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#and poor seamstress
head-in-the-icloud · 3 months
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A previous submission from someone else gave me the idea that the Royal Court would need a seamstress. To keep the queens fluffy cloud cape fluffy and clean would need maintenance. The long hat Moon wears could get snagged/caught. Sun moving his head so much to make the bells jingle they'd need re-attachment regularly. And especially Eclipse with his fights! I'd imagine he'd be the most regular one to visit for cape maintenance and replacements.
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leavingautumn13 · 2 months
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not to like be squidposting on main again but why the fuck do they dress like that
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cliveguy · 8 months
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Cannot stop thinking about your season two takes because you're so right about having read this fic. I was half thinking it but then the scene where the lesbian oc from the coffeeshop au has a conversation with crowley asks him five (5) separate times if he's gay and/or dating azriaphale despite the fact he keeps saying no and was like well it sure looks like you're dating from where we stand and I was like oh no I've read this trope at age 14 and I hated it then too
Side note also cannot stop thinking about them reusing the seamstress joke from discworld badly by making it a minutes long uncomfortable conversation
it's crazy because it's literally like THE most basic badly written fanfic lesbians who ship the main guys together. except it's on my tv. and i am watching it on amazon prime. AND on another level it reminded me so much of bbc sherlock that my body went cold with fear.
also i never read discworld so i didn't catch that one but all the doctor who references were SOOOOO like. ok we get it you got david tennant to be here WE CAN SEE HIM
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skykid-kat · 10 months
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I have no drawings to show, but at least I can say it HSHDHSHD
Regarding pride stuff.
Kat is aroace!
Phoebe is Agender
And Alma is just a lonely lesbian XD XD
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leatherfangs · 2 months
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ooc. Also considering moving Liddy’s birth date back to the 1790s so that I can have her suffering (comedic) in regency gowns. Her family was wealthy but I don’t think they’d be anywhere wealthy enough to be in the ton….but the mental image is too good to pass up
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pia-writes-things · 10 months
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Was watching Les Misérables, the song from the beginning in the factory comes on with all the female workers and I was like "That's funny, there's a voice and a worker I feel like I recognize." So I rewound a bit, paused it, and guess who it was? Hannah Waddingham !
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wonedeus · 11 months
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one more thing i love about wonder woman historia is that it shows that when the amazons were first resurrected, when each goddess pulled a woman's soul from the ground and gave her new life, the amazons were armored and armed from head to toe, already dressed for battle. the historia says that "there is no innocence in them. vulnerability comes later, when it is cultivated and earned..." the amazons began as warriors, and then found themselves becoming much, much more after hippolyta was found + became queen. this is also evident in the stories told about them, the legends of them centering solely on the violence they dole out. what is never talked about in these stories is that the blood spilt by them is always done to avenge the women killed, to further ensure the safety of the women they have saved and allowed to join their respective tribes.
#i'm writing right now but im thinking about how the amazons changed... how at their core#they are still warriors... but they have become much more than that; there are some amazons who do not fight.#there are nurses; there are singers; there are seamstresses... every now and then .. before the amazons found their island#and were sent to their island..#a woman would join them; she would be either trained with whatever tribe she fell in with; or she would become another role; still#important but not a fighter.#and every now and then.. a goddess resurrected another woman; maybe armored maybe not.#[ of course: diana was the last amazon to be brought into existence; and the first amazon to be created on the island ]#anyways this got everywhere.#writing in my extended mythos / paradiseos verses makes me think so badly abt the amazon lore#because its kinda more relevant to those verses. though in modern verses if ur muse like. is into history.. they might know these things#and the amazon rumors / messy history has been used against diana multiple times (see: veronica cale; diana's first book; etc.)#reminder then: if we are writing in like. a mythological setting or a fantastical setting; anything ur muse knows abt the amazons#depends kinda on who they are?? who they hang with.#the most common rumors are of them killing aimlessly and mindlessly; cutting their own breasts off and pillaging#least common rumors (that are more truth) are of them saving young girls and taking them in; of feeding poor and old and avenging#dead women; women who have been killed. hurt. left for dead.#s‚ ( ₀₁. ) 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇: 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔. / fact.
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raedear · 8 months
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It's over and all I am is annoyed. Even the nods to Sir Terry did nothing but infuriate me. Watching that was like going to sip water and finding sour milk instead. Again, if you loved it you loved it whatever but I fucking loathed it. Hatewatched it the same way I hatewatched my way through Succession.
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❛ come on. it can’t be that bad. ❜
"Oh, it can't be? Clearly you don't understand how particular the Countess is about her wardrobe. True, she may be living in the middle of no where and hasn't seen the outside of this village probably since the 1950's, but she won't dare pass up the opportunity to look like she goes to a gala every night. And what do we have here?” Magda asked, pointing to the large roll of fabric that, to the untrained eye, looked pretty much the same color as the material of Alcina’s current dresses... maybe a few shades off.
“It’s the wrong dye batch! I order a hundred yards, because the shipping is atrocious otherwise, and not only does it take two months for it to arrive, but it’s a soft peach instead of an antique off-white. So yes, it is very much bad. And before you offer the option? No, I’m not dyeing the fabric. It’s an exceedingly precise process, and the fabric is already too dark, so... no luck there,” she fumed. Why was her life like this some days?
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slateblueflowers · 8 months
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Asdfghjkl
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‘DON’T [TRY] THE GUY WITH THE BLACK GLASSES HE DOESN’T WORK HERE!’
Local Soho lurker, known associate of Mr. Fell, inspiring so much lust around him people flock to the brothel to see if they can spend some quality time with him. And it happens so frequently Mrs. Sandwich had to put a sign up.
Alternatively, as @cassieoh (thank you for brightening the image!!) suggested: ‘DON’T [PAY] THE GUY WITH THE BLACK GLASSES HE DOESN’T WORK HERE!’
Poor Mrs. Sandwich. ‘Yes I know he looks like he works as a seamstress, but he does NOT, so if you could kindly pay me, thank you very much.’
I can’t decide which is funnier, Crowley accepting money from Mrs. Sandwich’s patrons (does he cackle as he does this? Is he confused? Does he walk the money over to her afterwards or do something else with it?) or Mrs. Sandwich having to march over to him and sternly asking him to stop letting patrons pay him instead (does she cock her hip and stick out her hand? Does she laugh along with him? Do they bond over it?? Are Crowley and Mrs. Sandwich buds???)
