beau monde. She had chosen not to play by their rules, and paid the price for it. Emma’s scandal became both entertainment and a cautionary tale. She’d been exiled by all save her brother and sister-in-law, the duke and duchess married in a scandal of their own, the stars of a different tale.

Love.

But even that had come at a cost: The respect of their late father, and of the ton.

And now, ten years later, here she stood. “Do not,” Emma said, stepping forward and nearly baring her teeth at him, “mention my son.”

He stepped back, slowly. His eyes did not move, and neither did hers. His tone did not change when he said, “Lady Emma, I understand your urgency. With the duchess increasing—”

Emma did not answer, but she made no move to leave this time.

Because he was right, the perceptive bastard.

All of the joy she felt for her brother and sister-in-law did not assuage her suddenly urgent need to see that Henry was properly taken care of—by a father. Someone with a title—someone who needed an heir, now that her brother no longer did.

“There are other dowries, Lady Emma,” he said. “Why yours?”

Emma’s eyes widened. Perceptive, and too clever by half. Maybe that was she answered him honestly. “There are none so large as mine. And none that come with as much freedom.”

“Freedom?” For an instant only he looked confused. Then he spoke, softly. “Ah. You have no expectations. No dreams of a convenient husband turning into a love match. You’re awfully young to be so cynical.” He chuckled, a sound utterly devoid of humor; his eyes once more took her measure. “But then again, wounds made when you’re young do tend to linger.”

He, too, spoke honestly, as if he knew. As if he, too, had wounds. He lifted his hand as if he was going to touch her again—and if he touched her, she was going to like it.

“No one has ever done what you’re about to do,” he said, his hand falling. “And I wish for you to succeed. In fact, I want to help you.”

Their eyes locked.

“You do?” Emma challenged him. “Why?”

Some of the scandal sheets that had delighted in her fall had, after all, been his.

“My reasons are my own,” he said. “There is little love between me and Society.”

She should end this conversation, Emma knew. She’d been away from the crowd, and from Mary Margaret, her sister-in-law, long enough to be noticed. Another black mark for the record-keepers.

But Emma stayed. Said, “You keep them entertained.”

He smirked. “And you, Lady Emma, are the entertainment in question.”

—

Killian Jones stood on the edge of the ballroom and watched them. Watched her.

Emma Nolan was every inch an aristocrat, born and bred into this world; a true diamond of the first water. Everyone in this room should be on their knees at her feet and instead they whispered, waiting to pounce—waiting to destroy her all over again.

He shouldn’t care. He should stay focused.

“You should not have flirted with the girl.”

Killian did not turn. “What do you want with her?”

The answering chuckle was dry and unpleasant. “Let’s just say I’m keeping my eye on young Miss Nolan.”

“Lady Emma,” Killian corrected, only to be granted with another chuckle that had him biting back a curse.

“Of course.” Robert Gold’s words were soft, delicate—silk wrapped around a knife.

“What do you want with her?” Killian asked again.

Gold tutted. “So cold a greeting from my oldest friend.”

Killian had known Gold—now Lord Boyle, Baron Ross, Earl of Glasgow—for almost fifteen years, and hated him for every moment of it; one of the King’s most trusted advisors, with tens of thousands of acres that earned him close to thirty thousand pounds per annum.

The man was as rich as a fictional king, but that was never enough for him.

No amount of power was enough for him.

“I could kill you right here,” Killian said.

“You could,” Gold agreed. “And you would hang for it.”

“At least it would be for a crime I actually committed.”

“Big words, Captain. You and I both know that you are not in any position to move against me.”

Killian finally turned to face him, ignoring the shiver of fear that went through him as he did so; hating it. “I won’t ask again.”

“And I won’t answer. Your only concern is that she interests me. It is so tiresome, having to threaten you. You would do better to just accept our arrangement. I command, you act.”

As though Killian could ever forget.

But Killian was not the only one with secrets—Gold had them, and deeper and darker than any one man should. Secrets that would see Gold, not Killian, at the end of a rope.

If only Killian had proof.

Snarling, Killian backed away from the earl and made his way through the ballroom for the exit.

And found—

“We meet again, Mr. Jones,” said Lady Emma Nolan. Her bright green eyes sparkled and her voice—somehow it brought light with it. Killian was helpless to do naught but smile back as he inclined his head in greeting.

“My lady,” he said, and enjoyed the surprise in her eyes at the honorific.

The night was still young and they were the only two preparing to leave. Emma’s maid stood discreetly behind and the duchess, her chaperone, was nowhere to be seen. “Are you for home already?”

Her nod made the feathers in her coiffure tremble. “Believe it or not, Mr. Jones, I am unaccustomed to this sort of evening. I find myself quite exhausted.”

“I noticed you found the energy to dance,” he said, and wished he hadn’t.

She had stood up for every dance, had played her part brilliantly; Killian had noticed several of her brother’s titled friends called in to do a set with her in the hopes that all of their combined wealth and power might blind Society to the lady’s sins.

She was all anyone talked about, but it was neither her brother’s chosen champions nor her beauty that fueled the whispers in the ballroom.

If Gold wanted her—

“Did you?” She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders but could not hide her smile. “And yet you never thought to ask me?”

“Lady Emma,” he said, affecting shock, “when we have not even been introduced?”

Her laugh seemed to reverberate; as if the street lamps themselves would dance to her tune, and for a long moment there was silence between them, neither of them moving to break the moment. The sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels emerging from the neighboring mews was both an irritation and a welcome distraction as she made to leave him.

“The duchess does not accompany you?”

The feathers trembled again as she shook her head, still smiling. “I’m for home, Mr. Jones. I wonder, what shall you write about this evening for your Scandal Sheet?”

She meant the words to amuse, he was sure—a perfect combination of wit and boredom—but underneath it all, Killian heard something else. Something, he thought, no one was meant to hear: Sadness. Loss. Frustration.

“You don’t want it, do you?”

She watched him, weighing, calculating, as the carriage waited before them to take her away from this place and this life, if only for an evening. If she was surprised by how easily he read her, she gave no sign of it. “This is my bed, Mr. Jones. I must lie in it. And to do that—it seems I need you.”

The words landed, harder than she ever could have intended, his silly promise of social redemption echoing hollow. It was cold comfort to know that the earl was already married and could have no designs on Emma’s dowry.

The man had a terrible track record when it came to his wives.

Killian thought that it must be her family—her brother—that interested him. The young, golden-haired duke had clawed his way back from his sister’s scandal and his own marriage based, as best Killian could ascertain, solely on his charm.

“Lady Emma—” he began, but he did not know what else to say.

“Good night, Mr. Jones.” She was already moving, down the steps to the waiting carriage.

He watched her, the way she moved, fascinated by the way the pale fabric of her skirts seemed to swirl in the night air, the way her arm balanced as she smiled at the footman handing her in, a glimpse of ankle in a silver slipper before the door slammed shut and her outrider climbed onto his perch.

He imagined what he might write about her as his curricle pulled up to the mounting block and he took the reins, so lost in his thoughts of her that he did not realize he still followed the lady’s coach until they were well past the turn out of Mayfair and toward her brother’s town house.

He followed her down Bond Street toward Piccadilly and then St. James before he allowed his curricle to fall back, watching the lanterns on the carriage as they navigated the back alleyways behind Duke Street toward the men’s clubs of London.

Lady Emma Nolan, sister of a duke, with a dowry big enough to buy a palace, desperate for a restored reputation and a father for her son—that he had determined to secure for her—was in a parked curricle behind the most exclusive men’s club in Britain. More than a club—the most expensive, high-class gaming hell in London.

Lady Emma Nolan, behind Killian’s own destination, behind his club, The Swan. A club run by some of London’s darkest men on behalf of the club’s owner, who went only by the name Swan. Killian had never seen nor spoken to Swan in spite of their years-long profitable relationship in the trade of information.

Of secrets.

Just the person, Killian had decided, to turn to in order to free himself from Gold’s yoke once and for all. If anyone could access Gold’s secrets, it would be Swan, and Killian was willing to pay any price for what he desired.

Emma’s outrider—a giant of a man, Killian suddenly realized—was stood in front of the heavy steel door that marked The Swan’s back entrance, banging in a specific pattern to gain entry.

He should stop her. He moved to, just as the carriage door opened and Killian strained for a glimpse of her pale slipper, her white skirts.

But that was not what he saw.

The slipper was high-heeled and dark—the skirts a silk the color of the purest red rose—a corseted bodice that put on display a décolletage of perfect proportions. Painted lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a dark wig that hid every golden hair.

Killian Jones watched her disappear into the club’s back entrance and he smiled.

Here was a story.

And—just maybe—an answer to all of his problems.

@katie-dub @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @pirateherokillian @stahlop @onceratheart18 @kmomof4 @mariakov81

#cs fic #cshistfic #regency AU

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bella-caecilia · 3 years

Note

Could I possibly request #11 reliability?

Thank you for the prompt <3 I hope I included enough of the colour symbolism. Again, set somewhere in series 1. I hope you enjoy this Cobert fluff!

Brown – Reliability

She pulled his arm closer. Walking like this beside him was much warmer than walking alone or a few feet apart (something they had done very early on for a very short period, and Cora had hated it with all her guts) but it still wasn’t warm enough. It seemed rather impractical to only have the small area of their arms touch and spend each other warmth but this was the best they could do on a walk.

“I can’t believe Sybil will be presented at court next summer,” Cora voiced aloud what had been on her mind all day.

It was a day in October and after the sun had dried the leaves a little after yesterday’s constant drizzle Cora had waited eagerly in the doorway of the library for Robert to finish his correspondence and join her on their walk over the amber-coloured grounds. Robert was rather occupied today so that Cora had a lot of time on hand to ponder about the next season she was planning already. It was nice to have Robert now with her and to talk about what tormented her thoughts.

“But you have started the first preparations weeks ago,” Robert gave back. Their looks were directed at the path in front of them. Cora didn’t turn her head very often because, with the great proximity to her husband she had created, the expansive brim of her hat was precariously close to his neck. Their eyes took in the variety of brown and yellow nature that stretched along the horizon.

“I know,” she sighed. “But don’t you feel like she is still so young, our little girl? Presenting her at court means subsequently marrying her off to a gentleman, a Lord, faraway. This is all happening much too fast,” Cora whispered the last words into the wind, letting them being carried away. But Robert would get them nevertheless.

“Mary’s season was years ago and she still isn’t married. They will stay much longer with us than you think.” They passed by the place to usually take a short break on their walks. The bench under the large tree stayed empty today, though.

Yes, Mary wasn’t married, and Cora knew why it was so hard to find a match for her. They didn’t even speak of Edith. But Sybil, Sybil was a whole other deal.

“Don’t forget that it’s sweet Sybil we are talking about. She will charm every eligible gentleman because opposed to Mary, she is intrinsically kind and so very amiable. She is easy to love.”

“That’s because she is most like you.” Robert’s statement sounded like a corrupting compliment but his tone wasn’t any less serious than throughout their prior talk.

“Sybil has a much stronger will of her own and is much more innovative than me,” Cora commented matter-of-factly.

“Well, it’s not me either from whom she has her innovatively modern streak.” Robert stirred them down a path they didn’t take very often in the warmer months because it avoided all the flower gardens and beds. But that didn’t matter in October.

“Right, and her stubbornness is also nothing she inherited from you,” Cora gave back sarcastically. Robert didn’t respond to this but with a silent snort.

“But she is sweeter in her stubborn demeanour,” Cora added in a low tone. She watched him from the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction to her taunting comment.

“Hmm, yes, I love you too,” he grumbled in response. His elbow nudged her slightly in the side against her corseted ribs. She chuckled lightly and patted his upper arm placatingly.

They walked together silently for a while. Robert at her side like a windbreaker, not really bothered by her teasing, Cora fell back into pondering. Her throat slowly lost the memory of her chuckle as her darker thoughts about the next London season pushed to the forefront of her mind again.

“I don’t want to let her go, Robert,” she whispered.

Now it was Robert who pulled her hands closer to his arm. His bigger palms covered hers in the crook of his arm. “Sybil won’t go if it isn’t right. She always knew her way, and it will be the same now. And I also know you will support her in what is right for her,” he assured, and his voice became so velvety that Cora wanted to bury her face in the crook of his neck or against his chest. “And I will be there with you.”

