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kangeikoThis is new since I was last on DW! sdwolfpup posted about More Joy Day 2019:
This makes my little heart happy. As part of Day 9 of the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
snowflake_challenge I offered people drabbles/ficlets, so if you'd like to request a fic, please do so and I'll do my very best to write you a wee ficlet. I'm multi-fannish so pretty much everything I've written in is fair game, and a bunch of other more recent fandoms as well.
sdwolfpup posted about More Joy Day 2019:That's right, today is More Joy Day! The Day where we do a small thing to start a ripple of joy in this pond we all share.
This makes my little heart happy. As part of Day 9 of the
snowflake_challenge I offered people drabbles/ficlets, so if you'd like to request a fic, please do so and I'll do my very best to write you a wee ficlet. I'm multi-fannish so pretty much everything I've written in is fair game, and a bunch of other more recent fandoms as well.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-17 10:52 pm (UTC)Happy More Joy Day.
Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-17 11:50 pm (UTC)***
The problem with pirating is that it doesn’t really allow you much time for doing anything else. You can’t take up gardening, for example, or knitting. The most you could stretch to is probably coin-collecting, and that’s not as much fun if you have to bury your collection. He has a chess set, admittedly, but there’s no one to play with.
That’s not to say that the job doesn’t have any high points, but it’s not exactly a life of luxury. And the prisoners always scream and carry on endlessly before they’re executed; frankly, it gives him a headache. But a job’s a job, and he has always prided himself on good work and fine craftsmanship. See them? They were killed by the Dread Pirate Roberts! It was enough to instill a fine sense of terror in many a heart and make him swell with pride.
Still…
A job’s a job, but sooner or later you do have to consider what other things you might want in life. You couldn’t bring a wife home to the ship of the Dread Pirate Roberts, and you certainly couldn’t raise any little ones there, what with all the killing and pillaging and pirating generally going on. And as for a hobby? Forget it. He couldn’t even find anyone to play a game of chess with, for goodness’ sake.
“Please don’t kill me,” the captive says, looking up at him. The politeness is unusual - normally there’s begging and screaming, but all rather desperate and uncouth - and thhis captive sits perfectly still, Jessick’s hands still about his neck.
“Wait.” Jessick stills, obediently. “Why should I make an exception of you?”
The captive takes a moment to touch his hands to his bruised neck, swallowing convulsively. He is a comely young man, with finely-boned hands and a charming face. If he were anyplace else but the deck of this ship, he might do well. (Not here. Not on this ship.) “Because I have to live. I have to live and marry my true love, Buttercup.” The captive’s - the boy’s - eyes are bright and full of wonder when he speaks about her, as if the mere mention of her has put the fire of life back into him. His face is ruddy and flushed with emotion as he speaks of her golden hair, and her kind smile, and the curve of her neck. He gestures with his hands - his lovely, fine-boned, fencer’s hands - to show the bow of her lip, and the flutter of her lashes. He sighs over her voice, soft and melodious as any angel’s.
Pirating is a job, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, an odd pang at having to destroy such devotion over something so petty as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should retire from it all and leave someone else to deal with it, he thinks, not for the time. The people management is the worst part of any - he stops.
Pirating is a job, yes, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, and part of that is the succession planning. He had intended to give the ship and the title to Jessick when he retired - perhaps next year, perhaps the year after - but something about Jessick has always rubbed him up the wrong way. The man doesn’t have any hobbies or loves other than pirating, and that’s a strange thing in a person. The Dread Pirate Roberts had invited him in for a game of chess one night, and Jessick had just stared at him blankly before admitting that he didn’t play.
(What kind of a man doesn’t play chess?)
The boy is still speaking, desperate, now; speaking not for himself but for his love. He must live, he says, so he can win enough money to marry her. The way he says the word must echoes with a strange power, as if it could lift mountains through its certainty.
Well, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, that’s certainly ambition enough. And if he fails, well. That’s easily remedied. He hesitates, his hand on his sword. “We’ll try it out for a day,” he says at last, watching the boy. “You will be -” what could he be, this helpless civilian? He couldn’t climb the rigging, and he couldn’t fight, and he certainly couldn’t pirate. “My personal attendant,” he decides at last, and ignores Jessick’s eyebrows rising. “You will set out my clothes, and tend to my ablutions, and… and suchlike.” In truth, he has very little idea of what a personal attendant might do, but he imagines that it must be not dissimilar to a valet. Clothes, and cleaning, and suchlike. Jessick’s eyebrows are chasing his receding hairline. The Dread Pirate Roberts scowls. “We’ll see how well you do. I’ll...” he hesitates. “I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” Jessick’s eyebrows slowly lower.