‘You’re a good lad.’
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tamed-foxes · 1 year
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it’s kinda funny how the relationships we have are really the most important thing in our lives and most of the time our job is just a thing we do to survive/keep busy, but so many of us feel like failures for not having a “good” job
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feralthoughtdump · 4 months
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Let Me Wrap My Teeth Around The World
Warnings: minors DNI, small age gap (everyone is 18+),  manipulation, love-bombing, possessiveness, social anxiety, the male gaze, financial exploitation, obsessive behavior, ownership, toxic dynamics, moral corruption, smut, virginity loss, coercion, dubcon, dark
Word Count: 4.1K
It’s been a while since Coriolanus found someone as the object of his affection. The last time was a few years ago, and it did no good for him. But this shy, sweet, beautiful Capitol girl was someone who could pose no risk to him and seemed to have wormed her way into the recesses of his mind. 
She was the shy girl in one of his University classes. Rumors circulated about her wealth or lack thereof. She was some prodigy who earned her way into the school through merit rather than money, and it left an open inquiry as to who her parents were. He didn’t know what drew him in. The House of Snow had just regained a semblance of wealth and power, and associating with a girl like her could easily create cracks in the foundation.
She wasn’t wealthy enough to come from a district family who bought their way in, but she certainly wasn’t like the other students who took classes with her. Though she wasn’t wealthy, she wasn’t necessarily poor, at least not as poor as his family used to be, but he could recognize the signs of the consistent repair in her uniform, using the same stitches Tigris would use on his old clothing. It turns out she had come from a family of seamstresses and artists. 
He also learned that she loved pretty things, not just spotting them but making them. Her apartment was always decorated with little knick-knacks and drawings that covered the walls. Coriolanus would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy spending time in her dingy apartment. It was small, run-down, nothing more than a studio with a bed, desk, kitchenette, and a heat pipe that screeches and clangs at the most ungodly hour. But he loves staring at how her brows furrow as she sketches or how she tucks her lower lip between her teeth in frustration. Despite being unable to help her work, she was always happy to have him around. 
This leads him to her small apartment at least once a month with a new pair of pants that were a bit too long or one of his father’s old shirts 
Even though he could afford to have his pants hemmed by a tailor or simply ask Tigris, he prefers going to her. After all, she’s become familiar with his preferred inseam length, and Tigris has become colder and colder towards him. 
He always insists on paying her even if she refuses. 
“We’re friends, Corio,” She said the first time. “You don’t have to pay me.” 
“Just this once, let me take care of you.” He insisted, pressing the cash into the palm of her hand. 
Just this once turned into every single time. Then, it became buying her meals and small gifts. He got her internships with other high-ranking game makers. Eventually, he convinced her that her old apartment was too small and worn down for a nice girl like her, and he moved her into a spare room in his apartment and turned the other into a studio. Then, he started taking her to parties and events she could never afford to go to, and he always made sure to buy her a dress even if she insisted that it would cost less if she could just make one herself. 
When their fellow students would snicker at her, he’d slip poison into their drinks. Never enough to kill them, just to get them sick for a week or so.
Somehow, Coriolanus finds himself taking her under his wing, becoming a mentor to her in some type of way.  She maintained that soft and sweet air about her, but with his help, she became someone her peers respected. Once, she was the girl who made other students in the University roll their eyes because she always tried too hard. Now, she was the girl who had connections and handed in exemplary work. She was the carefully created success story of a middle-class Capitol girl who climbed the ladder with hard work and determination. Now, she could spread her wings and fly, but only as far as he would allow.
With the arrival of winter comes the start of planning another year of games, and the Crane family was more than happy to host a commencement gala. 
This time, he bought her a pretty red dress she eyed in a store window a few days ago. 
The quiet gasp she lets out when he opens the box is music to his ears. 
“It’s even more beautiful in person.” She whispers the fabric pooling in her hands like blood. “I can’t let you keep buying me things like this. I can’t take this.” 
He fights the urge to roll his eyes. She always opposes, with her voice becoming soft, objections and promises to pay him back, tumbling from her lips. But that wasn’t what he cared about. He cared about how she presented herself. He got her internships and dragged her out of that shoebox of a studio apartment. She was a product of his hard work, and he wanted to show it off. “Think of it as a gift.” He smiles, gently lifting her chin to meet his eyes. “You’ve worked hard these past few months.” 
“Corio…” 
“Put it on; we have to leave in a few minutes.” 
… 
She’s stuck to his side whenever they attend these events. Her shy demeanor doesn’t do well in large crowds, and with an endless supply of expensive liquor, Coriolanus doesn’t want her wandering about alone. 
Throughout the evening, she’s been good. Smiling, looking pretty. Saying hello to the people he introduces her to, holding onto his arm, and letting him know when she’s feeling overwhelmed so he can rub circles on her back. 
People compliment her, telling her how beautiful she looks. Pride thumps against his chest. Of course, she looks beautiful. The dress he picked falls on her body like it was made for her. The red is beautiful against her skin, and the fabric drapes beautifully around her hips, showing off her elegant back. 
Eventually, she breaks away from him, needing to use the restroom. But after a while, he realizes something isn't right without her beside him. 
He worries when he can’t see her, and he finds himself rushing through small conversations and pushing past people to try and find her in a sea of people. 
Eventually, he spots her staring at the city's vast expanse, leaning on the balcony's edge. She’s slowly nursing her third glass of champagne in one hand, and the other picks at the cuticles of her thumb. 
That wasn’t a good sign.
“What’s wrong?” He inquires, approaching her with a hand on her back. 
She jumps at his touch, but relief crosses her face when she sees him. The last of the champagne is quickly swallowed, and she passes the empty glass to an approaching waiter. 
“Nothing, really. I’m okay.” 
From the tension in her forehead, he can clearly tell that she isn’t okay. Though he knows she hates it when he pries, he still chooses to do so.
“You aren’t, so tell me what’s wrong.”
There’s a beat of silence, and she sighs. 
“I feel out of place, Corio. I feel like I don’t belong here.”
“What do you mean? Of course, you belong here.”
“Everyone here is just so…” She looks down at her heels, trying to find the right words “I don’t know, I’m younger than everyone, and most of the people here have played a part in the games and all I’ve done is get coffee and print papers for them.” 
Her lashes flutter as if blinking away tears, and he can’t have that. Not here. 
“Hey,” he lifts her chin with his fingers and strokes her flushed cheek with his thumb. “Don’t get all tearful on me. You’re with me. I promise you, you belong here.”