“I know you will. And I will make her season the most beautiful for her.”

“Of course, you will.”

Robert’s choice of route for their walk guided them to the edge of the forest that bordered the grounds in the south. A row of nearly scarlet-coloured bushes greeted them from afar. The spectacle of autumnal colours was a real treat on their otherwise by harsh wind and cold temperatures marked walk. As they plodded down the gravely way, mostly parallel to the woods, one shade of brown was relieved by another one and yet another one. Cora tried to link her arm more tightly with Robert’s to fully enjoy the comforting palette of warm hues of the brown leaves in the radiance of his heating body. She didn’t know what comforted her more the warm brown vision in front of her or his body next to her.

“Can we make a short detour into the woods?” she asked after a moment.

“If you wish so. I don’t want to overexert you. The weather can change again in no time,” he gave back.

“It will only be a few steps inside,” Cora assured.

…

Inside the forest Robert let Cora choose the way. Outside he had guided them down the paths as he always did. They had their usual route that he variegated here and there slightly. But Cora seemed determined now to explore the grounds and so he let her take the lead. Robert couldn’t quite tell what criteria affected her choice of paths. But knowing his wife, he assumed she followed where nature looked most inviting. He tried to see the trees around with her eyes. But he mostly saw oaks, beeches, and pine trees. One or two times he had to help her across broken branches that lay on the paths. He assisted her in gathering her skirts since it proved a quite demanding task with one of her arms linked to his.

Cora halted at a minor crossroads. She stood right in a ray of the October sun and looked into the depth of the forest.

“It all looks nearly golden,” she said. With her right hand, she pointed somewhere into the trees. “Look how the bark absorbs the warm light. The sun makes the trees shine.”

“I see,” he said, still searching for the exact point she referred to. The gap in the trees, that let in the light to illuminate the tree bark and Cora, also allowed entrance to the wind. A gust came their way, and it wasn’t only dead leaves that swirled around Robert but also the scent of Cora’s hair and perfume. It was a rather nice experience he wouldn’t have expected out here in the woods.

“I want to feel the wind, Robert,” she said as she looked down the narrowing path into the woods. She had to hold onto her hat because gusts tried to grip and abstract it into the distance. Robert furrowed his brow.

“Don’t you feel it?” he asked a little confused. As she turned her face to him, he noticed her rosy cheeks and nose.

“That’s not exactly what I mean. I want to feel it for real,” Cora explained. Her gloved hands now began fiddling with her hat. Only when she pulled out a long hat pin, Robert realised her intention.

“Could please help me for a moment?” she asked.

“Uhm, sure.” Robert let her arm go to ease her task and waited for further instructions.

“If you would please assist me taking off the hat. We can try to keep my hair at least a little put together.” Robert took hold of the brim of her hat and tried his best at taking it off carefully. Cora in the meanwhile secured her coif with her fingers that pushed underneath the hat slightly and pressed the curls to her head. Robert lifted the grey accessory ever so slowly and handed it to her afterwards.

“I feel like I can breathe again,” Cora sighed relieved. Robert had to chuckle. He could never imagine the nonsensical ideas his dear wife came up with. She shook her head slightly in the wind and instantly a few strands of chocolate brown hair tumbled down. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to experience nature armoured against all its merits with these extensive attires,” she explained a little annoyed. For a brief moment, he could Cora as the young girl she once was before he got to know her, running around freely in the woods and on the beaches in the American home of her childhood. And then, after a few seconds, there was the calm and properly dressed Countess again.

“You would freeze without it,” Robert reminded her.

Cora turned around again, looking into the light forest with her hat clutched to her front. She didn’t respond to his last comment but breathed in the fresh wind. Robert came up behind her. Her curls played in the wind. Her coiffure fell apart more and more, and she looked more enticing with every second. The chocolate curls danced while she stood there unmoving. Only the rise and fall of her shoulders, padded in her thick coat, told of the deep breathes she took and of the deliberate movement of her chest.

Robert approached her until he was able to wrap his arms around her. Tentatively he first rested his palms on her shoulders but he didn’t want to oppress her interaction with the wind. His hands on her waist felt much better anyway. Her hair flew around his face and tickled his cheeks.

Cora took good care, he thought suddenly. Nothing that affected their family, their dear girls, escaped her notice. Nothing that had to be done slipped through her fingers. She secured Sybil the greatest coming out ball and the most enjoyable season, and she looked so closely that Sybil would do well when their daughter would leave their caring arms. Robert needn’t worry about any of the girls’ future. Cora was there and she took care where he could never reach. He just had to give her all the stability and comfort she needed, all the stability and comfort he could give. He pressed his cheek to the side of her head. Her hair was soft at his slightly stubbly cheek, and he probably destroyed her coif even more but the wind had already done its deed so he didn’t really give it much thought. Cora leaned back against his chest so that their breathing of the wind synchronised. She was like a hot water bottle in his arms as the wind blew around them. His back and arms began freezing but Cora was pressed to his front, and he could bury his nose in her brown tresses. Knowing she was there with him gave him all the comfort and warmth he needed right now.

#cobert fanfiction #cobert drabble #cobert #cora crawley #robert crawley #s1 #downton abbey fanfiction #downton abbey #cobert fluff

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slippinmickeys · 3 years

Text

The Earl (11/13)

BONUS CHAPTER I thought it might be fun to post the last chapter tomorrow morning for those holding out until it’s posted, so... I’m... filing Chapter 11. Chapter 12 will go up late afternoon/evening. To read on AO3, go here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Scully had fallen into a dreamless sleep, warm and feeling impossibly safe. Birdsong had started with the dawn, and as she sat up groggily on the small mattress on the dusty floor, she smiled to herself. She would see Mulder soon. Her nightmare was at an end.

She rose from the pallet and tried dusting off the dried mud and dirt from the hem of her frock, but it was useless. This particular dress was likely ruined. Not that she would be sad to see it go. It could burn for all she cared.

She pulled out all the hairpins from what remained of her coiffure, running her hands through her hair as best she could. The long auburn locks which, when unbound, flowed lushly halfway down her back (one of Mulder’s favorite things, or so he had said to her in the heat of passion), had some luster to it and still smelled faintly of lavender. On a whim, he had bought her aluminum hair pins at a shop in the village of Ashford when the guests from the estate had alighted there one rainy day last week. She remembered him kissing her hair softly and telling her he was sparing no expense. She smiled to herself and tried to tame her locks into something resembling presentable respectability, plaiting and then pinning it up. The Countess wanted to look as best she could for her Earl.

The fire had burned itself out in the hearth, but the hut was still warm, and getting warmer by the minute as the sun streamed in through the tiny window pane on the far wall. While she waited, she closed her eyes and named to herself various chemical compounds and their respective weights -- something she used to do to pass time while doing needlework or attempting to (badly) play the pianoforte.

In 1801 Joseph Proust announced that every chemical compound has a fixed and definite composition; that when substances unite chemically they do so in definite ratios by weight -- then came John Dalton four years later, with the second great law of combination, which had come to be called the law of multiple proportions. Dalton introduced atomic theory into chemistry, and now the great problem was to determine the relative weights of the atoms. The most eminent scientific minds (men, naturally ) gave their attention to the determination of the atomic weights and of the arrangement of the atoms in compounds. She had read everything she could on the subject, fascinated by the idea of everything in the universe existing on such a small, basic scale. Protons. Neutrons. In the end, everything came down to attraction.

Even she and her husband, she thought. Especially she and her husband. When she tired of chemistry, perhaps next she would study biology. Though, she thought with a flush, they did a near nightly biological case study. Man. Woman. Attraction. Sex.

She was roused from her thoughts by the sound of approaching hoofbeats and moments later, she heard Alex’s voice approaching the hut’s small door.

“She’s in here,” she heard him say, and then the door opened and he strode through it, looking a bit different than he had last night in the light of the single candle.

“Alex,” she said warmly, but when he turned to her, he did so with a sneer, hair curling over his forehead in a rakish way, his eyes cold and almost obsidian in color.

“She’s awake,” he said without feeling to some unknown person just outside the door, the figure looming in the doorway, blocking out the sun. Mulder?

She heard the strike of a match and then saw the cold creep of tobacco smoke purl in the air through the small space, hitting her nose in one acrid punch.

“No,” she whispered, gritting her teeth with fury.

XxX

She came to consciousness in the back of Spender’s carriage once again, the sense memory sinking through her veins like lead. Her head pounded, and when she brought her bound hands to her temple on instinct, she found an enormous goose egg and the crusted, sticky remains of dried blood. She groaned.

The carriage leaned ever so slightly to the right, its wheels making a fairly sharp turn onto a bumpy road. She finally glanced up to look at the man sitting across from her.

There was rage pouring from his eyes and his nostrils were flared. The leather of the gloves he wore creaked in the air between them as he squeezed his wolf’s head walking stick. He raised it and pointed it at her.

“There will be no new opportunities for escape,” he barked, looking at her intently. He opened his mouth to speak further when the carriage lurched to a stop. He didn’t wait for Alex, who’d been acting as coachman, to open the door, but flung it open himself, then leaned back in to grab Scully by her bound hands, pulling her bodily out of the conveyance so quickly that she stumbled when her feet hit the ground.

She barely had time to look around before he was pulling her along behind him toward a small, ancient cottage that was tucked back amongst some trees. She had just gotten a glimpse of the sand-colored manor house she’d been kept in previously before she was tugged through the doorway of the cottage in the woods. The manor house was not far away, down a long, winding path littered with weeds and wildflowers that didn’t look like it got much use. Spender pulled her inside and slammed the door behind them.

She braced herself when he grabbed his walking stick with both hands, but instead of striking her, he pulled at the silver wolf’s head and withdrew a long blade, triangular and sinister, its blade darker than any metal ought to be.

She took a step away from him.

He smiled at her, an evil-looking grin, and Scully was reminded of the skeleton presiding over Hell in Jan Van Eyck’s The Last Judgement . She thought of demons. Of serpents and bats. “Hold out your bindings,” he said to her.

Tentatively, she held out her hands. He grabbed them roughly and used the wolf’s head dagger to cut the knots from her wrists. When the cloth fell away, she took a relieved breath, only to be startled into a gasp when he struck, quick as a viper, and grabbed her by the hair.

“Our games are at an end, Lady Wexford,” he hissed, his mouth mere inches from her own. She grabbed at his hands, but he twisted them harder, and she could hear the hairpins falling from her head and tinkling merrily onto the slate floor. “Your husband will pay.”

With that, he began cutting at her hair with the dagger, sawing and hacking at it until the whole thick plait came off in his hand. Her scalp felt as though it were on fire.

She raised her hands up to feel the unevenly shorn hair that now ended at her chin, and the cottage’s door slammed shut with a loud, metallic chink. He was gone.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Alex and Queen had returned from the coaching inn after several days with no news.

“I fear the proprietor knows nothing,” the footman had told Mulder, sadly, “and there have been no guests matching the description of your Mr. Spender.”

Mulder had given him his thanks and told the man to get some rest.

Later that day, a scream wret the air from the entrance of the house. Mulder catapulted down the stairs to find a maid with a hand to her chest sitting on the floor in shock, another maid holding her other hand, trying to calm her. The Butler, Mr. Headly, was hovering over them both and Mulder noticed a large box with the lid half-off sitting just inside the manse’s door.

Byers, Frohike and Langly all came skidding onto the scene only moments behind him.

“The… the Countess,” the prone maid said, shakily pointing to the box.

Mulder moved forward, awash with dread. When he pushed aside the lid, there, sitting inside of it like a coiled snake ready to strike, sat the long, thick plait of Scully’s titian hair.

He recoiled, falling back momentarily, then moved forward again, lifting it up and out. The end of the hair that had been cut had not been trimmed gently or with finesse, but rather hacked at, likely with a sharp, short blade. It must have been painful for her.

“Who delivered this?” Mulder asked. “Who?!”

The maid to whom he’d spoken leaned back in fear, and he took a breath in order to calm himself.

“Mary,” Byers said calmly, and the young woman looked to her employer.

“There was no delivery, sir,” she finally said, “I was going about my duties and there it was, sitting inside the front door.”

Everyone looked to Mr. Headly.

“She is quite right,” he said calmly, “there have been no deliveries today. Nor yet any post.”