The boy contemplates this. “Very well,” he agrees gravely, as if this was a business proposition and not a mercy. He offers his hand. “Westley,” he says.
Ryan, the Dread Pirate Roberts almost blurts out, surprised. He scowls instead and jerks a thumb at belowdecks. “My cabin. You can start with the laundry.”
The boy - Westley - nods his thanks, and walks calmly away on unsteady legs.
“A personal attendant?” Jessick asks, incredulous. “He doesn’t even have his sealegs!”
No hobbies at all, the Dread Pirate Roberts thinks, and shakes his head.
He wonders if Westley plays chess.
*
fin
Re: Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-18 02:10 am (UTC)The little slice of pirate life and that it's boredom and lack of interests paired with Wesley's zest to live for Buttercup and obvious passion that leads to him being spared.
I love and Jessick's incredulous eyebrows.
Really great character creation.
Re: Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-18 11:54 pm (UTC)Re: Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-19 04:56 am (UTC)Re: Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-19 02:59 pm (UTC)Re: Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-19 10:38 pm (UTC)Love it. :D
Re: Princess Bride FIC: Succession Planning
Date: 2019-01-19 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-17 10:55 pm (UTC)Hrmmmm....you have some fun things in your tags. Deadwood, Gone With the Wind, Dead Like Me.....
I would love something Gone With the Wind. Maybe the POV of poor wee Ella Lorena Kennedy, who Scarlet thought wasn't smart (but who knows!).
Or, really - anything GWtW - i do love that book and movie. :D
Darn, no Scarlet icon at DW!!
Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-19 10:04 pm (UTC)***
Ella had the feeling that Lillian was trapped in a situation she had not intended. She’d asked the question in all innocence, and she had likely expected… well. Perhaps not. It was a common enough occurrence, after all.
“How old were you?” Lillian asked, her hands hesitating over the embroidery. She spoke quietly, as if she knew that the question was a transgression, her eyes flickering between Ella and the photograph over the mantlepiece.
Ella thought about it. “It was just after my ninth birthday,” she said slowly. She did not pause in carefully picking out the lily of the valley motif on the decorative cushion. “My mama was still recuperating - she had been ill for some time - and so there was no party that year.” Nor the year after, now that she thought about it. Neither Ella nor Wade had seen much of anything joyful for some time afterwards.
Lillian made a noncommittal sound. She had not picked up the needle again and merely watched Ella, her head inclined to one side.
She looked a little like an overgrown bird, Ella thought, with her neck bare and all her hair piled on top of her head. It looked elegant when Ella’s mama did it, and yet somehow it didn’t suit Lillian at all. She’d often thought this when she looked at Lillian, but had not thought of the best way to bring it up in a way that would not be hurtful. Ella’s mama had always been forthright in her opinions of Ella’s dress and behaviour, and although that truth had not often been kind, it had been instructive. Ella’s own dress and deportment was - she knew - impeccable.
In any case, what could Lillian do with the information, even if Ella found a way to tell her? She could not have a new trusseau made up, and although it did her no good to sit in a dress that did not suit her, it would do her even less good to do so and to know it. It would take away what little colour she had in her cheeks, and Ella could not bear to do that.
No, perhaps it would be better to keep her opinions to herself, and to merely offer Lillian a ribbon or other small frippery that would flatter her complexion.
Perhaps she could loan her the brooch that Mr Butler had bought her for her sixteenth birthday? She did not often wear it, and it would look charming on Lillian.
“You’re distracted,” Lillian observed. She set the hoop to one side and moved so that she was sitting beside Ella. “I upset you. I should not have asked; I am sorry.”
“No! I - no, dear, you did not upset me.” She didn’t even know why she was out of sorts. It wasn’t Lillian’s fault, and the question was natural, after all. Lillian had met Wade, and she had met Cat. It was reasonable to suppose that the girl in the photograph was Ella’s younger sister. (And she had been right, hadn’t she? Just not in the way she had supposed.)
“But, your sister…” She reached out and laid a hand atop Ella’s.
My sister, Ella thought, was the apple of my mother’s eye. She was the one child she loved, the one she cherished.
And she was all of those things only after she was dead.