From the frown curling on her lips, his words clearly aren’t working, so he shifts the conversation. “What do you dream of being? What do you want to do?” 
She opens her mouth but hesitates. 
“Promise you won’t think it’s stupid?”
“I promise.”
“I’d like to be a designer.” A small smile starts to cross her face. “A fashion designer with my own line and everything.” 
He could see a future where everyone in the Capitol wore her designs. Or not everyone. She was too good for that. All of his hard work has been put into helping her rise alongside him. If she wanted to do something, she had to be the best. 
“I think you would make a great designer.” Without a second thought, he presses a small kiss to her forehead. “I know you will. I’ve seen your work.”
A giggle falls from her lips, and affection blooms in his chest. Nowadays, he wonders if he could ever love someone. But love is so subjective. He had molded her into someone who would be fit to stand by him as he rose in the ranks. Isn’t that the closest thing there is to love? 
… 
“Here, let me help you.” 
The champagne has loosened her up, causing her to stumble on her feet. She leans against him and laughs when his arm hooks under her knees to carry her past the front door. 
“Such a gentleman.” She croons. “Always taking care of me.”
“It’s what I do best.” 
He sets her down on the edge of his bed so he can bend down to undo her heels. Without much thinking, he gently kisses the inside of her ankle. His eyes gaze up at her, gauging her reaction, and she shyly tells him, “I really want to kiss you right now.”
It’s as if something in him shifts. Coriolanus always harbored an attraction to her. On multiple occasions, he would fuck his fist after their little “tailoring” appointments, thinking about her on her knees, his cock stuffed in her mouth. Ever since she moved in, he’d sneak glances through the crack of her door, catching glimpses of her in stages of undress. He’s never acted upon it. His ego certainly wouldn’t be able to take the rejection, but now that she’s asking him to kiss her with those soft lips and glittering doe eyes, he’s safe to act on his desires. 
He surges forward, engulfing her in his hold. Hands cupping her face to keep her lips pressed against his. His teeth graze across her bottom lip, 
She smells like vanilla and roses, igniting that deep-seated hunger inside him. 
He has always hungered for power within the political spheres of Panem, but right now, his hunger is hyperfocused on her. To own her, to control her. 
He wants her to answer every beck and call. If he were to say jump, she would ask, ‘How high?’ If he asked her to crawl to him, she’d drag her delicate knees across whatever surface she stood on. He wants her to belong to him—mind, body, and soul. 
Their lips are locked together as her hands fumble to remove her dress. Sensing her struggle, he releases her face to help, undoing the ties around her neck. She carefully lets it fall off her body, letting the vibrant red silk pool around her feet. 
“I’ve never done this before.” She murmurs against his lips. “I haven’t done anything past kissing.” 
“Really?” He looks down at her and wants to coo in adoration when she shyly glances away. “No one’s ever touched you before?”
“Just… myself… and this one boy from the academy a few years ago but it was over our uniforms.” She hesitates, and he can feel his cock twitch in his pants. Coriolanus already owned most of her clothing, living space, and future career. It was all owed to him. But her virginity? He can truly make her his. His girl. 
He crawls on top of her, caging her in his arms. 
“I’ll be gentle. I promise.” 
His fingers trace her skin, from the line of her neck past her collarbones, dipping under the white lace underwear that clings to her hips. 
“These are pretty.” He flicks the rosette sewn to the center of the waistband. “Did you wear these for me?” 
“Maybe. I made them myself.” 
She lifts her hips, allowing him to slide them down her legs. They part, creating room for him to slot himself in between her knees. Her hands reach to remove his shirt, but he bats them away. 
“Just relax. I’ll take care of you.” 
As he unbuttons his shirt, he observes the way her chest rises and falls, how her lips are parted, and how her tongue darts out to lick at her lips in anticipation. 
His fingers push past her lips, pressing down on her eager tongue, already swirling over them. 
“Get them wet. I don’t want to hurt you.” 
Her eyes close as she sucks on the digits. Saliva pools in her mouth, dripping past the corners of her lips. 
They are released with a pop, and Coriolanus groans, the strain in his pants becoming unbearable. 
Two of his wet fingers slide between her folds, teasing at her opening. A gasp slips past her parted lips at the feeling of his fingers pushing in. It was torturous how he managed to curl his fingers just right, eliciting a stifled whine from her lips. She pulls her hips away, overwhelmed by the stretch and the growing pressure inside of her. Though he knows she’s fingered herself before, his fingers must feel foreign, better than what she can do for herself. 
He pushes a third inside of her, opening her up, and he can feel how she flexes around him. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he persists, continuing to curl his fingers against that spot inside of her.
“Don’t fight it.” He demands, pistoning his fingers. “I’m just trying to make you feel good.” 
Her gasps and whines eventually turn into moans. She clenches around his fingers and bucks her hips forward as if her body is begging him for more. 
“I think,” She arches her back, and her voice becomes gaspy as if fighting to fill her lungs with air. “I think I’m close.” 
“Already?” He spits onto her clit and presses his thumb against it.  Electricity surges through her body as he rubs it in slow circles. She watches him with parted lips and shaky breathing as he fuels her oncoming orgasm. “Oh, you’re making this too easy for me.” 
Her head is thrown back, and a strangled moan falls from her lips—sticky arousal floods around his fingers, and her walls spasm around them. 
“There you go.” He soothes, pressing kisses to her cheek. “That feels good, huh?” 
She’s laid out on the comforter, chest heaving and skin flushed. Coriolanus grabs his stiff cock through his pants, trying to ease the growing tension. But he decides he can’t wait to give her a break. 
Her ears perk up at the metallic clink of him undoing his belt. 
“Corio, I- I don’t think-”
He shushes her with a kiss. 
“It’s alright, you can take it. Yeah? Remember what I promised?” 
“That you’d be gentle.” 
“That’s right.” He kicks off his pants and frees his cock from the confines of his briefs. “I’ve always been good to you, haven’t I?” 
She nods in agreement, eyes widening at the size of him. 
He licks his lips as he presses the tip against her cunt, slowly easing his cock inside of her. 
As he sheathes himself inside of her, he presses her thighs to her chest, forcing himself deeper into her warmth. 
She lets out a sharp cry and grabs his waist, trying to push him back. 
“You’re too big, Corio. I don’t think you’ll fit.” 