Mulder brought himself to his full height and addressed no one, staring straight ahead. “He’ll die for this,” he said with controlled wrath. He then stalked off, leaving the smell of lavender in his wake.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully stared at the back of the door, running her hands through her now-short locks. It felt so odd, but it was also a bit freeing, she thought, and her head felt pounds lighter. She bent down and collected pins that had escaped onto the floor, setting them in a pile on a nearby table, and placing a few in the fringe near her forehead to keep it out of her face.

She took a turn about the room. She tried the door, just in case. Locked and secured from the outside.

The cottage was old, made of thick stone, the windows tiny and set far back in the walls -- she’d have no hope of climbing through one. There were three rooms -- the one she was in near the door that seemed to serve as great room and main living space. A small bedroom just off that, supplied with a small, rough hewn bed and straw-filled mattress, covered with a single woolen blanket. The third room was a kitchen, with a large fireplace and old monstrous table that bowed in the middle from year’s worth of scrubbing. There were bottles and crockery that lined two large shelves, and a small scullery. The scullery seemed fairly well stocked, as was the kitchen, where on the table sat two fresh loaves of bread and several hunks of cheese, a small bowl of apples, three lemons and a large bowl of eggs. An extra circuit around the kitchen and she found three pails full of water that she moved onto the main table -- she covered each with a large plate to keep out dust and debris. It was looking like she would not be fed, but would have to feed herself with what was left here. Very well, she thought. There was enough food and water for a week. Perhaps more.

She wondered what Spender’s plan for her was. Was it only ransom he was after? If so, Mulder would surely pay it.

She snooped through the scullery, taking inventory. There she found a decent quantity of concentrated lye, five candles, two small bottles of kerosene (but no lamps), a bar of Pears soap, a large glass bottle with a heavy cork stopper that smelled as if it had once contained either wine or vinegar, several empty crockery bottles of various sizes, two bottles of whisky, matches, chalk, salt, and a small bottle that appeared to be turpentine, but that she couldn’t get open.

In the main room there was a single shelf on which sat several books, all in either French or Latin. So she would not go completely mad with boredom.

There was no wardrobe and so no other changes of clothes, though she could probably launder what she had in the large pot in the kitchen fireplace (which was well stocked with wood, she was pleased to see). She was suddenly thankful that Duane Barry had walked her through the process.

He was a sad sort of man and easy to manipulate and she could see how he’d been an easy mark for Spender. He was shy and unworldly, had trouble even meeting her eye. Why, all it had taken was for her to mention her courses and he was practically blithering, and had seen her outside without so much as-

She stopped short. Her courses. She had been in captivity for several days now, and had been at Byers’ estate for more than a week… She did the arithmetic in her head and then did it again. She was late. Alarmingly so.

She took a breath and brought a hand low over her stomach. Her heart began to pound. Oh, Mulder . Perhaps she was not alone in this cottage after all.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder thought back to the last time he had seen Scully -- had he known then it would be the last time, he never would have left.

He had his hand on her breast, and was thrusting into her gently from behind. In the many weeks since their marriage, her body had learned to accommodate his, and he met little resistance as he slid into her with a hiss of satisfaction. This was lazy lovemaking, both of them half asleep in the dim light of morning.

“I do not need to hunt today,” he finally spoke, nuzzling his nose into the delicate skin behind her ear, “for I have found Artemis, and she is here in this bed with me.”

Scully gave a little moan and then pressed back into him, a signal he was beginning to learn meant that she wanted more.

“I-” she stopped to take a breath “I don’t believe the Goddess of the Hunt is anywhere near here, Mulder,” she said breathily, “for she is also the goddess of wild animals and vegetation and ah-” Mulder had thrust into her with more force and he could feel her muscles clench around him, “and… chastity.”

“Chastity?” Thrust. “Perhaps you are right.” Thrust. “Here before me is Aphrodite, and her sea-foam eyes.”

It was then that Scully reached her peak, and he ascended with her, grabbing onto her hips tightly and burying his face into the silky mane of her hair.

She rolled away from him onto her stomach moments later and turned to assess him with half-lidded eyes. She licked her lips, her movements slow.

“Aphrodite may have been born from the foam of the sea,” she said lazily, “but I rather did always like Artemis best. I pictured her similar to Boudica, with a sword in one hand and a bow in the other.”

“A sword in one hand, eh?” Mulder asked, nudging her with a finger.

“They say she is the strongest of them all, for she not only oversees chastity but also childbirth.”

“Chastity and childbirth? A confusing combination.”

Scully laughed, a delicious peal through the air of the room.

Mulder rolled out of the bed and pulled the bell to summon Danny to help him dress.

“Perhaps she’ll be with me today,” he said, “and I shall bring back our dinner, the fattest of the lot for my goddess.”

Scully smiled at him and rolled over to go back to sleep, her hair like a cape of spun gold fanning the pillows behind her.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully looked at her reflection in one of the pails of water. It was not… altogether atrocious. Her hair looked rather like a farmboy bob, and she was certain that someone with cleverer hands than she could do something with it, even for more formal events… perhaps pin it with pearls and feathers. But. That was a problem for a different time. For now, her only concern was keeping it out of her eyes while she worked.

She had spent the whole of the night alternately thinking of the babe that perhaps was even now growing in her belly, and the problem of how she was to save them both. She had determined as she lay looking at an unfamiliar ceiling that she would not let CGB Spender control her or her fate.

Firstly, she needed to put an end to her imprisonment. And then… Well, then she needed to put an end to Spender and his evil machinations. Duane Barry might yet help her again, but Scully suspected that Barry had been relieved of his prisoner oversight duties, or worse. What with the supplies of food and water that had been left in the cottage, and Spender’s warning: “There will be no new opportunities for escape,” the likelihood that there might be anyone she could overtake or convince to help her were not good. It was up to her to save her own skin.

And perhaps also that of her child.

XxXxXxXxXxX

After the Countess's hair had been discovered, the mood around Ashford Park was... penultimate, thought Frohike. Though the day was clear, it felt as though something was brewing. And when the storm broke, well, there was no telling what damage would be wrought.

Mulder had begun ranging further and further afield, riding his horse to every farm, every tenant, every public house and hen house in search of his wife. He was a man possessed.

Frohike was exiting the library, which happened to be nearest the back staircase that came up from below stairs, when he saw a maid coming up the stairway and rushing off into the house. The look on her face was excited intrigue, which was enough to incite the same feeling in himself. On a whim, he turned toward the stairway that led below stairs and followed them down.

The hallways were narrow and labyrinthine, and there were members of Byers' household staff huddled together in gossiping circles, paying no attention to the erstwhile gentleman who walked among them.

"Go and get Mr. Headly. This very minute!" he heard from around a corner. A scullery maid went running past him and when he rounded the corner he came upon the Cook patting a man's hand and pressing a cup of tea into it.

"Now, Duane, where have you been?" she asked kindly.

Frohike's eyes widened.

"Duane?" he said, "This is the groom, Duane Barry?" he asked excitedly.

Cook nodded at him. "He's..." she started, "he's not himself. He says he'll speak only to the Earl. Not even Sir Byers, his own master!" She sounded scandalized.

Frohike turned and ran from the kitchens, launching himself through the scullery and on out the door to the back of the estate, running toward the stables for all he was worth. He skidded inside.

"The Earl,” Frohike was breathless from running. Several grooms stood around looking at him in alarm and confusion.

“Sir?” one of them asked.

"Where is the Earl?" Frohike gasped.

"He rode west, sir."

"Find him, now. Which of you is the best rider? Tell him that Duane Barry has returned."

One of the groom's eyes flashed wide and he nodded, and not a minute later, as Frohike was walking quickly back toward the house, was galloping out of the stable yards and toward the western fields.

Frohike trotted up the stairs of the manse and let himself in the door, waiting not for the butler or even a footman. When he rounded the corner that led to the drawing room, he heard his friend's voice, raised in anger, verging on hysteria:

"Did you hurt her?!"

"No!"

Frohike walked through the doorway and found Byers and Langly standing close to the former groom Duane Barry, who sat in one of the chairs, his face a frightened mask.

Langley grabbed the man’s hand and raised it. He pointed to blood on the man's cuff. "What is this?!"

"I'm sorry," Barry said. "I had to take her. I hope he's not hurting her. I'm sorry."

"Where is she?!" Byers shouted.

"I... I'll tell the Earl. Bring me the Earl, and I'll tell him."

Langly threw up his arms in frustration and Byers, looking as steely and angry as Frohike had ever seen him, brushed past Frohike in the doorway of the room, Langly on his heels. He turned to the handful of servants that had appeared in the hallway, mainly maids, and Wexford's footman, Alex.

"Nobody goes in or out of that room," Byers said. The footman nodded at him and took station at the closed door, standing tall.

Mr. Headly appeared as Byers was walking with purpose toward the main stairway.

"Where is the Earl?" Byers asked his man.

"I don't know, sir-"

"Find him!" Byers barked.

Langly drifted to Frohike's side.

"I have never seen him like this," his business partner said, "I am impressed."

Frohike couldn't help but agree. Not ten minutes later, Mulder burst through the door of the manse out of breath and smelling of horse. He grabbed Frohike by the shoulders.

“Barry?” he said, “Barry has returned?”

Frohike nodded encouragingly. “And has word of the Countess’s location, apparently. He’ll tell only you.” Frohike gestured to the door of the drawing room where the footman Alex had been standing guard. He was no longer there, and the door to the room was ajar.

Mulder stumbled through it with Frohike hot on his heels. Both men pulled up short.

Barry was on the ground, and Alex was leaning over him.

"What happened?!" Mulder asked, taking several halting steps into the room.

"He was gagging," Alex said, leaning back on his heels. “I tried to help.”

The man was lying upon the ground, gasping for air. Mulder ran to him. “Duane!” Mulder said, kneeling beside him. Frohike skidded to the man’s other side.

Barry, his eyes wide and still gasping for air, looked once at Mulder beseechingly. Then he took one almighty breath, his entire body spasming once, and exhaled, slumping to the floor. Frohike could tell just by looking at him -- the man was dead.

“Duane!” Mulder said one more time and then stood in a daze. His eyes cast about the room. “Alex, what hap-” he paused, mid-sentence.

The footman was gone.

#The X-Files #Fanfic #MSR #AU #Regency #The Countess #The Earl #Sequel #My Fic

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elane-in-the-shadows · 3 years

Text

Red Queen Secret Santa 2020: Nightmare (affectionately) - Part 1

A/N: This is my present for @evangeline-of-montfort and the first part of my Evangeline soccer AU! I would’ve liked to wrap it up in one story but I felt to better do the characters justice, I need a few more pages and time to brew over it. Bear with me until the next part arrives, I promise not to make you wait too long.

This idea was largely inspired PVRIS’s recent album Use Me which is why the record is alluded to in the text as I’ll also name-drop all the songs’ titles en passant.

PS: Nightmare is not on the album but a song on PVRIS’s last year’s EP Hallucinations and I couldn’t pass the chance for the wordplay and thus made it the title of whole story.

Happy holidays!

Also on Wattpad and AO3

Part 2

Mare

The chance flashes before me like a lightning strike; not stunning but charging me as Iral passes me the ball and it comes to me. I don’t dribble, don’t let the opponent grasp what I see. I kick immediately to Captain Samos who meets my eye as much as the ball, sharing the moment with me.

Consequently, she evades the opponent’s 9 in a move so simple and elegant as if she were dancing, right before she shoots, still beyond the penalty box yet straight through the gap in the defense and before the goalkeeper can react to prevent our scoring.

Captain Samos roars, once, and so do I. Just as in sync, our team gathers to cheer with her. There I’m slower, keeping it to a half-hearted hug and a few high fives. Still the newbie come from another club, but part of the win.

No time for more connecting when the match goes on and already, the captain emerges from the embrace cluster to shoo her team back into positions. She jerks her chin and a shiver runs down my spine as I realize it’s for me. I don’t know what to make of it. Acknowledgement? Praise? Or rather another, “I’m watching you, Barrow”, as to remind me she is not only the captain, but also the central conductor of the team and no matter how well I filled the same role in my old club’s soccer team, I have no place to challenge Evangeline Samos’s lead.