She did not want to talk about Bonnie, the baby who had never grown up, who had been so beloved of Mr Butler. Perhaps, she thought, if Ella’s own father had lived a little longer, she would have known what it was like to be so beloved. Perhaps if Ella had been the one who died that day, she would have been the one to break her mother’s heart.
“I never knew my sister,” Ella said roughly, her hands finally still beneath Lillian’s. She looked down and saw that in her haste, she had made an error in the stitchwork. She would have to unpick it as it would be obvious, even from afar. “She died when I was young, and she was yet younger.” Lillian’s hand was cool where it touched her skin, the fingers fine and beautiful. It was the one truly beautiful thing about Lilian, she thought, not for the first time. That, and her eyes, which were large, and kind.
“I am sorry about your sister, Ella,” Lillian said softly. Her hand tightened over Ella’s. “I should not have asked about her.”
Ella looked up at that, startled. Her gaze was drawn invariably to the mantlepiece, where a faded photograph took pride of place. Mr Butler had decided on the photograph on the occasion of Bonnie’s third birthday, and had ordered copies for all of the children. Bonnie looked awfully smart in her birthday frock with the sash - it had been a blue sash, the same colour as her eyes - and Wade looked terrified as he gazed at the camera. Ella, standing by Bonnie’s side, had an unfocused expression on her face. They’d had to stand a great deal, and Bonnie had started to squirm by the end. Worried that they would ruin the photograph - and not being terribly sure what that would mean, but Wade had implied that they’d suffer loss of life or limb if anything went wrong - Ella had kept Bonnie still by pinching her arm and murmuring that she’d stop if Bonnie kept still. It was why Bonnie’s expression was so stormy in the photograph.
Afterwards, she had turned on Ella and with babyish venom had declared that she hated her. (She had looked eerily like her mama - like Ella’s mama - in that moment.)
For her part, Ella wished that she had less than perfect recall of that day, and of Bonnie’s expression. It was the only image she had of her, and one of the only mementoes. Ella’s mama had had kept most of Bonnie’s things, and Mr Butler had kept the rest. For Ella and Wade, there had been precious little left, and for Cat - born some years later - there had been nothing at all. Perhaps that was for the best. At least Ella and Wade had known Bonnie; what must it have been like for Cat, to know she came second to a dead girl?
(And Ella? And Wade? Some place after that, Ella supposed.)
Perhaps she should put the photograph away. Make Bonnie stop staring at her with that angry expression, her hands clasped and her hair in careful ringlets.
Lillian was still watching her with a soft expression, her hand over Ella’s. She really did have very pretty eyes, Ella thought. And it was sweet of her to ask, even if it had gone a little wrong. They hadn’t known each other for that long, after all, and Lillian had been ever so kind to her, even when she’d had no reason to be.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ella murmured. She turned her hand over, letting Lillian’s fingers fit over hers. “It was a long time ago.”
From this position - her head bowed and Lillian’s hand in hers - Bonnie’s expression looked a little less stormy, Ella thought. (But perhaps she was imagining things.)
Lillian did not pull away, and seemed content to sit beside Ella, hand in hand.
(Perhaps not.)
*
fin
Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-19 10:23 pm (UTC)Really enjoyed this, thank you! :D
Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-19 11:47 pm (UTC)Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-19 11:48 pm (UTC)Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-19 11:50 pm (UTC)Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-19 11:51 pm (UTC)I don't know your thoughts on the 'sequel', though you did include a mention of it here, but I was disappointed by it. I really wanted something...else.
Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-20 12:00 am (UTC)Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-20 12:03 am (UTC):D
Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-20 12:15 am (UTC)Re: Gone With the Wind FIC: Lost Lilies Out Of Mind
Date: 2019-01-20 12:22 am (UTC)So unnecessary.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-18 03:22 am (UTC)Good Omens FIC: totus mundus agit histrionem (but at least there's an interval)
Date: 2019-01-19 11:45 pm (UTC)*
“I would have thought you’d enjoy it,” Aziraphale said, his voice mild. The play had managed to stumble to an ending - just - although there had been some inexplicable bad weather half-way through that had necessitated an unexpectedly long interval. Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to get them some more snacks. Technically, food wasn’t allowed in the yard - nor was seating - but they’d managed to situate themselves quite comfortably in their folding chairs. “It’s been some time since we saw it last, and it seemed at the time very much to be your cup of tea. It has murder, betrayal, madness…” He glanced across at Crowley. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said, contrite. He had intended for this to be a treat, not an endurance.