He hurries to kiss away her complaints. To distract her from the pain. He couldn’t wait. He needed to feel her. He needed her. Whispering against her lips, he soothes her. “You’re okay. I’ll go slow. Yeah?” 
Broken moans fall from her lips as he bottoms out. He groans in pleasure as her fingernails dig into his back, scrambling for some kind of purchase. She was so tight, so wet, and so warm, gripping onto him like a vice. 
Very carefully, he rocks his hips back and forth, letting her adjust to him. The sounds she makes, combined with the slick squelch of her cunt are obscene. Even with his slow movements, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to last long. 
He drops his lips to her neck, teeth grazing the fragile skin before biting down.
“Ah- please, don’t leave a mark.”
Disregarding her words, he sucks a slowly blooming bruise onto her neck. He doesn’t care if it’s dark. He wants people to see it and know who left it there. 
Maybe he does love her, he thinks. He loves how she complements him, her sweetness dampening his harsher attributes. He loves her creativity, her ambition, and how she always hungers to better herself. She’s perfect. She could be more than just a designer. She could be influential, a figure in the history of Panem. 
“I have an idea.” He hums against her neck, stilling his hips.
“Yeah?” 
“I want you to be part of the games.”
“What do you mean?” She impatiently shifts her hips, trying to get him to move again. 
“You can be a…” he pauses to think, looking into her blown-out pupils, “a stylist. You can design the tributes' looks for the opening ceremony and the interviews. Maybe we can implement uniforms for the actual games.” 
She pulls back, but he keeps her locked in place, hands grabbing at the flesh of her hips. Her eyes no longer look glazed over with lust. Instead, there’s a flash of clarity within them.
“No.” 
“What do you mean, no?”
“No, Corio.” Her voice is firm. She has her mind made up. “I won’t do it.” 
His lust begins to mix with anger. She can’t deny him. Not now, not ever. Not after everything he has done for her.
His hand reaches for her chin, and she whimpers. 
“Yes, you will because I’m not asking.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” She struggles against his hold. “You don’t own me.”
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” He snarls, fingers digging into her jaw. “I gave you this life, and I can easily take it away from you.”
“Let go of me, please.”  
Earlier promises of being gentle are tossed away. She’s beginning to let out pained squeaks from the pressure on her cheeks, and the hand on her hip digs into the soft flesh, creating red divots close to drawing blood. 
“Look at all that I have given you. All of your nice clothes and these fancy internships were because of me. Without me, you’d be freezing to death in that shed you used to live in.” He pulls his hips back and slams his cock back into her dripping cunt, eliciting a cry from her. “I made you who you are.” He cruelly bullies his cock into her, picking up his speed every time her hands weakly try to push him away. “All you have to do is be good for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.” He forces her to look at him, to stare into her glassy eyes. “Are you going to be good?”
She doesn’t reply, or rather, she can’t. All she could do was strain against him with dark, mascara-stained tears rolling down her cheeks. 
Those eyes that once gazed upon him with fondness are now filled with fear. 
“Are you going to be good?” He punctuates his words with a hand to her throat, giving it a light squeeze. It’s enough pressure to establish a threat but not enough to take away her ability to breathe.  
Her teary eyes blink, and she nods. 
“Yes,” She whispers. “I’ll be good.”
“So,” He slows his movements and brings his lips to her ear, warm breath tickling her skin. “What do you say? 
Once again, he circles her sensitive clit with his thumb. 
She sobs, clenching around him, and he can tell that she’s close to cumming again. 
“You’re not going to cum until you answer me.” 
“Please, Corio, don’t make me decide. Not right now.”
“I want-” He groans, feeling himself falling close to the edge. “I need an answer.” 
She sobs and tries to look away, but the hand on her face won’t let her. 
“Please.”
His face moves closer to hers, her hot breath fanning his cheeks. 
“I can feel you clenching around me, and I know you can’t hold it in. Give me an answer now.” More tears stream down her face, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “If you cum before giving me an answer, I’ll ruin this pretty cunt.”
There’s a second of silence, save for the sound of his skin slapping against hers before she nods. 
“Yes,” she whispers. 
“Yes, what?” 
“I’ll do it.” 
He quickens his pace, chasing after his own pleasure, and she all but screams. 
The fire in his burns, ready to overtake him, but something isn’t right. 
“Open your eyes.” He demands. “I want you to look at me when I fill you up.” 
She blinks her eyes open, all wide and wet, and he’s unable to hold back. Tightening his hold on her, he forces his hips against her own, burying his cock to the hilt and releasing inside of her. She flutters around him, desperate gasps for air falling from her wanting mouth as she cums with him. 
They stay in this position, both trying to catch their breath. Coriolanus is the first to pull away, rubbing her thighs to loosen the tired muscles. 
She lays there, surrounded by his fluffy white sheets, saying nothing. He gently kisses her cheek, attempting to pull an answer from her, but when it proves unsuccessful, he leaves to draw a bath. 
… 
“You don’t have class tomorrow, right?” 
The question draws her out of her gaze, now realizing she’s curled up in the tub with her knees drawn to her chest. The water is warm, cloudy, almost milky, and smells like roses. She couldn't bear to look at him right now, but she managed to force an answer from her lips. 
“No,” she fights the urge to flinch when his fingers brush her hair away from her neck. “It’s my day off.”
“Good.” Coriolanus dips the washcloth in the tub and gently wipes it against her skin. “You’ll come with me to see Dr. Gaul. Bring your portfolio.”
Her body shudders at the thought of meeting the woman, but more notably, knowing that the man she held so much love for was nothing like the man he portrayed himself to be. 
She once thought that he was her patron, but the truth was that he was her owner. All of the riches she had gained this past year meant nothing now. They weren’t hers. They were his. He had given her a life of safety where she could flourish and provide for her family, but it was one separated from the world she once knew. Her parents and friends from the fabric shop were replaced by the same obscenely wealthy elite who would have thumbed their nose at her if it weren’t for the proximity to him. 
Every gentle brush of his fingers on her skin reminds her of what he’s done to her. How he now owns her.
Her mind falls to a lecture from a year ago. It was about evolution and apex predators. The boa, she remembers, was nonvenomous but deadly, wrapping themselves around their prey, squeezing their bodies until their circulation stopped and their lungs could no longer pull any oxygen. What’s more chilling, she thinks, is that they know to monitor their heartbeat, waiting for their heart to stop before swallowing them whole. 