In the locker room, I wonder if I could’ve passed to another player, and avoid Samos entirely. I couldn’t have made the goal myself from my point, but at least I’d have been recognized for good preparation if Samos’s textbook shoot didn’t grab everyone’s awe by the throat.

She really has enough of that, mine included. Hailing from prestigious families, she’s the star of the Archeon Soccer Club, a talent able to pick pro-team scouts instead of the other way around. But her stardom begins to outshine the rest of the club like we’re the darkness between when –

I startle embarrassingly for a mere hand on my shoulder, a proof my grumbling went too deep when among a group. I can’t help it; I’m frozen even once I’ve turned. Speak of the devil, of course it’s her, the captain.

The perfect and pristine model athlete, from the curve of her thighs, to defined abs and strong arms and not a hair out of place. I’m envious of her magic tricks to fix her hair so short after the match, my short curls would take ages just to get dry.

Not that I intend to bother with her generally elaborate coiffure, with her long ponytail bleached a silvery-white the black roots shift into through carefully dyed, dark-greyish transitions.

She snorts and I cough, finally releasing the breath I’d been holding.

“Good work, Barrow”, she says with a smirk I can’t determine as ironic or genuine which reminds me that I’ve gaped enough. It’s her method, reaching out while never making you sure of your footing, encourage while letting you know her doubts. Like when she offered to drive me to training or matches in her car – our ways overlap expediently – and then never talks with me like I’m not worth the attention.

Too bad I excel at this game as well. A sneer I can return, just like her resolute posture. “I do my best for the team, Captain,” I reply.

She frowns, detecting my tease. Maybe a mistake. Maybe I should bow and flatter to rise in the team but such had never been my strength. I only know success by demanding my due. Now she leans forward, stepping ever closer as if to put me back in place.

When she lays a hand on my chest, I expect her to shove.

I don’t fall back an inch. Only her head inclines to speak in my ear as my heart beats faster with her hand pressing against my collarbones.

“If you want my position, Nightmare,” she whispers, “you’ll have to take it.”

I flinch at the blighting of my name as she shifts aside, smiling sweetly. “Don’t call me that,” I quietly retort, “not among the team.” I’m all too aware of the teammates around us and yet I don’t scan their reactions to our exchange and my hot face. I’ll be glad enough if by tomorrow, not everyone calls me Nightmare.

Her smile doesn’t waver at all. “Sure,” she mouths unperturbed and leaves me standing, back in the game that’s both soccer and not soccer at all.

Evangeline

On autumn Sunday mornings, I enjoy running at the break of dawn when the streets are so empty as if they belong to me alone. I may exert yet it feels like freedom on my strictly scheduled Sundays. After running comes styling for the nearly endless family brunch with Grandmother Éva and Aunt Sofía, followed by the weekly soccer match, the team meeting aka fastfood feast, and another formal dinner while I’m to excel on all accounts, which is naturally impossible.

Grandmother resents the sportive break in showing me off to Mother’s and Father’s business connections in finance and industry, as I resent missing the team’s more outgoing after-match events. There were …the parties in our lake house but they grew rare since last year, like so much. Formal dinners aren’t what they used to be when hardly anyone besides the most loyal friends attend anymore, and even the brunch is make belief the Samos shipyard isn’t in decline.

Sofía and Grandmother are the worst at it, treating brunch and dinner like a family tradition when it’s always only revolved about the prestige they could reap from the family’s success, having never been their own, but always swept up in the gearing of a company that exclusively demanded from, but not encouraged them.

All they see is more reason for “networking”, as Grandmother, Sofía and my parents call their matchmaking, when my college fund was depleted for my brother and the company, as if they weren’t the ones who decided Tolly is more likely to save the company instead of giving me the chance.

Once more checking my straps, one more breathe before I break into a run. I grind my teeth for the first minute until I get used to the cold and the pace. I endure it, as I endure the stress at home. I welcome the first as a distraction from the latter.

I can’t help resenting the company, can’t ignore my aversion to ever work for it. It is not my brother who I’ll always love more that envy, though nowadays I’m almost glad when he doesn’t come to visit and I suffer our family’s reminiscences of our better times alone. He’s expected to present his efforts at connecting in college which means bringing at potential date for me.

Of course, they never call it that, as if my future lies in marriage, certainly not so soon, but what options do I have when Father won’t give both of us a company to rule? I hear Sofía’s voice and want to scream but the exertion does the job of numbing my anger just as well. Pretending must run in my blood, as Grandmother can also very well feign ignorance if I simply allude to the truth of my romantic intentions.

At least Tolly showed his instincts when such a setup couldn’t be avoided, presenting friends not any more interested in “economically advantageous relationships” than me.

Moments like that remind me how close I’ve always been to Tolly, smiles and eye-rolls our secret language. Without him, I have no ally when I can’t keep a straight face as Father rants about Lesbos and greek politics once more.

Tolly played soccer with me first, passing me the ball I never let go of. We both joined clubs, he for fun and friends, me for passion. And ever-growing ambition.

With our money gone, I’ll need a sports scholarship to study and later get a prestigious job, like a proper Samos. Or I give a fuck about the crumbles of our past glory and seek it by becoming a totally unladylike soccer pro.

Imagining my family’s faces at that news first lets me giggle, then stumble in my tracks, just for a second. If the idea hasn’t been growing more and more serious lately, I would’ve burst out laughing.

Elane certainly would’ve, her chirp-like giggling my favourite melody. The memories of her are those I hold dear, where Father dreams of vanished successes. Hallucinations both.

I take in the sight of the prism of sunrise and wish Elane was still with me. She hated my routine, both for the early hour and the work-out itself, but she’d drive with me one town away from home nonetheless, up to the parking lot before we separate so she could wait for me in a bakery-café, sipping hot chocolate until I was done and could join her for breakfast.

Our only dates not in the dead of night in her garden and yet as much out of sight.

In my now loveless days with her in boarding school in paradise – Finland – I can only imagine the feel of her hand, my hand tracing along her spine. There’s just me, the crisp morning, and the performances ahead of me.

Catching my breath, I finish my lap at my car and don’t want to drive home at all. I want to check on Barrow, my reluctant driving companion living in a village along the way, to invite her to jog with me, or her to invite me to her Sunday morning, to pick on me in her very own way, anything but to crouch back under the dead weight of expectations.

I need several more breaths before the illusions of escape vanish and my lungs relax. I lean back against the car. What a foolish notion – the weight has never left; I only need to wait for the afternoon to pick up Barrow for our match.

It can’t come soon enough, but it will come.

“Good to be alive but I hate my life” – I try to restrain from humming along to the song playing in my car, try to evade Barrow��s glances attempting to figure me out, my choice of music.

“Who can’t relate?”, she says with a shrug. A trace of a smile hides in her face as she settles in, stretching her legs and putting her ankle boots up to the dashboard. She fits there surprisingly well, thanks to her short stature. I faux-glare at her, long used to this display. I can’t refuse her the repose, not when I can hardly find the words when once more, I try to unravel the familiar secret of her perfume.

I could ask, but never do. I could tell so such but stay silent. I keep on pretending yet also want her to see me. It’s tiring to no end and still each small but true guess elates me.

Barrow, on the other hand, remains unknowable to me with her eternal frown. If my resting bitch face is noticed, for good or bad, it’ll always be inferior to Barrow’s. Perfection in its own way; perfection my eyes are ineluctably drawn to at every chance the traffic lets me.

I chew my lips at the next song, with its “love like a loaded gun”, to distract myself from brushing Mare’s hand as I use the hand brake. From laying my hand on her thigh. From –

I catch her gaze and avert it, my heart rushing as I rush back into traffic.

Barrow’s ever-apt perception didn’t miss it, of course not, the same perception that makes her so good a player she desires my position, my rank.

I can’t give it up, not when my future hangs from it, but – if she desired something else –

Foolish. Foolish. I’m sick with yearning from missing my ex-girlfriend and listening to sad sapphic songs that make me long to kiss any girl’s lips –

“Already know how to use me today, Captain?” Barrow breaks into my confusion and I don’t know if I want to thank or throttle her. Use me.

Good we’re just arriving at the club house. I lean back and flash her my widest grin. “I always know what to do with my team. Forgotten the tactic?”

Barrow isn’t intimidated. “Thought you’ve come up with something better by now.”

“Dream on, Nightmare. I’m still the number 10.”

She sighs dramatically. “Too bad I’m an 11.” And then she – we – burst out laughing, our sound both harmonious and discordant, different from Elane and me, but as engrossing. Even when the laughter dies down, the mood lingers and I touch her brown hand before I can stop myself.

“Want to come running with me next week?” I ask and don’t curse myself for it, for once.

She is silent. Ridiculously blinking for seconds as if it’s funny. “Weird way to ask for a date,” she blurts out.

Whatever we had for a few seconds is gone. “Are you fucking joking?”, I spit, my voice low like a hiss.

Her mouth opens and closes, stunned quiet.

I can’t decide whether to berate her or scream at her as calmly explaining how terrible a joke it were is out of the question. “Are you fucking joking?!” I repeat, louder, and finally shame begins to bloom on her face.

If only she took me seriously, she could know it to be true. And yet – how can saying the truth out loud feel so disrespectful? I wish, I wish –

“Gimme a minute,” I mutter and storm out of the car.

I am truly a coward. I don’t speak to her until the match begins.

@lilyharvord @mareshmallow @elliemarchetti @samanthaslytherin @redqueenetwork @farleydiana

#red queen #red queen fan fiction #red queen fanfiction #evangeline samos #mare barrow #mare x evangeline #evane #evare #pvris #there's also a subtle note to austra #modern au #nightmare (affectionately) part 1 #red queen secret santa #rqss20 #rq secret santa 2020 #secret santa

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gogmstuff · 1 year

Photo

1770s dress -

Top 1770 Marie-Suzanne Giroust (1734-1772), wife of Alexander Roslin by Alexander Roslin (location ?). From tumblr.com/lenkaastrelenkaa 2048X2616.

Second row 1774 Hedvig Elisabeth Charlotta by Alexander Roslin (Nationalmuseum - Stockholm, Sweden). From Wikimedia.

Third row left 1770s Lady by Alexander Roslin (location ?). From tumblr.com/silverfoxstole; fixes spots & some cracks w Pshop 2048X2576.

Third row right 1777 Jeune femme de qualite by Jean Laurent Mosnier (auctioned by Christie's). From invaluable.com-auction-lot-jean-laurent-mosnier-paris-1743-1744-1808-saint-p-67-c-9e67941402 3157X3164. An early appearance for a zone bodice.

Fourth row left 1779 Adrienne Sophie, Marquise de Montesson by A. St. Aubin. From invaluable.com 2531X3548.

Fourth row right 1779 Louise Emilie, Baroness of Andlau by A. Saint-Aubin. From invalueable.com 22528X3536.

Fifth row 1779 Varvara Golytsyna by Dmitry Grigoryevich Levitsky (auctioned by Sotheby's). From Wikimedia; exposure +15% contrast -20% 1561X2000.

Sixth row ca. 1775 Duc de Choiseul, his mistress, the Comtesse de Brionne and the Abbé Barthélmy (Getty Museum - Los Angeles, California, USA). From the Google Art Project; increased exposure 981X782.

Seventh row Antonio Ghidini and his family by Pietro Melchiorre Ferrari (Labirinto della Masone - ). From tumblr.com/history-of-fashion 2048X2833.

#1770s fashion #Louis XV fashion #LouisXVI fashion #Georgian fashion #straight hair #bows en echelle #Alexander Roslin #hair jewelry #hair feathers #high coiffure #large curl coiffure #hair ribbon #A. St. Aubin #hat #Dmitry Grigoryevich Levitsky #fur trimming #Pietro Melchiorre Ferrari #floral headdress

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chic-a-gigot · 5 months

Text

Cover details.

La Mode nationale, no. 47, 27 novembre 1897, Paris. No. 1. — Coiffures de jeunes femmes. Modèles de la Maison Lenthéric, 245, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) La coiffure de jeune dame que représente notre dessin peut être exécutée par la personne même.

On séparera d'abord les cheveux d'une oreille à l'autre en les ramenant en avant pour placer un léger crépon, afin de soulever un peu le devant; et on épinglera les pointes sur la petite natte qui sert de fondation.

On relèvera ensuite mollement les cheveux de la nuque, gu'on épinglera sur le point d'appui.

