vivalaopenpost (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bakerstreet2021-03-21 09:20 pm
vivalaopenpost) wrote in bakerstreet2021-03-21 09:20 pm
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[Up for an AU'd-together thing with an original fantasy setting Crown Prince? Maybe their families have arrangements in progress between them, and he's taken on a charge in the meantime to ensure her safety while she travels, for maximum tension and if-they're-basically-engaged-then-why-wait temptation. She'd certainly at least know his reputation, I'm sure, and might have met him a few times, and I'm fine plotting out that established CR/background/etc as much as you like!]
[ Nana is most likely the bodyguard/knight! ]
[Definitely the bodyguard/knight.]
[Guard for sure.]
( the one being protected. )
[Likely to be the guard. Rusty voicetesting. Slowposting prose preferred]
Edited 2021-03-22 05:11 (UTC)
Naive, she thinks in retrospect, to have thought that widowhood would have finally meant independence.
Martel had never been suited to cooperation; to taking orders he didn't personally think were the best use of him. Working for any goals he didn't care about enough to want control over — however interesting his work was to HYDRA, they had not been nearly as interesting to him. And he'd been cocky about expressing as much. She should have known better, she thinks, than to have imagined they had nothing to do with his death — no matter how many other enemies he had, or how obvious it had seemed what had happened. God, even if they had been, what sort of idiots would have passed up the opportunity?
She owns DAMSEC now in name only. The ability she has to limit what HYDRA can access of Martel's work is — limited. It's a matter of time, she thinks, before they realise that she herself is more than just the trophy wife he left behind. Especially now that she is almost never left alone; the grim-eyed soldier at her elbow always now, as she goes through the motions of pretending that this life is her own.
At her manicurist, she thinks about suggesting he should sit down next to her and have his nails tidied up, and the abrupt way she laughs at nothing visibly makes the woman she's known for years now uncomfortable enough that she excuses herself, and couldn't explain to anyone if she wanted to why it is that she sits in the salon bathroom for ten minutes, crying into her half-done hands. She tips so generously no one asks.
It's only when the idea of relocating her and the company to a location easier for HYDRA to manage and better suited to their workforce is floated that she balks outright — scrambling for excuses not to explain why, offering up weak objections and cursing herself for not having thought about this, for not having been prepared with better arguments, with a way to buy herself time.
She cancels the rest of her day. Takes her shoes off when she gets (they get) home, picks up a bottle and digs out a cigarette case that she's scrupulously avoided touching in front of him —
“I'm not going anywhere,” she says, wishing it were truer than this moment. “I'm sure you can take a break.”
Martel had never been suited to cooperation; to taking orders he didn't personally think were the best use of him. Working for any goals he didn't care about enough to want control over — however interesting his work was to HYDRA, they had not been nearly as interesting to him. And he'd been cocky about expressing as much. She should have known better, she thinks, than to have imagined they had nothing to do with his death — no matter how many other enemies he had, or how obvious it had seemed what had happened. God, even if they had been, what sort of idiots would have passed up the opportunity?
She owns DAMSEC now in name only. The ability she has to limit what HYDRA can access of Martel's work is — limited. It's a matter of time, she thinks, before they realise that she herself is more than just the trophy wife he left behind. Especially now that she is almost never left alone; the grim-eyed soldier at her elbow always now, as she goes through the motions of pretending that this life is her own.
At her manicurist, she thinks about suggesting he should sit down next to her and have his nails tidied up, and the abrupt way she laughs at nothing visibly makes the woman she's known for years now uncomfortable enough that she excuses herself, and couldn't explain to anyone if she wanted to why it is that she sits in the salon bathroom for ten minutes, crying into her half-done hands. She tips so generously no one asks.
It's only when the idea of relocating her and the company to a location easier for HYDRA to manage and better suited to their workforce is floated that she balks outright — scrambling for excuses not to explain why, offering up weak objections and cursing herself for not having thought about this, for not having been prepared with better arguments, with a way to buy herself time.
She cancels the rest of her day. Takes her shoes off when she gets (they get) home, picks up a bottle and digs out a cigarette case that she's scrupulously avoided touching in front of him —
“I'm not going anywhere,” she says, wishing it were truer than this moment. “I'm sure you can take a break.”
[Definitely the guard. Info on journal, 18+ characters for shipping, please.]
[Marrow had been personally chosen to be Weiss's bodyguard by Ironwood. Jacques may have given him stink eyes due to Faunus but Marrow had paid no time.
Insted he knocked on Weiss's door after arriving at the estate.]
Miss Schnee? I'm your new bodyguard, Marrow Amin of Atlas Military.
[Even if he had wanted to be in on the action but orders were orders.]
Insted he knocked on Weiss's door after arriving at the estate.]
Miss Schnee? I'm your new bodyguard, Marrow Amin of Atlas Military.
[Even if he had wanted to be in on the action but orders were orders.]
[The bodyguard! Bubbly and airheaded, but very effective.]
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