He’s wrapped himself around her, tightening his hold. She knows she can struggle, but he won’t loosen his grip. He’ll just constrict around her, tighter and tighter, until there’s no more room for her to fight—no more room to breathe. 
“I’ve been very sweet on you, and I can keep doing that.” He hums. “But, I can be cruel as well. You and I both know I don’t want to do that.” 
Finally, she finds the courage to look at him; those blue eyes are now colder than ever. 
She tries to whisper, but when he raises a brow, she clears her throat and meekly responds. 
“Thank you, Coriolanus. For everything.”
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maximoff-pan · 3 months
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the ultimate deception | benedict bridgerton (part one)
summary: you are a well known artist who paints under a pseudonym. What happens when Lady Whistledown comes to know of your identity? How will your relationship with Benedict evolve?
pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!(artist)reader
word count: 4k
warning(s): poor writing and dialogue (sue me, I'm rusty lol), very unedited so if there are mistakes, I apologize, misogyny, penelope aka Lady Whistledown's biggest defender
a/n: this is definitely going to be more than one part, but I wanted to post something after so many months. Let me know how you like it (or don't like it haha)...comments and feedback are much appreciated <3
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• • • • • •
“I wish I possessed merely an ounce of your talent.” 
Benedict’s gaze seems to be wholly absorbing your latest painting, a depiction of the botanical wonders of London’s Royal Kew Gardens. 
You puff out a breath, blowing on the feathery end of one of your writing quills. In your haste, it had gotten loose, tickling your face irritatingly. Tucking it back behind your ear, you wave him off. “You have much more talent than you give yourself credit for.” You admit through squinted eyes, scanning your work. “You simply lack conviction. And you worry far too much about what others think of you.”
Benedict smiles, receiving your words as the highest of praise. He reaches out to take a better look at the piece of art before him. “You flatter me.” He mumbles in awe. “But I suppose there’s a chance you could be right.”
Chuckling at his words, you grin knowingly. You’re right. It’s more than a chance…you just are. He knows it too. 
You both continue to steadily eye the painting, you out of critical evaluation of your work, and him in sheer admiration of it. 
Benedict’s favourite part remains the beautifully bloomed magnolias that are scattered across the canvas. He’d been sure to tell you numerous times of their elegance while you’d been working on it, eagerly awaiting the finished product. As you’ve come to realize, Benedict loves watching you work. It’s one of the prices you’ve had to pay for his allowance of your workstation being at Bridgerton House, if you could even call it that.  
You are grateful, truly. You wouldn’t be able to make your own living without his kindness. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to keep to yourself in the way you prefer to. 
“When will Augustus Leighton be displaying his latest work of perfection?” Benedict’s question reminds you of your fate as an artist. 
Augustus Leighton is the pseudonym you paint under. Using his name, you have become a well known artist among the ton, even going so far as to have a painting hung at Buckingham Palace. It’s difficult, you must admit, pretending to be someone else. But it’s a necessary evil.
Painting as a woman would get you nowhere. Especially as a woman with no money (particularly at the time you began), no status, and no husband. 
Your mother is a seamstress with little to her name and your father was a servant to Violet and Edmund Bridgerton, before his heart became too weak. He passed away when you were thirteen, only a few years after the Bridgerton children had lost their own father. You’d grown up with little money, but Violet had been kind to both you and your mother, seeing how close you’d become with her children. 
You were raised alongside them, Benedict and Eloise becoming your closest of friends. At three and twenty, there are five years between you and the two siblings in either direction, with Eloise being freshly eighteen, and Benedict having turned twenty eight. To this day, they remain two of only three people who know of your true identity, outside of Penelope Featherington. 
You hadn’t exactly meant for Eloise or Penelope to find out about it, but once they had, it became comforting to have more than just Benedict to speak to about your predicament. Especially considering, although Benedict has been wonderfully supportive, he could never understand the struggle a woman must endure in a male dominated world.  
“Likely never. This one is a gift for Lady Danbury.” You answer Benedict’s inquiry after a bout of silence. “She’s spoken about her love of these gardens quite regularly, so I thought, why not have Mr. Leighton recreate it for her?” 
“How will you get it to her?” He questions. 
A smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “I have my ways, lest you worry about it.”
• ж • ж • ж • ж •
The next few days are interesting to say the least. You’d somehow managed to get the painting delivered to Lady Danbury, and as far as Violet had been willing to speak of her latest visit with the formidable aforementioned woman, you have been made aware that she adores it. 
You’d also heard more about it from Benedict, who’d mentioned something about her being at a loss for words, an ultimate shock to both him and his mother. They’d never seen her look so bewildered. 
According to Eloise, Lady Danbury had been surprised to receive such a gift, especially of something so near and dear to her heart. She’d said it reminded her of her time with the Queen, telling the young Bridgerton woman about the months just after her husband had passed, when a new independent lifestyle began to bloom for her. 
The painting itself reminded her that women like her could be free, and one day, they would be. That sort of metaphorical mindset had definitely appealed to Eloise’s sense of social justice. She’d been more than excited to tell you about the older woman’s reaction to your art, claiming it to be a wonderful revelation. 
Today though, as you sit in the Bridgerton’s common living room, the opposite representation of said female autonomy rests in your hands. The paper feels rough against your skin as you pass it to Eloise who’s propped excitedly to the left of you. You’ve never been a fan of Lady Whistledown’s gossip column, although you can admire her unabashed confidence. But despite her strong will as an author, which could be seen as an inherently empowering trait, you are of the impression that she goes about it in an entirely backward way. 
Women don’t need to put each other down to build themselves up. It accomplishes nothing, consequently acting as a source of nourishment for the patriarchy you find yourself trapped in. 
“You’re not going to read it?” Eloise asks as she takes the pamphlet from you. 
“I never do.” Is your instant reply. 
Penelope perks up at the mention of the column, eyes trained curiously on you. If you had known better, you’d say she was a little too interested. 
But at this moment you shrug it off, listening with no suspicion as she asks a simple, “Why?”
You don’t have the hindsight to understand why your stomach turns at her question, but you respond anyway. “I tend to think of Lady Whistledown as a poison.” It’s the first time you’ve voiced such an opinion. 
Penelope and Eloise turn to you in surprise. “Come again?” Penelope’s soft voice cuts through. 
“She is a poison.” You repeat before explaining yourself. “Do not get me wrong, I hold admiration for her bravado, but her words, the things she writes, they cause nothing but pain and conflict for those she chooses to sink her teeth into.”