On posera alors derrière le nouveau peigne le grand carré, genre empire, dernière création de Lenthéric. Ce peigne, d'une allure des plus élégantes, soutient les cheveux, qui reposent dessus en détordant. Il doit être posé légèrement incliné en arrière afin de couper la ligne de la nuque, que dans toutes ses coiffures Lenthéric essaye d'atténuer autant que possible en diminuant la distance du bas de la nuque au chignon.

Le devant sera agrémenté de trois petites coques superposées et deux de côté.

Cette coiffure, très coquette, peut se faire de même avec le chignon zénith, autre création toute récente de Lenthéric.

(1) The young lady's hairstyle represented in our drawing can be done by the person themselves.

We will first separate the hair from one ear to the other, bringing it forward to place a light crepe, in order to lift the front a little; and we will pin the points on the small mat which serves as a foundation.

We will then gently raise the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it to the point of support.

We will then place behind the new comb the large square, empire style, Lenthéric's latest creation. This comb, with a most elegant appearance, supports the hair, which rests on it while untwisting. It must be placed slightly tilted back in order to cut the line of the nape, which in all his hairstyles Lenthéric tries to attenuate as much as possible by reducing the distance from the bottom of the nape to the bun.

The front will be decorated with three small shells one above the other and two on the side.

This very flirtatious hairstyle can be done in the same way with the zénith bun, another very recent creation by Lenthéric.

—

(2) Cette coiffure très simple se fait avec les cheveux mêmes de la dame, sans postiche.

Les cheveux de la nuque sont légèrement tournés de gauche à droite afin d'éviter de les relever en racine droite.

Le chignon se fait en prenant les cheveux tous ensemble, en les tordant mollement et en les épinglant pas trop haut sur le dessus de la tête.

Le devant se frise légèrement, surtout pour les personnes ayant les cheveux courts.

On fait ensuite deux coques en arrière et une petite boucle de chaque côté du front.

Une bonne exécution donne une coiffure des plus seyantes, qui peut se faire également avec le nœud néo-gordien pour le chignon et le néréide pour le devant.

(2) This very simple hairstyle is done with the lady's own hair, without a hairpiece.

The hair at the nape of the neck is turned slightly from left to right to avoid raising it at the right root.

The bun is done by taking the hair all together, twisting it loosely and pinning it not too high on the top of the head.

The front curls slightly, especially for people with short hair.

We then make two shells at the back and a small loop on each side of the front.

Good execution gives a most becoming hairstyle, which can also be done with the neo-Gordian knot for the bun and the néréide for the front.

#La Mode nationale #19th century #1890s #1897 #on this day #November 27 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #cover #color #detail #description #bibliothèque nationale de france #dress #hair #collar #Modèles de chez #Maison Lenthéric

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mostlydeadlanguages · 5 years

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“This Is Jezebel” (a story)

And now for something different.

This is not a translation. You can call it midrash or fan fiction. I’ve been writing a chapter about Queen Jezebel and her death for my dissertation, and this was my way of dignifying her death without rewriting it, while giving a voice to some of the only canonically queer characters in the Bible.

I hope you enjoy it.

When Jehu came to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; she painted her eyes, and adorned her head, and looked out of the window.

As Jehu entered the gate, she said, “Is it peace, Zimri, murderer of your master?” He looked up to the window and said, “Who is on my side? Who?” Two or three eunuchs looked out at him. He said, “Throw her down.” So they threw her down; some of her blood spattered on the wall and on the horses, which trampled on her. Then he went in and ate and drank; he said, “See to that cursed woman and bury her; for she is a king’s daughter.” But when they went to bury her, they found no more of her than the skull and the feet and the palms of her hands. When they came back and told him, he said, “This is the word of the LORD, which he spoke by his servant Elijah the Tishbite, ‘In the territory of Jezreel the dogs shall eat the flesh of Jezebel; the corpse of Jezebel shall be like dung on the field in the territory of Jezreel, so that no one can say, This is Jezebel.’” — 2 Kings 9:30-37, NRSV

"There are three ways that this can go,” she says, “and all of them end with my death."

I shake my head, fingers clenching around the pot of kohl. "You don't know that. Perhaps he will—" My voice fails.

"There are three ways that this can go," the queen repeats. "And give me that brush. Today, I want to do my makeup myself."

I hand her the small brush mutely, glancing at the others to see if they have a better response to her words. They avoid my gaze.

With hands that do not tremble, despite her age, the queen dips the brush into the pot and begins to apply it around her eyes, peering at herself in a gleaming bronze mirror. "In the first path," she continues, "I give him what he wants. I invite him in and serve him platters of fatted lambs, spiced pheasants, and soft bread baked from fine-sieved flour. I tell him that I will not stand in his way, that I wish only to live out my life in obscurity. And then I die, by poison or dagger, because he will not permit a reminder of Omri's legacy to live. Don't lie to me; I know you've heard the rallying cries. 'Remember Naboth!' As if any of them had cared about the farmer when he lived."

As her voice rises, a small twitch mars the smooth curves of kohl that line her eyes. Carefully, she dabs it away and takes a deep breath. "I refuse. I will not share bread with the man who slaughtered my son. So then there is the second option — we fight. My soldiers are loyal to me, and I know that even you can wield a dagger. We cannot win against Jehu's army, but we could make them pay for their victory.” A deep breath. “But what then? I die, and you die as well, all for the pride of an old woman who refused to bow to her destiny." She shakes her head. "My friends, I love you — all of you — too dearly to let you die as Joram did."

"We would, though," I say bravely.

To be fair, I am not sure whether I believe myself; Jezebel is a generous mistress, but I am rather attached to my own continued life. Still, my statement pleases her, and she smiles wryly, handing back the kohl brush. "You humor an old woman." Before I can protest that she is not old yet, she continues, "Now give me my comb. My hair must be flawless."

I do so, then bring over the tub of thick, dark hair oil. The actions are so familiar that I can almost forget the pall that lies over the palace, the way that all of us stiffen every time we hear hoofbeats in the distance. Jehu is coming, we all know — but he is not here yet.

Jezebel combs the oil into her hair, molding it into a shimmering black coiffure. Normally, we would help her braid and pin the strands into place, but she waves away our hands. "Now then. The third path. If my death is swift and unequivocal — if you help Jehu overthrow me — then you will have proved your value to him, and he may let you live for it. You are not Ahab's kin; you are not among the prophets of Baal or Asherah. He will suspect you of divided loyalty, of course, but that is why you must act against me where everyone can see."

"You're asking us to —" The words die in my throat.

"To kill me. Yes. Only that will prove your loyalty beyond doubt."

I shudder. I remember little before I joined the lavish court of Ahab and Jezebel — first as a young serving boy, then as a eunuch in her service — and I cannot recall ever killing anything larger than an insect. I imagine running a dagger across her neck, and bile rises in my throat.

Everyone else in the room has abandoned even the pretext of not listening to our conversation. Their eyes are as wide as mine, their cheeks as pale with fear.

"I command you this, as your queen," Jezebel says firmly. "If I cannot avoid my own death — and who can, in the end? — then I will choose its nature. You are my dearest friends, my truest allies. Let your hands be my final touch." She nods at the large window across the room, where a wooden lattice provides privacy while letting through the afternoon breeze. "Move the lattice. I will greet Jehu from here, and he will see you behind me, around me, and think me vulnerable. He will tell you what to do."

At first, no one moves. "Must I order you a second time?" she snaps, and two of the other eunuchs hurry to lift the lattice away. Jezebel nods, satisfied. "One thing more."

"Anything, my queen," I hasten to reply.

Her voice, now, is quieter. In another woman, I might even call it vulnerable. "Tell my story. I will have no stele to preserve my name for the generations; I will have no songs to retell my deeds. But tell others that I painted my own eyes and faced my own end, fierce as Anat and beautiful as Asherah. Tell them that I refused to bow."

"We will," I say. My eyes are damp; were I a man, I would be ashamed. But I am no man, and I let the tears blur my vision and fall down my cheek.

"Enough of that," she says briskly. "Now, I am ready to face my end, and Jehu still tarries on his path. So seat yourself and tell me a story. Perhaps of the young guard you mentioned?"

I smile, only slightly forced, and take my seat beside her. The queen has sharp eyes, and she noticed weeks ago that I had a fondness for one of the newer guards at court, a young man from Dothan with the most beautiful smile. So I launch into a story — only slightly embellished — of a night walk in the gardens. I tell of plying the lad with increasingly overt invitations, all while dodging other denizens of the garden, only to have the innocent village boy misunderstand my intent entirely.

The ribald humor hits its target, and soon Jezebel is laughing at each implausible twist. I have nearly run out of anecdotes when I hear the rumble of incoming horse hooves — not just one messenger, or one caravan, but a full army of riders. My words trail off, but the light in Jezebel's eyes is resolute. "Remember," she says, "I wish to feel your hands, not his. Never his."

Then she rises from her chair and walks over to the window, robed in purple and gold, ageless and fearless. When the riders halt at the base of the palace, one of their company pulls forward, and I recognize Jehu, despite the layered dust and blood that cakes on him.

"Be strong," Jezebel murmurs, then raises her voice to project into the courtyard. "Do you come in peace?" she calls out, lips curled with irony.

I step forward to stand at her side, and I gird myself for what I must do.

#not a translation #midrash #biblical fiction #jezebel #fiction #queen jezebel

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michellesartjournal · 4 years

Text

Black Hairstroy

Historically many cultures in continental Africa developed hairstyles that defined status, identity, age, ethnicity, wealth and ranking. Even religion to death hair had a big part in the culture. Carefully groomed in significant part of community life cleaned and made neat groomed hair was highly admired and sought after possessing unique style skills was a admired treat for females. It allowed for creativity and versatility.In many cultures communal grooming was a social event women used to strengthen bonds sessions would include washing, boiling, combing, braiding, twisting and adding ornaments.

African civilization had variety of different hairstyles.A lot of person still wearing, inspiring ancient African hairstyles in the world. They had symbolic hairstyles because of tribal traditions. Hairstyles in Africa and among African Americans are ever-changing, yet deeply rooted in a shared past.

Then came slavery, they had to adapt and experiment with the ways they styled their hair, they had to find new ways of managing their hair under the circumstances or forced to wear wigs, mimicking their masters hair or cut it off and cover their heads hair products would include using cooking grease and women would sometimes use hot butter knives to curl or straighten their hair. The slave trade not only inflicted physical damage, but it also left emotional and psychological scars. The most devastating scar, that is still reflected today, is that done to the slave’s self-image. This is especially true as it relates to hair and skin color. As they both became the framework for determining race.

Serpa Pinto, Alexandre Alberto Da Rocha De, 1846-1900, artist

Source Title: History of Mankind, by Friedrich Ratzel, translated from the second German edition by A. J. Butler, with an introduction by E. B. Tylor, Publisher: New York: Macmillan, 1896-1898.

Social significance

“In the early fifteenth century, hair served as a carrier of messages in most West African societies” (Tharps and Byrd 2001) These Africans--citizens from the Mende, Wolof, Yoruba, and Mandingo—were all transported to the “New World” on slave ships. Within these communities, hair often communicated age, marital status, ethnic identity, religion, wealth, and rank in the community. Hairstyles could also be used to identify a geographic region. For example, in the Wolof culture of Senegal, young girls partially shaved their hair as an outward symbol that they were not courting. “And the Karamo people of Nigeria, for example, were recognized for their unique coiffure—a shaved head with a single tuft of hair left on top.” Likewise, widowed women would stop attending to their hair during their period of mourning so they wouldn’t look attractive to other men. And as far as community leaders were concerned, they donned elaborate hairstyles. And the royalty would often wear a hat or headpiece, as a symbol of their stature.

Spirtual Significance

Just as hair was elevated for social and aesthetic reasons, its spiritual connection also served to heighten its significance. Many Africans believed the hair a way to communicate with the Divine Being. They believed the hair is the most elevated point of your body, which means it is the closest to the divineness. Consequently, many thought communication passed through the hair. Many believed a single strand of hair could be used to cast spells or inflict harm. This explains why hairdressers held and still hold prominent positions in the community. For those who do not know, styling and grooming black hair is often complicated and time consuming. This time spent at the hairdresser often results in close bonds between the stylist and the client. It is important to note that “unstyled" and unkempt hair was largely unseen, as were scarves and "headwraps.” Therefore, one can conclude that the hair was not meant to be covered.

