#mettleborn

Sebastian and his friends, idle before a charity dinner at the Rag club, were sitting in the drawing room of the Athenaeum at dull talk about foreign office investments. Sebastian was brushing at pieces of fluff on his no.1 jacket. He had not wanted to come here, but it would have been indelicate to voice his dissent. Ever since he had returned to London, he had felt the prickle of Lord Cavendish’s warning - of which he remembered every word, and often at night did, in the thrall of insomnia - at his back wherever he went. He hadn’t seen nor heard tell of the man at all. It appeared he was out of town; likely at his crumbling old fortress in Cornwall with his coterie of doting servants. Or perhaps still with Miss Adelia, of whom Sebastian also sometimes thought on cold nights in wind-battered tents. And so he sat with relative ease in his armchair at the Athenaeum, one of Cavendish’s old haunts, until at one seemingly harmless moment he looked up from his jacket - and saw the man, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, with hanging on his arm, Sebastian’s sister Florence.

It took a moment for the sight to register properly. Sebastian’s pale eyes became dilated and a cold flush went through him which drained the colour from his face. It was only when his fellow Second Lieutenant, Henrik, noticed that Sebastian hadn’t passed the tea when asked, that anybody else was drawn to the scandalous sight. Henrik frowned, and then laughed. ‘Well that’s an Emperor’s Triumph if I ever I saw one.’ Indeed, a more perfectly executed glorious return to society could not have been imagined. Only Cavendish could have strategised such a scandal, and Sebastian was suddenly reminded of how deeply he hated the man.

‘How dare he?’ Sebastian breathed, hardly aware that the others could hear him until someone replied. ‘I think it’s very enterprising of him. She’s developing charmingly.’ Sebastian turned with a brow creased in pure bafflement at this assessment. Florence was, despite Sebastian’s myopia, a perfect example of a young English rose. Under the club’s skylight ripples of sunlight streaked her crimped hair, and her little tyrannical mouth, with its expectant parted lips, was as pink as the taffeta bow on her dress. This was all most ordinary in girls of her age and class - as was her slight chubbiness of the arms and ankles, her pale skin and her impudent expressions - and in her ordinariness she never usually made any particularly overwhelming demands on mens’ curiosity.

‘Come Sebastian, it’s only to be expected,’ said one of Sebastian’s superiors, grey-haired and wearing the blue ribbon and garter star. ‘Her mother at that age was just same. There is nothing like breeding, is there?’ Sebastian did not join the light laughter of agreement that followed the comment. Seeing Cavendish turn his back on Florence to approach the bar, he was on his feet at once and advancing towards her, sword on hip, as if approaching an enemy officer. She had one hand on the rail of the balcony and the other still resting on Cavendish’s arm, and was smiling at her brother like the cat that got the cream. Instead of addressing her, Sebastian gave her a silent, stern look, before looking to Cavendish as he turned around from paying the barman.

@mettleborn

What an odd position to ask that question…. There was a hunting knife perfectly flushed against Will’s neck and now Hannibal decided to be romance? Out of months and months of psychosexual tension the good doctor decided to ask if Will had thought about the feeling of his lips against Will’s own sensitive flesh.

While Mycroft had never been the most social individual, he understood the concept of societal expectations. At all times, he was a representative of his family, his father in particular, and therefore it wouldn't do to behave in a way that risked the potential for gossip to be spread. As much as he may prefer to keep to himself, reclusive behaviour had a nasty habit of prompting conversation, and thus Mycroft made an effort to show his face at some of the more tolerable gatherings throughout the academic year.

The Oxford Union put on quite a few of these events. Their start of the year gathering was by no means Mycroft's favourite, but it wasn't the worst either. There was, at least, a high likelihood of there being a few individuals in attendance who would prove interesting to talk to. Considering that, Mycroft's plan was to arrive, spend a few hours in conversation with these individuals, and then return to his rooms. With luck, he could make his presence known just enough to avoid unwanted gossip, but not so much that he was dragged into more conversation than he wanted.

For the most part, the evening was going well. Mycroft had bumped into a few of his peers from his course and had spent some time discussing their final year's upcoming syllabus. He had then found himself talking to the son of one of his father's colleagues. They had discussed politics for a while before Mycroft had politely excused himself with the intent of finding another drink.

With a new glass in hand, he took himself to the side of the room, planning to observe the going ons around him. Eventually, he noticed that he wasn't the only figure that had decided to step to one side, though when he turned to look at who had joined him, Mycroft was surprised to see Lord Cavendish.

The other man was not one with whom he had spent any particular time. Mycroft was aware of him (he would wager that he was aware of all the sons of the current notable men in politics), and they had shared a few words here and there, but they did not have the same social circles, nor were they on the same course.

His social circle was actually why Mycroft was surprised to see him. From what he had heard and observed from a distance, Lord Cavendish was a man with an impressive yet complex group of friends. The way he seemed to direct the wills of some of those friends was fascinating - though, not so much so that Mycroft found himself wanting to get a closer look. Perhaps those Lord Cavendish was with had got caught up in conversation elsewhere, or perhaps he needed a short respite from them - whatever the case, Mycroft had looked at him, and now it would be rather impolite to not say anything.

Once the gunfire finally came to a halt, Eric felt his shoulders sagging slightly, tension somewhat releasing him from its grasp. The situation was not over, no, far from it. But at least this small reprieve would give him a moment to breathe, collect his thoughts.... and hopefully figure out what the fuck was happening. He sat down with his back against the small wall which he had been using to protect himself (although it had not helped much) and he tore at the new hole that the bullet had caused in his sleeve. He could not feel any exit wound on the back of his arm, leaving him to suspect that he would be spending some time fishing it out; that was if he made it out of this alive.

He had confidence in his own skills, almost to the point that it was irritating for others, but he did not know who this man was, nor did he know his motives. The fact that he had not yet relented showed Eric that this was not just a chance encounter. He recognised the signs of a bounty... He knew them like the back of his hand.

Over the stench of flames and burning wood, came the subtle but distinct scent of cigarette smoke, and Eric risked a hasty glance over the wall just in time to see the box skidding across the dusty concrete floor. Confusion was strong as blue eyes watched it for a moment, before his fingers wrapped around it and he helped himself.

She's had better times, that's for sure. Although the once brilliant blue is now a pale from the dirt and decay of the wasteland, Echo still sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of an open-gated settlement. Hungry, exhausted, sore -- nothing compares to the frustration, however, from the sheer shut-out she's received from the locals. A simple hello gets shunned. A 'can you help me' is a cold shoulder.

Golden Rule, her butt.

Although he's the sixth person she's asked today, Echo refuses to give up. Won't, not when she knows crossing this wasteland by her lonesome spells a death sentence. Maybe she doesn't have many caps -- or any -- but she can figure it out. Make it up. She just needs someone to take a chance.

Send 🌀 for my muse’s reaction to getting stuck in a storm with yours. (From Igor)

Ship-building meme

🎼 - *I had to go with this one because the lyrics are simply chef's kiss to the enth degree!*