“But she’s an independent woman.” Eloise interjects. “One who is doing more than any of us could dream of. She is making a name for herself!”
You try to think about your next words carefully, but your mouth makes quick work of a reply. “A name which she hides behind, casting stones through the guise and safety of anonymity.” 
Penelope lets out a scoff from beside you. She’s always been one to defend the infamous gossip columnist. “At least she does not hide herself behind the mask of a man.” That feels like a shot. “The people know full well of her gender, despite her true identity remaining a secret.”
You hear the implication on her tongue. The same cannot be said for you. 
And she’s not wrong. You do hide yourself behind the mask of a man. You’d never once denied that.
You sigh. “I know you must think of me as a hypocrite.” 
Eloise agrees hesitantly. “Only a little.” She admits. “It’s just that you do the same as Mr. Leighton.”
You soften at her honesty. Truthfully, you understand where she’s coming from, but you can’t help the urge you feel to defend yourself.
“I disguise myself as Augutus because I know that no artist or art critic alike will take me seriously as I am. I want to share my work with the world, that is simply all I want. It’s all I have ever wanted.”
“Does that not make you a coward?” Penelope inquires, although it feels less like a question and more like an opinion. This is what she believes. And she's entitled to that. 
“Perhaps.” You nod in acknowledgment. “But it has also made me uniquely successful. And I take great pride knowing that my work is highly regarded, in spite of the fact that I have to be someone else to succeed.” 
“Does that ever bother you?” Eloise persists. “Knowing that no one will know you for the work you have done?”
Before you can respond, Penelope chimes in with a query of her own. “Does it ever make you feel guilty, lying as you do?” This feels like a challenge. 
You turn to Eloise, answering her first. “No, I feel quite unbothered. I like the privacy it provides me.” Your gaze flicks between the two girls, a fire in your eyes as you speak. 
You answer Penelope’s question next. “Guilt is one of the last feelings to cross my mind.” You feel content with it. “Because of Augustus, I have my own money, my own independence. I do not need a man to survive or to be happy. I have choices. And that's a facet of my life I never dreamed could have existed. If there is anything more empowering for a woman than that, I cannot think of it.”
Eloise listens to your words carefully, absorbing them, reveling in them. She hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. Independence is a sign of true equality. And you have that. Not because of the name you hide behind, but because you’d used the insecurities of men to your advantage. You’d played the game and won. 
“I suppose I have been quite short sighted.” There’s much less arrogance in her tone. Eloise sounds humbled. “You’ve given me a new perspective to think about.”
Penelope does not enjoy the direction this conversation has headed. “Surely you cannot think yourself above someone such as Lady Whistledown.”
Your face scrunches in thought. “Above?” You stipulate. “I do not think myself above anyone, gender aside. But I do think I have a much higher sense of self respect than she does.”
“And how could that possibly be?” Penelope has to bite her tongue. She wants to say more, defend herself more. But she cannot. 
Eloise cuts in. “Lady Whistledown has the utmost confidence in herself. I dare say more than all the women in London combined. As much as I have come to see your side, I cannot agree with that.”
“One’s high level of confidence is of little concern here.” You deliver. “Often, in matters regarding the human condition, such as these, it can act as a detriment.” Your eyes narrow as you speak. “Self respect and self confidence can coincide, but they are not the same.”
Eloise laughs out of confusion. She’s not used to being this clueless. “I don’t understand.” She says.
“Ah,” you decide to stop tiptoeing around the subject. “I merely think that no self-respecting woman would use the pain and suffering of other women, or any other person for that matter, for their own profit and entertainment.” 
Eloise’s smile drops. “Oh.” Again, she hadn’t thought of it that way. But what resonates with her most is that you’re not wrong. 
“Is that what you truly think of Lady Whistledown?” Penelope’s voice is calm and collected for the first time this afternoon. It almost scares you. 
“Yes.” You say, before voicing, “However, I mean no offense to either of you. I know how much you girls adore her column. I just want more for you than what she does. A life of gossip is dangerous, and you deserve so much more.”
If you had known you’d been talking to Lady Whistledown herself, maybe you would have kept those opinions to yourself. But little did you know how much your life was about to change, how dangerously you’d walked the line, and how much vengeance rests in Penelope Featherington’s soul.
Future note to self, do not play with fire if one does not wish to get burnt.  
• ж • ж • ж • ж •
“(Y/n), I think you need to see this.” Benedict holds up the newest edition of London’s famous gossip column. 
Your heart sinks at the look in his eyes. I’m sorry they seem to say. 
You haven’t even read it and you already know it’s bad. Handing it to you, Benedict looks hesitant, almost in preparation of what's to come. As you take it from him, you glance down at the ink on the paper, her handwriting etched in your brain. 
You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to read:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It has come to this author’s attention that a certain individual is playing an unforgivable game of deception within the world of classical art that this ton so highly regards. This artisan has gone to great lengths to keep their true identity from you, painting under a well recognized pseudonym. 
By now you may have guessed, this artist is a woman. One who has tricked you and lied to you by passing her work off as that of a man’s. What a horrid crime it is to keep such a secret from you, and a desperate one, I must admit. A woman so foul as to seek such attention for her art, far too greedy to be content with the life so many of the wonderful women of the ton lead. Instead, she parades around disguising herself so she can live a life she feels entitled to. 
This author asks you to consider the arrogance of it all. But the question remains, as I am sure you are desperate to uncover: who is the serpent who remains among us?
And so it is with great sorrow that I announce the once beloved Augustus Leighton is a fraud. A man never seen in the public setting, has given us a reason why. He is a woman.
And her name, ladies and gentleman of London, is (Y/n) (L/n). 
As I am sure you, gentle reader, are shocked at this revelation, I will take a moment to address the woman this particular entry concerns.
May I remind you Miss (L/n), I have ears and eyes everywhere. Or did you forget? It would do you a world of good to remember that the next time you think about besmirching me. And, as I write this, I must say, this warning goes for all. Heed it, live by it, breathe by it. I am not a woman you want to cross. 
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown
Panic crawls through your body. You want to cry, scream, maybe even simply die from the anxiety you’re feeling. 
“What am I going to do?” 
Your voice cracks, it sounds like glass breaking. Shattered, ragged, and tired, and Benedict can do nothing but hold you. 
Again, as your body shakes and caves into the pressure you think, what am I going to do?