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noona-clock · 5 years

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Confusion & Coincidences

Genre: Regency!AU

Pairing: Yongguk x You

By Admin B

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

The very first line in your book, and you already had to put it down. But not because you disliked it. Not in the least!

You had to put your book down because that particular line made a snort of laughter escape from your lips.

Rich men needed to get married, too, the author was declaring. And how right she was. It was certainly a universally acknowledged truth, though more specifically acknowledged by mothers of young, eligible ladies.

Such as your own mother.

In fact, the notion rang especially true tonight. You had just attended a ball earlier that evening, and... Well, it’s probably easier if you just read for yourself:

Around eight hours ago

“What did I tell you?” your mother scolded, grabbing the book from your hand and tossing it onto your bed. “No time for reading, you must get ready!”

“But, mama!” you cried with a slight pout and a furrowed brow. “It’s new! Just one page - please!”

The anonymous, female author of your recently deemed favorite book of all time, Sense & Sensibility, had just released a new novel. The moment you’d heard of its release this morning, you’d discreetly taken a horse from your family’s stables and ridden into London for the sole purpose of buying it.

You’d just returned not half an hour ago; your cheeks were still flushed from the whipping wind. The only thing you truly wanted to do right now was read it, but your mother, apparently, was not having it.

“Pride & Prejudice?” she asked with obvious confusion and disdain. “What kind of title for a book is that?”

It took every ounce of will you possessed not to roll your eyes at her comment. You loved your mother. Truly, you did. But the two of you were almost as different as two blood relations can be.

She loved to socialize and flirt and make a fool of herself and dance and embroider.

You loved to read and stay home and go outside and not socialize and not make a fool of yourself and not dance.

But, in this day and age, if you didn’t attend a town ball, you were practically nobody. And, while you preferred the company of your closest friend and your brother over the company of literally anyone else in town, you still didn’t want to be a nobody. You wanted to be at least a little bit of a somebody.

So even though you would much rather sit out this ball in favor of curling up next to the fire and reading what was sure to be another new favorite book of all time, you had resigned yourself to attending the ball tonight.

But, seriously?! You couldn’t even read one page?!

“You know that you shall never catch a husband by reading,” your mother reminded you for the fifty-millionth time. At least.

“Any husband I choose will actually like the fact that I read, mama,” you retorted. For the fifty-millionth time. At least.

As you expected, your mother didn’t reply. She simply called for one of your maids to start helping you get ready, and you knew you had to resign yourself to the fact that you did, indeed, have to get ready.

Just as your maid was sticking the last hairpin into your coiffure for the evening, you heard a delighted - but also somewhat horrified - shriek come from downstairs.

It could only be your mother. The two of you were the only females in the house, save for the maids, and none of them were known to be as loud and boisterous as your darling mama.

Not even ten seconds after you heard the shriek, rumbling footsteps rang through the air, and you braced yourself for your mother’s arrival in your bedroom.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear,” she gasped as she appeared in the doorway.

“What’s wrong now, mama?” you asked disinterestedly, studying the finished product that was your hair in the mirror.

“That dress will not do! You must - absolutely must - wear your green one.”

You turned in your chair to face her, clasping the seatback and throwing her a very odd expression. “What? My green one? Mama, that’s my best gown. This is just a normal, public ball. I don’t need to --”

“The Earl of Blackman!” she cried.

“...The Earl of Blackman. ...Right.” You tilted your head as your mother plucked your dress - the one you’d been prepared to wear - from your bed and scurried over to your dresser. “Who, exactly, is the Earl of Blackman?”

“He’s the cousin of Mr. Kim! The cousin!”

“Mama, you’ll have to be more specific.” You had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

“Himchan -- you know! Mr. Kim!”

You let out an exasperated sigh, waving a hand through the air to dismiss her explanation. “Yes, I know Himchan! But what’s so important about his cousin?!”

Himchan was a nice enough fellow. Attractive, too, but not necessarily your type. He was the type your mother would love to marry you off to, so naturally, you had no interest in matrimony with him.

Your mother paused and turned to face you. Her expression was one of extreme gravity, and she spoke the next words very carefully and clearly. “The Earl of Blackman, Mr. Kim’s cousin, will be at the ball tonight. He is not only one of the most eligible bachelors in the whole country but also one of the richest.”

Ah, now it made sense.

“So now you understand why you must wear your green gown. Oh, it does complement your coloring so beautifully.” She whisked the dress out of your dresser, holding it up in the air and nodding at your maid to come and fetch it.

Any attempt to dissuade your mother from this notion would fall extremely flat, so you didn’t even bother. Once she set her mind to something there was absolutely no stopping her until she accomplished it. So you simply stood and reached out to hold onto your maid’s shoulder as you stepped into the gown.

You very highly doubted a dress would help you win a husband, but if your mother insisted...

Besides. It really did complement your coloring beautifully.

“Do you see him?” your mother murmured, clutching your father’s sleeve as you followed behind them, your hand resting lightly in the crook of your brother’s elbow.

“See who, dear?”

“Why, the Earl, of course,” she hissed in reply. “Oh, what an odious man you are. Really.”

Your brother snorted out a laugh, and you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing yourself.

Your mother whipped her head around and shot the two of you a glare. “This is not a laughing matter.”

Your gaze shifted guiltily down to the floor. “Sorry, mama,” you murmured to appease her. But when she turned back around, you shared an amused glance with your brother.

Just then, a very large gathering of mostly young ladies caught your eye, your eyebrows raising at the sight.

“Mama,” you called out over the din of music and conversation. “I believe I’ve found him.”

“Found who, dear?” your father queried.

Your mother promptly slapped his arm, her forehead wrinkled in frustration.

“Over there,” you chuckled as you nodded to the crowd. “Where all the other single young ladies are.”

Before you knew it, your mother had grabbed your wrist and was weaving through all of your fellow ball attendees, leading you over to meet who she thought was your future husband.

She fidgeted and hummed and fixed your hair as you waited, the throng of people surrounding Mr. Kim and the Earl getting smaller as the minutes ticked by. You kept hearing murmurs of how unpleasant and unfriendly he was, but you figured the young ladies were simply bitter he hadn’t asked them to dance.

When the people in front of you stepped to the side, your eyes first landed on Mr. Kim. He was a friendly sort, probably the friendliest man in town, and he always seemed to have a smile on his face. Tonight was no exception, and his grin even grew when he saw you.

“Miss Y/N,” he greeted, bowing his head as you dipped into a small curtsy. “What a pleasure! May I introduce my cousin, the Earl of Blackman?”

He gestured to the man standing next to him, and you shifted your gaze to actually look at the Earl.

...Oh.

Well, you can certainly understand why someone would think he’s unfriendly. The expression on his face was quite grim, but the face itself was...

Extremely handsome.

Extremely.

Just the sight of him left you just a bit breathless, but as you pulled your lips into a small, somewhat shy smile, he simply returned it with a perfunctory bow of his head.

Nothing more.

Just a little nod. No smile, no smirk, no murmur. Nothing.

It was very clear he didn’t want to be here, and you could only assume it was because he was exceedingly rich and more used to finer balls than this one.

So you sidled away, almost immediately hearing your mother’s grumbles in your ear.

“Why, I never -- in all my years -- never met someone so uncivil -- not even a ‘how do you do?’ -- dear me!”

Wait, hold on a minute.

You shook your head a little before rereading the last paragraph in your book. You had to make sure you were actually reading the story and not remembering what had happened at the ball this evening.

But... no.

This Mr. Darcy character seemed just as handsome and just as snobby as the Earl of Blackman. And the heroine, Elizabeth, had also met him at a ball.

What a coincidence.

Anyway. Back to our story.

After finding your closest friend, Alice, and wandering away from your family, you couldn’t help but gossip about this mysterious new guest. He hadn’t said anything when she’d met him either, so you at least didn’t feel singled out by his rudeness.

The two of you kept an eye on him almost the whole evening, wondering when - or even if - he would ask someone to dance with him.

But he never did. He simply stood there, surveying the room with the same aloof, unapproachable expression on his otherworldly face.

I mean, you couldn’t judge him that much because you chose not to dance, either. But... still. It was very obvious that more than two handfuls of ladies in the room were eager to dance with him. It was only polite to ask at least one.

By the end of the evening, after almost four hours, you were more than ready to go home. The Earl had left already, and Alice was currently dancing so you’d been left to your own devices. And you were bored. You wanted to go home and read, for heaven’s sake!

When your mother appeared at your side and announced your family’s departure, you almost hugged her. But, to be quite honest, it was far too late, and you were beginning to get extremely tired.

Not too tired to read, of course, but just tired enough to hold back from showing any outward excitement to be leaving the ball.

“I daresay, I’ve never met anyone as disagreeable as that Earl,” your mother yawned once all four of you were situated in your family’s carriage, bouncing along down the road. Unlike yourself, your mother was tired because she’d been gossiping and flitting around and dancing the whole night. While you were mentally tired, she was physically tired.

“Well, he didn’t know anyone there besides his cousin,” your brother pointed out in that diplomatic way of his.

“But that’s the point of a ball!” your mother retorted. “To socialize and meet people! Your sister will never find a husband at this rate!”

“Mama! Please, it’s too late,” you whined. The only thing you wanted was to get home, curl up in bed, and begin reading your book. You really didn’t think you could stand anymore talk of husbands, especially coming from your mother.

“You’re right about that, my darling girl,” she countered with pursed lips. “It is getting too late. If you don’t snatch a husband soon, you’ll end up an old maid like your Aunt.”

“That sounds delightful,” you sighed. “And even if I were getting married, it certainly wouldn’t be to the Earl of Blackman.”

“Oh, dear, no. I rid myself of that notion right after we met him. I would never want such a sour, mirthless man for a son-in-law.”

Good. At least you didn’t have to worry about that any longer.

The only thing you truly had to worry about was falling asleep before you could finish the first chapter of your book. The Earl of Blackman was the furthest thing from your mind, and you imagined he always would be.

Part 2

#bap #bap scenarios #bap imagines #bap au #bap fluff #bap fanfic #yongguk #bang yongguk #yongguk scenarios #yongguk imagines #yongguk au #yongguk fanfic #kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop fluff #kpop fanfic #kpop pride and prejudice

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sushigirlali · 5 years

Text

The Politics of Dancing - Part IV (Reylo Fanfic)

Art by: @afterblossom

——————

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV

Summary: Ben has known Rey most of her life, but when things change between them one tumultuous night, can he convince her that they have a future? Or will secret legacies, scheming parents, and fetching suitors get in the way?

Parings: Rey + Ben Solo|Kylo Ren, Finn + Rose Tico

Continuity: Regency AU

Rating: E

A/N: With my busy schedule, it's a constant battle to find time to write, so thanks for sticking with me! As a reward, this final chapter is super long! Happy reading!

Master list –> AO3 | ff.net | Tumblr

——————

The Politics of Dancing - Part IV

By: sushigirlali

——————

London, December 1818

——————

With Rey's shout still reverberating in his ears, Ben could only gape at his father, too stunned to respond. "How is this happening?! I locked the door when we...when...oh, blast! I forgot to lock the damn door! I was too busy trying to get into Rey's knickers to think about anything else!" Mentally berating himself for being so stupid, Ben no longer wondered whether hell was real. "This is a nightmare!"

"Maybe you should cover up, or…?" Han continued after a pregnant pause, looking unnerved by Ben's blank-eyed stare.

"Ben!" Rey hissed when he continued to sit idle. "Ben, do something!"

Taking in his lover's flushed cheeks, Ben belatedly pulled the coverlet up from where it was crumpled at the foot of the bed. Settling back against the headboard with Rey curled into his side, he wrapped the blanket around them both, shielding their naked bodies from view.

"That's better," Han nodded. "Wouldn't want to shock your mother and uncle any more than necessary."

"Han," Leia said warningly. "Not now."

"What?" he said innocently.

"Don't you 'What?' me!" she glared. "Stop trying to distract from the seriousness of the situation! Our son and niece are-are fraternizing with each other and-!"

"Now, now, wife," Han interrupted before she could really get going, "we don't know all the facts yet. I'm sure there's a perfectly logical reason why they're in bed together." Leia sent Han a withering look. "Or maybe not. Son?"