“It’s - it’s fine. It was a good performance.” Crowley was eating his ice cream as though his life depended on it.
Aziraphale sighed but said nothing. He was slowly packing up their things while the crowd filtered out of the yard - via the gift shop - and Crowley lingered to watch the stagehands start wiping down the stage. (There had been a lot of blood, especially during the eye-gouging. A lady standing too close had almost fainted when her chenille sweater had become stained; whether it was at the imagery or the dry cleaning bill was unclear.)
“It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it,” Crowley said abruptly. “I liked it well enough when we saw it the first time.”
“But not this time?”
Crowley was silent for a moment. “No. I didn’t like their Edmund.”
That was surprising. Aziraphale had thought him immensely charming - tall, dark, and well put together. He’d had something desperate in him, something about the eyes that strangely reminded Aziraphale of Crowley himself… but perhaps that was the problem. “I thought he was rather compelling, myself,” he said instead.
That seemed to take the wind out of Crowley’s sails. “Well,” he said after a long beat, “quite. But I’d forgotten just how poorly he’s written.”
There was a gasp from behind them. Aziraphale turned to see a bookish young woman staring at Crowley with unmitigated shock on her face. “Compared to Iago,” he extemporised, smiling beatifically at her until she unclenched and moved away, shaking her head. “Poorly written?” He turned back to Crowley, who had finished with his ice cream and was now fiddling with their picnic basket. “I would have thought you’d find him a paragon of the fallen soul.”
Crowley handed him the picnic basket. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
That seemed strangely ominous. Aziraphale pondered it in silence.
The walk back from the playhouse took them along the river. It was still warm despite the earlier showers and the tourists were out in full force, flocking along the embankment. A couple stepped out onto the middle of the street to take a selfie, heedless of the blaring traffic horns this prompted.
“He’s good on paper,” Crowley said abruptly, staring in the opposite direction.
Aziraphale, who had been busy contemplating a nightcap, stopped in surprise. “Edmund?”
Crowley nodded, still not looking at Aziraphale. “He’s - well. Ambitious, and wrathful, and very happy to turn his hand to all the usual sins.”
Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “Yes, I did notice that.” It was what had made him think that Crowley would enjoy the outing. It was difficult to find theatre they both enjoyed, but it had been an absolute age since the last time they’d seen King Lear (possibly it had even been back at the original playhouse) and when he’d seen that it was on at the new Globe… well, it should have been right up Crowley’s street.
“So it’s not that he doesn’t try. It’s just that he’s so bad at it.” Crowley scowled. “It might as well have been a morality play.”
“Oh, well.” They’d come to a natural stop beside one of the benches near the National. Aziraphale took a seat, looking up at Crowley. “He did play the sisters against each other,” he suggested gently. “I thought that was very well done.”
“Yes.”
“And his manipulation of Gloucester! Clever work.”
“Yes,” Crowley said again, his expression dark.
Aziraphale sighed. “My dear, I confess I am at a loss. Which part did you object to?”
Crowley stared down at him, his folded sunglasses in his hands, one hand clenched so tight around them the knuckles were white. “Edmund had one ally in the world,” he said at last, his voice soft. “He had no inheritance, his father didn’t love him, and there was nothing positive in his future. The one good thing in his life was a brother who loved him beyond what he had any right to expect.” He shook his head. “No. Anyone who would throw that away deserves to fail.”
There was an odd defiance in him, as if he was readying himself for a blow. With the setting sun at his back he was in silhouette, his eyes almost copper in the strange light.
Aziraphale gazed up at him and felt again the sudden tender rush that sometimes came upon him, to take Crowley in his arms. He got to his feet and reached out a hand, catching a hold of Crowley’s free one. “Crowley,” he said gently, “oh, my darling, I do not doubt it for a second.” He
did not quite have the courage to put his arms around Crowley, nor to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips.
But, then, he had forgotten: when it counted, Crowley had always been braver than him.
“Edmund was a fool,” he said - gasped, rather - as Crowley pulled away.
Crowley laughed, his eyes bright. “Yes.” He reeled Aziraphale back in for another kiss, warm and lingering as the setting sun.
The picnic basket lay forgotten at their feet for quite some time.
*
fin
A/N: the playhouse Aziraphale and Crowley visit is Shakespeare's Globe. The yard (or the pit) is the standing area in front of the stage. The (slightly ridiculous) title is the motto of the Globe theatre; unsurprisingly it translates to "all the world's a stage".
no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 10:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 11:46 pm (UTC)