• ж • ж • ж • ж •
The moment Eloise enters the room with Anthony at her side, your mind is sent ablaze. Only three people had known about Augustus. Only three people could have possibly let it slip, and you know for a fact it wasn’t Benedict.
As much as you want to believe Eloise would never do something like that to you, you can’t help but feel like she might have offhandedly mentioned it to someone. Her mouth had always worked much faster than her brain.  
Benedict’s gaze meets yours in understanding. He hopes his sister hasn’t done this; he’ll be furious if she has. 
You’re about to say something when a certain eldest Bridgerton catches you off guard. Anthony smiles when he sees you, eyes twinkling uncharacteristically so. 
“I had no idea you could paint like that.” He says. “I must admit, I’m quite proud of you.”
You blink rapidly in confusion. Proud? In all the years you’ve known Anthony, he’s never told you he’s proud of you. 
“So you’ve read the column then?” Your head hangs in shame. Everyone in London has probably read it by now. 
“Everyone has.” Eloise pipes in timidly, confirming your suspicions. 
She’s nervous, understandably so, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. You assume when you finally catch her gaze that she’ll avert it quickly, but instead, she holds it well. 
We need to talk. 
Benedict, reading the room perfectly, coughs in apprehension. “Brother, how about we let these ladies be for a moment? I’m certain they have some things to discuss.”
“Of course.” Anthony nods with a smile, not before reminding you how proud he is of you.
If anything good can come of this, it might just be that. 
Once alone, Eloise is eager to assure you of her innocence. “I spoke to no one.” She promises. “Blood be forgotten, you’re my sister (Y/n). I would never betray you like that.”
The look on her face is one of pure panic; she needs you to believe her. And despite everything, you do. It almost makes you feel guilty that you questioned her. 
“It’s alright.” You assure her. “I know you wouldn’t.”
But that only leaves one person…
“I think Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” You're taken aback by Eloise’s words, like a stab to the chest. Twisting the knife in further, she corrects, “I know she is.”
Moments of silence pass before you can collect your thoughts. “How long have you known?”
This is where Eloise loses her composure. Pure shame is etched upon her features. “I caught her a few weeks ago.”
A few weeks. A few weeks… A FEW WEEKS?
“Oh.” Your murmur is dejected and weak.
Eloise had known you’d been slandering Lady Whistledown in front of Lady Whistledown, and she’d done nothing to stop you, except defend her best friend’s honour. No wonder she’d been so reluctant to agree with you. 
“I wanted to say something.” Eloise stammers. “But I couldn’t. Penelope doesn’t know that I know.”
You inhale a staggered breath of air, face falling to your palms. “I’ve been such a fool. How could I have been so stupid?”
“You have not.” The girl beside you opposes before continuing, “Trust me, I am furious with Penelope. The things she’s done and said about me, about the people I care about, I’m not sure I can forgive her for it.”
You scoff lightly. Trust her? How are you supposed to do that?
Sure, Eloise has certainly been burned by Lady Whistledown before, but she’s always had her name to fall back on. “You have no idea what it’s like, Eloise.”
“I’m sorry.” She slumps in apology, shrinking in on herself. Eloise likes to think she can understand where you’re coming from. She’s a woman, same as you, one who has the same struggles against the patriarchy, and yet, hers are much different.  
“Don’t.” You dismiss her apology in frustration. It feels harsh but necessary. “You always speak about feminism and the difficulties of being a woman. How it is impossible for you to hold title and rank, or to be recognized for your accomplishments. But you are a Bridgerton Eloise, and that comes with more privilege, more title, more rank, and more acknowledgment in society than you seem to understand.”
Eloise’s brow furrows. “More often than not, that name is a burden, something you could not possibly grasp.”
“And I should not have to.” Your lips pull into a thin line. This isn’t a competition, but you feel it necessary to defend your point wholly. “I am the daughter of a servant and a seamstress. I have no money, no control, and no future if I am not to marry. Since the day I was born, I belonged to someone else. You talk of struggle, but you have no idea what it truly means.”
Eloise doesn’t like what you’re implying. “You think I live a life of luxury? That I am a stranger to the adversities life has to offer? I can assure you, I know much more about the struggles of which you speak. My mother has prepared me for the purpose of my future; finding a husband is imperative.”
“You plan to remain unmarried, correct?” You ask her seriously.
“With every fiber in my being.” Is her scathing reply. And it only serves to prove your point. But you can see her side of things too. 
“El, you defy your mother with your distaste for society. And while I applaud your determination to fight for equality, your fault remains in your failure to recognize the entitlement that has been bestowed upon you simply by having that choice. Unlike so many women, you can choose to live your life as a spinster. For you, those options exist. For me, I have not one choice besides finding a well suited, at best, middle class husband, because that is all I am suited for.”
In this moment, her heart shatters for you. Is that really what you think of yourself? “You cannot possibly mean that.” 
“It’s how it has to be.” You affirm. 
“It’s not.” She disagrees. “There’s so much more for you than a husband.”
Both your defenses are down, walls have collapsed, and you’re starting to get through to each other. She’s starting to grasp the gravity of what this means for you. Your career is more than likely over, as is the steady source of income you’d managed to build. Except where before you’d had less than no money to your name, you now had a healthy dowry (that you’d earned no less) to find a more comfortable suitor. 
Eloise sees it now. What Penelope has done is monumentally life changing. 
However, as emotional as this circumstance is, you still feel the need to reach out. She’s your sister after all. 
“Eloise,” your eyes search hers. They tread in a sea of empathy. “I never meant to imply you have lived a life without misfortunes. I’m not trying to diminish your hurt. But I thought if you heard my side, you might come to understand mine.”
She softens at your admission, having gotten carried away in defending herself. Nodding, she smiles gently. “I do.” She says. “And while you may not bear the Bridgerton surname, you do have us. Every Bridgerton will stand behind you, always.”
Against every fibre in your being, you believe her. Somehow you’ll always have this little family of yours, somehow you hope you’ll be okay…
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jackoshadows · 28 days
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It's so confusing and weird that Bridgerton introduced in world racism both with Lady D and Simon in season one of the show and in Queen Charlotte and at the same time they also want the audience to accept that somehow Marina Thompson or the dark skinned Indian Kate Sharma has more privilege and power than Penelope Featherington?
Kate Sharma was also poor, so much more than the Featheringtons. She depended on Lady D to host them. The Sharmas were looked down on by the ton because Mary Sheffield married an Indian. The Sharmas were disowned and ostracized by the Sheffields.