"Yes, father?" Ben said tightly.

"Care to explain yourself?"

"No, father."

Han redirected his question. "Rey, how about you? Anything to say?"

Rey shook her head, eyeing Luke with a mixture of fear and concern. The old hermit had yet to speak, but the tense set of his jaw spoke volumes. Ben threw a protective arm around her, hoping to impart some measure of comfort.

"Then we can only conclude that the two of you are involved in some sort of illicit affair," his father said calmly. Despite the heavy implications of his words, Han seemed generally unperturbed by the notion.

"Excuse me?" Ben said incredulously. "You don't know the first thing about our relationship!"

"So, you are in a relationship then?" Han baited.

"Of course we are!" Ben shouted.

"Ben, don't-" Rey tried.

"Not that it's any of your damned business, old man, but we're in love! Does that assuage your sudden sense of honor? Or, were you hoping for a reason to throw me out on my ear and disinherit me?" he charged.

Han flashed him a toothy grin. "Are those my only options?"

"Oh, go to hell!"

"Benjamin Solo!" his mother reprimanded. "I hardly think you're the one who gets to be indignant under the circumstances!"

"I'm sorry, but did I break into your boudoir?" Ben sputtered.

Leia cleared her throat. "We did try knocking first."

"Not loudly enough," he said obstinately. "How did you expect this little intervention to go, anyway? Did you really think that we-ouch!" Ben grunted as Rey's elbow made contact with his ribs. "Rey? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she smiled, caressing the side of his stubborn face, "you don't need to defend me."

"I do," he whispered, capturing her small hand in his and carrying her knuckles to his lips. "I can't stand for you to be hurt."

"I know." Her cheeks were still stained with embarrassment, but she seemed to have regained her composure. "But there's no need to fight, my love."

"Isn't there?"

"No," she laughed. "Just tell them our news, Ben." Rey lowered her voice. "Then maybe they'll go away."

Realizing she was right, that he was arguing just to argue, Ben's combative posture abated. Rey was everything to him, so why prolong the inevitable? "We're engaged," he announced without preamble.

"Engaged?" Leia gasped, clapping her hands together. "How wonderful!"

"Wonderful?" Han did a double take. "But you just said-!"

"Our son is to be married at long last, husband, isn't that amazing?" Leia said sharply.

"I-ah-yes, my dear," he replied, clearly surprised by his wife's change in attitude. "Luke, you're awfully quiet. How do you feel about all this?"

Rey stiffened as Luke moved forward. "I'm glad that you're committed to each other, but this was not well done. By either of you."

"I-I won't say I'm sorry, father, but only hope that you can understand," Rey said slowly. "I love him."

"And I love her," Ben said, but he wasn't looking at Luke. Staring into Rey's bright eyes, Ben was startled when his mother sat down on the end of the bed.

"As happy as I am to hear that you're planning to settle down, there's something we need to tell you," she started.

"Is that something the fact that Uncle Luke has written me out of his will?" Ben queried. "Because if so, I'm already aware and I don't care."

"You're not angry?" Leia said anxiously. "About losing the Skywalker fortune?"

"I'm still going to inherit the Solo estate, aren't I? What the hell do I need two fortunes for?" he said dismissively.

"Oh, Ben," Leia smiled. She moved to hug him before thinking better about it. "Actually, no, I think I'll wait to hug you when you come downstairs to announce your engagement."

"Mother-!"

"I don't want to hear any objections from you," she shot at him, standing up again. "Rey deserves to be treated like a lady, not some harlot you picked up on the side of the road. You will clean yourselves up right this instant and rejoin the party."

"But-!"

"Son," Han grinned, "you may be all grown up, but never forget that your mother is always right."

"Right," Ben sighed. "Rey, is this okay with you?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "I think so. Now that everything is settled between us, I want everyone to know you're mine."

Ben's eyes flared at her possessive words, but he managed to answer, "Alright," without his voice quavering.

"I believe we should take our leave then," Luke said solemnly, moving to the door. "Please present yourselves downstairs within the hour."

"And no funny business!" Han warned them. "Or we'll send Uncle Chewy up next with his crossbow."

"See, I told you I would find a way to get our Ben hitched!" Leia added in a stage whisper as she followed her husband and brother out the door.

"I don't think you can reasonably take credit for the unanticipated direction of our son's love life, my dear," Han said dryly in the hall.

"Sure I can," Leia insisted as the door snapped shut once again, "and I'd like to see you try and stop me!"

——————

Shimming into her crinkled shift, Rey did her best to smooth out the creases. "Oh, what does it matter? It's not like anyone will see it under my dress," she thought, giving the exercise up for a bad job.

Pulling a clean washcloth from her dresser drawer, Rey scrubbed her face clean, not bothering to reapply any makeup. After making love with Ben and the embarrassing interrogation that had followed, it wouldn't surprise her if her cheeks were permanently pink.

"We don't have to go down, you know," Ben offered as he pulled his trousers back on. "We could just escape out the servant's entrance and elope in the country."

"I'm sure that would go over well," she snorted, sitting down at her dressing table to fix up her hair. Rey met Ben's eyes in the mirror as he came up behind her. "You know they'd just come after us. Leia especially."

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said, stalling her hands. "Now that mother knows we're getting married, I doubt we'll have a moment's peace until the deed is done."

"Without a doubt," she agreed. "What are you doing?" she added curiously, watching as he made quick work of the pins holding her coiffure in place.

"Your hair."

"Do you know how?"

"You can ask me that knowing who my mother is?" he tutted, reaching for her brush.

Rey inclined her head. "Touché."

"Hey, don't move, I'm working here!" Ben said with mock offense.

"So sorry, my lord," she played along. "It won't happen again."

They spent the next few minutes in companable silence, Rey sighing contentedly as Ben ran his large hands through her chestnut locks, separating it into equal sections. "He really seems to know what he's doing," she mused as he set her hair to rights.

"I think I could get used to this," she murmured out loud, leaning into his nimble fingers.

"Don't fall asleep now," he teased, "we wouldn't want to dally."

"Of course not," she returned, catching the reflection of his genuine smile. "Happy?"

"I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest," he admitted, pausing to rub her shoulders. "It felt my whole life was up in the air yesterday, but now…"

Rey covered his hand and smiled in understanding. "Me too."

Ben's dark gaze clung to hers for a space of seconds, then, "You say the word and I'll throw you over my shoulder and make a mad dash for the nearest carriage."

"Oh, Ben." He sounded so serious she couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"It wasn't that funny," he said sullenly, picking up her discarded hair pins as tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks. "How do you want it styled? The same?"

Dabbing her eyes with the edge of her white chemise while the venerable Lord Ren played the maid, Rey knew without a doubt that being married to Ben Solo would be anything but boring. "Whatever style you'd like; I trust you."

——————

Less than an hour later, Rey and Ben meandered back downstairs, relieved when no one seemed to notice their reentry to the party.

Well, almost no one.

"Ben! Rey!" Leia hissed from her usual perch. "Get over here."

"Is escaping still an option?" Rey queried, grasping Ben's hand for support.

"You had your chance," he reminded her.

"I suddenly see the wisdom behind your suggestion," she said, pulling him forward with a forced smile. "Forgive me for laughing at you."

"Of course," he replied silkily, "I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me tonight."

Rey shivered at the sensual promise in his tone. "Now I'm really sorry we didn't leave earlier."

"I'm mollified, then," he chuckled.

"Took you long enough," Leia said once they reached her side. "I was beginning to think you'd run off."

"Surely not," Rey smiled, sidestepping her suspicions. "Do you like my hair?" Her dark locks were braided around her head like a crown, studded with jeweled pins and flowers.

"It looks lovely, dear." Scooting over on her red chaise, Leia indicated for them to sit with her. As big as Ben was, it was a tight fit. "Did Ben do it for you?"

"Yes," Rey affirmed. "You taught him well."

"I did, didn't I?" Leia said proudly.

"So, what's the plan, mother?" Ben cut to the chase, laying a casual arm behind Rey.

"Plan? What makes you think I have a plan?"

"Right, I'm sure you've been simply enjoying the party for the last hour instead of finding ways to run our lives," he said drolly.

"If you must know," Leia harrumphed, "I asked Threepio to organize a cake-"

Ben sat up straighter. "Chocolate cake?"

"What?" Leia said, distracted. "Yes, of course, chocolate, we're not going to celebrate your engagement with vanilla."

"I like vanilla," Rey said idly, amused by their antics.

"You can have vanilla for the first christening, then," Leia said pointedly.

"Oh!" Rey blushed. "Umm..."

"That's enough, mother," Ben cut in. "So, when is the announcement supposed to take place? Before or after cake?"

"Before, obviously." Leia looked around. "Ah, there's your father. I asked him to pick out a ring for you to give your bride."

"Mother!" Ben protested. "We don't need-"

"If you think for one minute that I'm going to allow my niece to walk around without an engagement ring on her finger while staying in the same house as her fiancé, you've got another thing coming," Leia snapped.

"Well, that's just-" Ben blustered.

"Fine," Rey supplied. "It's fine. For now. We can go shopping for rings next week, Ben."

"Are you sure?" he frowned.

"Yes," she said easily, giving him a look that said, "Is this really the hill you want to die on?"

"Alright," he relented. "Whatever you want, sweetheart."

"Good!" Leia said approvingly. "Now that's settled…"

"Here you are, wife," Han said graciously, presenting her with three golden rings.

Leia took them and patted her husband's cheek. "You always did have good taste, my dear."

"Sure I do. I married you, didn't I?" Han said smoothly.

Bemused by their interaction, Rey mouthed, "That'll be us one day," to Ben. He half smiled, half grimaced in response, making her giggle.

"Rey?" Leia asked, catching her attention. "Which one would you like?"

"Oh, um…" Turning to inspect the offerings, Rey immediately zeroed in on an amethyst and diamond ring that formed a forget-me-not shape, with five circular purple "petals" surrounding a stunning colorless stone. "Wow," she breathed, touching the leaf pattern embossed into the sides.

"Excellent choice," Leia beamed. "This was my mother's ring."

"Oh! Well, I can pick another…"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"But, Leia…"

"But nothing!" she said firmly, handing the ring over to her son. "Ben, you know what to do."

"I do?" he said, nonplused.

Han whacked him upside the head. "Purpose properly, you scoundrel."

"Pot, kettle anyone?" Ben grumbled, shifting off the sofa and onto one knee.

"Ben, you don't have to—" Rey protested.

"Yes, he does," Luke said out of nowhere. "Nephew, proceed."

By now, several people had noticed that something important was going on with the Skywalker clan. Abandoning their drinks and stale conversation, the party guests formed a crowd around the small family.

"Rey Niima," Ben started a little nervously, his deep voice rolling over her like a wave, "I've known you for most of my life, for all of yours. I've watched you grow up from a precocious child into the accomplished young woman sitting before me today, and I couldn't be more proud or more in love."

Tears formed in her eyes as he reached for her left hand, carefully slipping Padmé's gorgeous ring onto her finger. Remarkably, it was a perfect fit.

"I promise to always be faithful and true, to give comfort when you're unwell, to be there for you when the children come, and to support you in all of your professional and educational aspirations." Ben brought the forget-me-not to his lips. "Rey," he breathed against her skin, "would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

Although he'd asked the question before, Rey was overwhelmed by his second proposal. "I-" she choked. "Ben, I-" Unable to say the words, she grasped his long face between her hands and pulled him into a soul-shattering kiss.

"I think we'll take that as an affirmative," Han laughed, slipping an arm around his wife as Rey and Ben became lost in their own little world. "Now, cake!"

——————

Setting aside the remnants of the decadent dark chocolate cake the kitchen staff had miraculously whipped up, Rey wondered whether Ben's arm was getting tired from shaking so many hands. He was taking the attention relatively well, but she could tell the wellwishers were starting to grate on his nerves. "I better go and save him before-"

"So, you and Lord Ren, huh?" Finn teased, sidling up beside her with two flutes of champagne.

"Not a word," she warned, accepting the sparkling liquid. "But, um, since we're on the subject"-she took a sip-"does everyone know what we were...doing up there?"

Finn raised a brow. "What were you doing up there?"

"I think you know," she said, crossing her arms. "Or do we need to revisit the time I walked in on you and Rose-"

"Okay, okay! I think I can make an educated guess!" he exclaimed before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "As for the rest of the party, well, let's just say that Han encouraged the orchestra to play very loudly."

"Oh goodness!" Rey worried her lip.

Finn paused for an extended moment before knocking his shoulder against hers. "Just kidding!" he teased. "These busybodies were much too focused on a certain Viscount and his mother to care."

"Poe?" she said with concern. "What happened?"

"A rather public disagreement," Finn informed her. "He returned shortly after you and Lord Ren absconded upstairs, and Lady Shara made a scene about him leaving your side during dinner. Obviously, she had her heart set on a match between you and her son."

"Oh, dear."

"Indeed."

Rey looked around. "Did he leave? I'd like to speak with him. I feel at least partly responsible for his unpleasant evening."

"No, Lady Shara left in a huff right after your engagement was announced, but Poe stayed." Finn nodded toward the refreshment table. "He's standing over there with Lady Maz and Lord Chewbacca."

"Oh! Good!" Rey raised her glass to gain Poe's attention. "Do you think he's angry with me for going off with Ben?"

"Of course not," Finn dismissed as Poe politely excused himself. "You see? He's coming over."

"That's a relief," Rey smiled as the young Viscount joined them.

"Friends," he said warmly, shaking Finn's hand and kissing Rey on the cheek. "I overheard Lord Ren's proposal, Rey. I had no idea he could be so loquacious! Congratulations, love."

"Thank you," she laughed, crinkling her nose. "To think, I was complaining about him only hours ago."

"Now that I didn't find surprising," Poe chuckled.

"Oh, haha," Rey mocked. "But enough about me, what about you? Finn told me what happened with Lady Shara."

"I'm fine," Poe said haltingly. "You know how my mother can be."

"I'm sorry if I-"

"Stop," he said kindly. "You've done nothing wrong. You're in love and I'm thrilled for you."

Rey nodded, realizing he wanted the topic dropped for now. "Thank you, Poe."

"You're welcome," he said sincerely. Then, grinning, "So, you and Lord Ren, huh?"

"Oh, you two!" Rey flushed, playfully swatting at her friends. "You're the worst kind of troublemakers!"

"I couldn't agree more," Ben joked, suddenly joining their group.

"Ben," Rey said warningly, "you promised."

"That I did," Ben sighed. "Dameron, Johnson," he said respectfully, nodding to each man in turn. Or, as respectfully as one could while looking like they had a bee in their bonnet. "Good evening."

"Solo," they acknowledged, following Ben's lead and using his much less formal surname.

An awkward silence fell as everyone waited for someone else to speak. "This is going well," Rey thought wryly. But just as she opened her mouth, Ben started giving their excuses.

"Right. Well. I appreciate you keeping my fiancé company," he said with a straight face, "but I must pull her away for a few moments. Uncle Luke has something he wishes to share we us." Ben paused, looking a little too pleased with himself. "A family matter, you understand."

"Certainly," Finn said courteously.

"If you must," Poe drawled.

"Right now?" Rey queried.

"Uh, yes," Ben confirmed, taking her half full flute and handing it to a passing waiter. "Come along, Rey. Uncle Luke musn't be kept waiting."

"Since when does Ben care about inconveniencing Luke?" Curious now, Rey looped her arm through Ben's as she bade her companions adieu, allowing him to steer her toward Luke's private study. "I wonder what father wants to talk about?"

——————

Ben was nervous. Luke hadn't specified what this-meeting? lecture?-was about when he'd tersely ordered, "You and Rey, my office, now," a few minutes ago. The old man was a curmudgeon to be sure, but his attitude since finding them together in flagrante delicto was starting to unsettle him.

Despite appearing to approve of their engagement, Ben was worried that he'd changed his mind. What if Luke forbade him from marrying his daughter? Would he be forced to challenge his own uncle over Rey's hand? The thought wasn't pleasing, but he would do anything to secure a future with the woman he loved.

"Ben?" Rey whispered once they were outside Luke's door. "Is everything okay?"

Relaxing his hold, Ben tried to calm down. "Yes, I'm just...I'm not sure what Luke is going to say."

"It won't matter," she reassured him.

"But what if-!"

"I'm nervous too," she admitted, turning to embrace him, "but nothing he says will change how I feel about you."

Ben buried his face in her hair, breathing in the flowery scent he always associated with her. "I know."

——————

Briskly knocking on the mahogany door, Rey jumped when Luke promptly opened it. "Was he pacing by the door?"

"Good, you're here. Come in, come in," Luke bade.

"Is everything alright?" she said quietly, noting the large cup of brandy sitting atop his desk as he ushered them inside.

"I'm not sure," Luke said enigmatically. He indicated the sapphire blue wingbacks stationed in front of his desk. "Please."

The chairs were close enough that Ben didn't have to release her hand as they sat, and given their brief conversation in the hall, she wasn't surprised when he didn't. "He's worried Luke will scorn our love, but that's not it. Something else is going on. I can feel it."

"The reason I've called you in here…that is to say...I just wanted to..." Luke broke off, taking a gulp of liquid courage before trying again. "Rey, I have something important to confess...well, maybe not confess so much as...umm..."

"Father, what's going on?" It was strange to see Luke so flustered.

"I'm not usually one to mince words," he said candidly, "but I fear what I have to say will turn you against me forever."

"Father, I'm sure-!"

"No, let me speak while I have the nerve," he said, stalling her interjection. "Rey, there's a piece of information about...about your parents that I've been keeping from you all these years."

Rey sat up straighter while Ben tensed beside her. "Are they alive?!" she demanded.

"No," Luke said hurriedly, "no, they're gone."

"Then what is it?" she asked, bracing herself for the truth.

"I asked my private investigator to confirm that their deaths were accidental, to ensure your safety, you see, but what he found was quite unsettling."

"Were they murdered?" she gasped.

Luke shook his head. "No, they weren't murdered," he assured her. "But although it was an accident, it was an accident of their own making."

"I don't understand."

"Simply put, Lord Niima liked to gamble and Lady Niima liked the finer things. So, by the time you were born, your parents were severely in debt to all the wrong sorts of people. They tried everything they could to get out of it, to give you the life you deserve, but...when the deal they made to sell off their holdings and repay their creditors fell through…"

"They set fire to their own facility," Rey whispered, deflating against the plush blue chair. "They left me," she thought numbly.

"There was an insurance policy they hoped to collect, I presume," Ben said woodenly. Rey felt him lift her hand to his lips, but she was too caught up in her own terrible thoughts to react.

"Yes, there was." Luke reached into a drawer and pulled out a dusty roll of parchment. "I've been keeping this for you until you were older, Rey."

"I can't believe they were so selfish. Luke would never take a chance so great knowing that he had me to look out for," Rey mused. "In fact, what do I even really know about my birth parents save for a few half-remembered dreams? They were never home, never played with me, or gave me comfort. They were nothing like Luke or the rest of the Skywalkers...they were nothing like my family…"

"What is it?" Ben inquired when Rey didn't respond.

"Lord Niima's will."

"They left her with nothing, didn't they?" Ben said angrily. "That's why you adopted her all those years ago, why you made her your heir."

"Yes," Luke acknowledged. "I couldn't let an innocent child be cast aside due to the fault of their parents or society's expectations."

"Certainly not," Ben agreed. "But what about the insurance money?" he said curiously. "Did the inspectors figure out who was responsible for starting the fire?"

"No, they ruled it a simple accident," Luke said solemnly, "and I didn't correct them."

"I'm surprised at you, uncle."

"It's true I don't bend the rules often, but I wanted to spare Rey any repercussions lest the truth become known."

Ben nodded in understanding. "So, what happened next?"

"After becoming Rey's legal guardian, I assumed control of the insurance pay out and used it to clear the Niima's debts and close their accounts." Luke frowned. "I would have helped them had they asked, but I was unaware of their dire circumstances. We were friends for a long time, so I'm sorry that I-"

"No!" Rey said firmly, coming back to herself. "No, father, you're not at fault here. There's nothing you could have done to prevent their deaths."

"But what if-!"

"No," she said again, more warmly this time. "You're the best parent a girl could ask for. I've never wanted for anything, never doubted your love for me. I'm sorry that Lord and Lady Niima died the way they did, but they're gone and we're not."

"Rey, daughter," Luke said emotionally, "you're too forgiving."

"It's in the past," she returned softly. Then, glancing at Ben, "Us Skywalkers, we're a family, and there's nothing that can't be forgiven between family."

Luke smiled for the first time in days. "I'm glad to hear it." He came around the desk and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "You've certainly grown up, my Rey, but I'll always be here for you."

Rey pulled Ben up with her before hugging her father. "I'm glad to hear it," she echoed. "And don't forget: our relationship goes both ways; I'll always be here for you too."

"Thank you, my dear girl," he said, kissing her again. "And you!" Luke called, holding his hand out to Ben when Rey stepped back. "I expect you to take great care of my daughter, nephew."

Ben accepted Luke's hand with a laugh, pulling him into a tight bear hug much to the older gentleman's chagrin. Giggling as Luke struggled in her fiancé's unbreakable grasp, Rey realized she felt completely free from the uncertainties in her past. Now, she only looked forward to her future. And what a bright future it would be.

——————

London, December 1819

——————

Despite several offers to visit the family jeweler during their short engagement, Rey had decided against asking Ben for a new ring. She'd gotten used to seeing the lovely forget-me-not on her ring finger everyday, and much preferred it to buying some banal bauble in a fancy shop.

Truth be told, the heirloom reminded her that although her own mother's ring had been lost to frivolous pursuits, it didn't mean that she would suffer the same fate. She had family, friends, and a husband who made her happier than she ever dreamed of being.

"Speaking of, I wonder when-ah, there he is." Rey smiled as Ben entered the dining room and sat down beside her. "Good morning, love."

"Morning," he said groggily, leaning over to give her a sweet kiss. "Mother," he nodded.

"Hello," Leia said without looking up from her breakfast. "Sleep well?"

"Something like that," Ben murmured, giving Rey a heated look.

"That's nice," Leia yawned, buttering a thick piece of toast.

Knowing exactly why Ben was so exhausted, Rey tried not to look too pleased with herself. They'd barely spent a day-or night-apart since marrying in the spring, just a few months after Ben's proposal last Christmas. Leia had insisted on a quick turnaround just in case Rey was increasing, but they hadn't been blessed with children as of yet.

"Finn proposed to Rose Tico last week," Rey said to the room at large. "I just received a note from him this morning. He said he's going to bring her to the Christmas party tomorrow night."

"Hmm, that's nice," Leia said idly.

"Really?" Ben said, sounding far more interested.

"Yes!" Rey replied brightly. "I'm so happy for them. It was an uphill battle, you know. Finn's family wanted an heiress for him."

"I'm glad they were able to overcome his family's objections," Ben said kindly.

"Me too," she beamed.

"Is Poe coming as well?"

"Of course, though without Lady Shara this year."

"Such a shame."

"Isn't it though?" Rey laughed. "Oh, have you seen father this morning by any chance? He wasn't in his room when I stopped by."

"I haven't," Ben said, blowing on his tea, "but he seems to be spending quite a lot of time in the gardens since moving back to the Manor. You might find him there."

"Thank you for the tip, I'll check after breakfast," Rey said. She gave him a private glance. "I think it's time we shared our news, don't you?"

"I do," Ben grinned. "Tonight's dinner will be family only, right, mother?"

"What? Oh, yes," Leia said between bites of toast. "Is there anything in particular you'd like for dessert, my darlings? Threepio said the servants are going to market this afternoon for some more ingredients. They seem to think tonight is a special affair, heaven knows why."

Rey smiled as Ben poured her more tea and added some salty bacon to her plate. "Oh, really? Well, how about a nice big vanilla cake then? I think it might be fitting for the occasion!"

-FIN-

——————

A/N: I'm so excited that I was able to get tickets for Star Wars Celebration 2019 and can't wait to hang out with my Reylo besties! It's going to be a wild time after TRoS comes out and all our Reylo dreams come true! May the Force be with you, friends!

#reylo #reylo fanfic #reylo fic #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #the politics of dancing #regency au #my fanfiction #sushigirlali #I can't believe politics is done #labor of love for sure #pride and prejudice #art #afterblossom

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