Kate was also an unmarried spinster. No one was asking Kate to dance. As much as Kate wanted love and romance and to dance at a ball wearing pretty dresses, she got none of that. She was also the woman on the sidelines watching as others danced and fell in love.
Racism and colorism is also very much a thing in eurocentric notions of beauty considering the setting and characters of Bridgerton is 99% white.
We got so little of Kate's backstory, of who her parents where - we didn't even get their names!! - of the trauma (explained for both Simon and Anthony using flashbacks) that had Kate overlooking her own happiness for that of her sister.
Despite bragging nonstop about the diversity of Bridgerton the showrunners thought that the white Featheringtons needed more screentime in season 2 rather than the South Asian family.
And Kate was planning on going back to India and work as a governess to pay for her livelihood. Because, you know, there's more honest ways of being a 'working woman' than running the equivalent of the regency 'Daily Mail' dragging other women down. The modiste Madame Delacroix, Kate planning to teach and Sienna in season one are all working to pay a living. Black, brown and lower class women looking to alleviate poverty.
And considering how much harder Kate already had it as an outsider in the ton, it wouldn't have been easy with Penelope using her gossip rag to describe the unmarried Indian woman as ' a Spinster of a beast'. What did Kate do to Penelope to warrant this? Nothing. Just a way for Penelope to make money at Kate's expense.
That's the thing I dislike the most about the way the character of Penelope is written on the show - her victims don't deserve her vitriol and are often in much worse circumstances than her. From Kate Sharma to the unnamed seamstress who apparently lost all her customers because Penelope wrote falsely about their work in the her tabloid as a bribe for Madam Delacroix.
And I think that's what I find problematic about the writing of the show and even the discourse surrounding it - when characters like Marina Thompson (the poor black cousin who would have ended up destitute on the streets because of Penelope) and Kate Sharma arguably have it far worse than Penelope Featherington as per the show's writing and yet we are supposed to have the most sympathy for Penelope because her crush Colin didn't love her back and she's a curvy white woman?
I guess that's the difference between how I perceive this world and these characters as a woc and the majority white female audience for this show and it's such a huge disconnect for me. I guess this is also partly because the show has this badly written and 'strangely toothless racism' as Ash Sarkar beautifully put it. As in the racism is treated in this world as a little problem solved by handing out a few titles to black people instead of being a white supremacist ideology which treated black and brown people as inferior, serfs and slaves.
From what little we got from season 2, Kate Sharma definitely did not have it easy navigating the ton as a poor outsider and that certainly contributed to her poor choices. She is also put through the wringer, treated like the other woman, is miserable for several episodes, had to apologize again and again and nearly die before Edwina forgives her!
In contrast Penelope's actions have hurt so many and yet she gets a pass by both the show and a fandom that wants Colin to grovel before her because of a single offhand remark and because he didn't return her affections.
Also making it clear here that I am not comparing Penelope to the male characters who always get the better writing, flaws and all. I am comparing Penelope to the female characters of colour - Kate Sharma and Marina Thompson.
I mean, Marina Thompson gets so much vitriolic and sexist hatred for not having told Colin Bridgerton the truth of her pregnancy. How dare Marina hurt this privileged white man Colin Bridgerton. When she was desperate to not end up destitute on the streets or get raped by old white men. And yet Penelope gets a pass for hurting women like Marina and Kate.
It continues a trend of white female characters never being held to the same standard as female characters of colour. Daphne sexually assaults Simon in season one and that was not even addressed on the show. Male rape is apparently no big deal because Daphne wanting children is what's important. It's Simon who has to apologize and within one episode resolve his trauma and accept being a father. This is despite both Daphne and Penelope having more screentime and more writing that builds their character unlike the stick thin writing given to Kate Sharma in season 2.
So yeah, I will be checking into season 3 to watch the ten minutes we get with Kate Sharma since we got so little of her in her own season and it's so singular to get dark skinned south Indian characters in a period drama romance like this. It's just the way the writing on the show, the production and even the fandom treats it's characters, especially characters of colour has been disappointing to say the least.
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nevertheless-moving · 2 months
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unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.
Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.
and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.
(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)
Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 
Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.
The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?
Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!
Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 
Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—
You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...
What—when did you lose—
I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...
So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.
And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.
When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.
Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.
It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.
Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.
Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??
the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.
Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.
FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?
“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.
Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)
And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.
Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.
Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 
Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.
Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.
Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.
It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 
Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.
What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.
I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.
So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.
Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.
Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—
well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—
and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?
i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”
Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).
But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.
Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.
And then the partners change again, the moment ended.
Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.
Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.
Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.
Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.
needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.
Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.
Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )
Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?
And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?
Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell)
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tbhwhocaresanymore · 7 months
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“This is probably not a standard transitioning procedure but I’m going to cut his neck in half.” *sawing sounds*
“I wasn’t sure how to make them, so like a responsible adult, I left this problem for last.”
“I want her expression to say ‘oh you poor creature. I don’t care.’”
If any of the above quotes made you laugh, consider taking a trip over to YouTube and visiting my favorite channel
Enchanterium✨✨
It’s two sisters, Alex and Barb, doing doll customization. As someone who has never customized a doll in my life I find their channel FASCINATING.
Alex used to be a henna artist and her main job is giving the dolls new faces and hair styles and occasional body modifications.
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Barb is an engineer going for her phd and a seamstress, who sews teeny tiny doll clothes. She’s also a talented 3D print designer who makes robot gauntlets, space ships, and a functional doll sized flame thrower.
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They do all sorts of dolls! Redesigns of popular characters like Team Rocket or the Totally Spies girls, and their own original characters. If you want to check them out here’s three good starting options.
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This is actually their second most popular video, it’s part of a collaboration where they all made a member of a space ship crew. Enchanterium made Tzula, the medic, who is also an alien cow. Backstory in video.
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The girls were a big fan of the Winx Club show when they were younger, and now each Halloween they reimagine a winx character as their darker self, kind of like what Fate tried to do and failed miserably at. Enchanterium DOES NOT FAIL.
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You can see a sneak peek of this one when I talk about Alex, it’s one of my favorite of their zodiac videos. They design the Cancer symbol as a high school student with crab legs growing out of her face because why not lol.
Anyway GO WATCH ENCHANTERIUM! The sisters are hilarious, and talk a lot in Polish, and create the most kickass dolls you’ve ever seen, and I need more people to talk about them so I’m blazing my first ever post. Hope to see some of you in the comments ✨
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