OneWhoTurns (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onewhoturns) wrote2018-12-13 03:22 am
onewhoturns) wrote2018-12-13 03:22 am
Entry tags:
[AC Syndicate] Jacob x Reader fic pt 1
A/N Dec 2018: Welcome to the first part of my first reader-insert fic (oh god just tell me if I should switch it to third, that’s very doable, this is all new to me). Never written second person before, never written for the AC Syndicate fandom (or the AC fandom at large) before. So... righto then. Enjoy some (not quite, but soon to be) Jacob/Reader fic. Cross-posted on Tumblr.
Title: N/A (in other words, I have no clue)
Chapter: 1/?
Pairing: Jacob Frye x Reader
Word count: 2153
Rating: PG -- a bit of bad language, but nothing more
Summary: You’d never found violence particularly attractive. But you had to admit… it looked good on him. [mostly applies to the second part, with this being the events leading up to it]
next part (2/?)
You understood the appeal, of course. This day and age? With gangs constantly battling for territory, fights breaking out all over the city, and a frankly alarming amount of dead bodies being stumbled over in the streets? It was no wonder you’d been advised by more than one friend to find some strapping young lad to protect you. You weren’t particularly fond of the implication that you couldn’t protect yourself, but then again, your usual tactic was to run and/or hide and pray to god that no one found you interesting enough to target.
In the interest of self preservation, your wardrobe had been nearly halved, stowing away anything in gang colours with the hope that one day you could wear them again (there was that lovely muted green dress that you’d saved up for and now this new gang had come along and spoiled the colour). (And it wasn’t like your wardrobe had been all that large to begin with.)
Still, every time a friend pointed out the breadth of a man’s chest, or a particularly impressive bruise, with the reasoning that such things meant he could take care of himself - and, by extension, any young lady he was escorting - you could only think of back-alley muggings and taproom brawls and, really, would you want to be with a man getting himself into those situations to begin with? If he started a drunken fight because some fellow at a pub looked at him the wrong way, who was to say he wouldn’t do the same to his lady? While you hadn’t known many who’d been put in that uncomfortable situation, you had known some, and the thought of being stuck in such an arrangement was chilling.
Then again, you’d be lying if you said you’d never once admired the strong corded musculature of the boys unloading freight by the docks, or other such industrious types. Truth be told, you were a bit jealous of Emma and her betrothed - a man who could most fittingly be described as a gentle giant. While perfectly harmless (his bulk being mainly attributed to a family farm in his youth and then years of manual labour once moved to the city), he struck an imposing enough figure that you’d begun to think Emma simple when she was puzzled by your complaints over how uneasy the territory wars made you feel. But, of course, arm in arm with William she could walk down the street and Blighters and Rooks alike avoided unnecessary confrontation. You were not so lucky. So your strategy held: keep your head down, don’t get involved; anonymity was the safest course of action.
Of course, that didn’t make you meek. A calculated defense was still calculated, after all, and the front was shrugged easily on and off as you went about your life. A friend would receive a teasing jab in the ribs or a bawdy comment, your laugh perhaps a bit too loud, yet seeing the telltale red or green colours your eyes went to the ground, shoulders tense and both face and posture bland as all hell. And if that front was occasionally difficult to hold? - whether from fear or simply annoyance - well, you did your best. Considering the worse you’d got had been a bit of jeering from a group of drunken Blighters and a few finger-shaped bruises on a forearm, you felt confident in your strategy.
The worst part of it all, in your opinion (and perhaps it was a selfish view of things), was that you thought things would change when you’d moved up in the world. But timing as it was, even as you snagged yourself better employment, a better living situation, a way out of the grittier parts of London, the Clinkers had become the Rooks and the gang wars began again. And now something was strolling through London, leaving death in its wake.
--
Earlier in the day your lip had curled in distaste, stomach rolling at the sight of a red-clad corpse splayed on the sidewalk. A touch of guilt had coloured your conscience as the cynical thought that - well, at least it was mostly Blighters being found dead in the streets - flitted through your mind. (After all, the blood was far less jarring when it melded with the gang’s colours. Bloodied Rooks somehow always looked worse for wear.) A soft sigh had bypassed closed lips as you let your eyes glaze over, legs following the now-familiar path back to your employers’ residence as you pointedly avoided thinking about any and all gangs. It wasn’t like there was much you could do about it, after all, so you may as well accept it and carry on. At least the City of London was far better than Southwark. It was even a pleasant enough experience, the occasional errand on these rare sunny days.
Apart from, you know, the corpses.
So you’d returned to the household.
You’d snagged a choice job, thanks to an awful lot of hard work, careful loitering, and months of impeccable attention to detail. Serving as a parlour-maid for the middle class, as it turned out, was ideal for you. Or perhaps it was simply your employer, or at least his wife, who seemed particularly fond of you. Fond enough to give you a position at least, in the small cadre of household servants, despite lacking much in the way of qualifications. And far too patient with you, truth be told. Regardless, you had a position now, never lacking a roof over your head or food on your table, and even got Sundays off. You felt astonishingly lucky. You would never want to compromise such a perfect situation.
Which was why you hesitated when entering your lady’s chambers only to be greeted by a broad back knelt before the locked trunk at the foot of her bed. Your first thought - laden with curses - was quickly dismissed. A quick flick of eyes over the figure revealed no colours or insignia for the gangs, which might be considered a small relief apart from the minor detail that this was still, ostensibly, a thief. In the rooms you were supposed to be in charge of, at least part of the time. And as lovely as your mistress was, you didn’t wish to put her in such a position that might call her trust in you into question. So it may be best to simply cry out for help, perhaps another servant could at least bear witness to clear your name if need be. But also: thief. Criminal. Potentially the sort to carry a weapon. If you did cry out, who’s to say your neck wouldn’t be on the line? Perhaps the best course of action would be to turn right back around and go report the theft to the housekeeper, she’d know what to do.
Right. So… careful extraction then.
You managed a single quiet step backwards before the floorboards beneath you creaked far louder than such sturdy things should. You froze, breath caught in your throat, an instantaneous debate - if you should run (loud, but quick) or try to continue slowly inching away - pinged back and forth in your head. Before you’d decided which to follow, the thief was standing, turning to face you.
For all his face was mostly shadowed by the heavy hood he wore, your eyes immediately swept the rest of his figure, seeking gang colours again, if only out of instinct. Red? Red on his waistband, at least. And a red-
“Are you wearing a cravat?” The words slipped from your lips without thinking, utterly bewildered. If it was, it couldn’t have been tied correctly.
...Shit.
Shit!
Your mouth snapped shut in the same instant as you realised you’d been gaping at him in incredulous confusion, and you quickly turned your eyes to the ground, slipping on the bland, meek little shell that was your shield, drawing into yourself and somehow shrinking your very presence. But not before you noticed the amused twitch of his lips.
Dear god, what had you been thinking? (Of course, that was obvious: an awful lot of nothing useful.) But really; one did not expect a thief in a brocade waistcoat and silken cravat (or was it a necktie?). It had blindsided you, truly. Even now you weren’t quite sure how you should be reacting, though you were quite aware that this certainly wasn’t it.
There was a moment of pause, your eyes fixed on the ground, too tense to blink, your flight instincts gradually overpowering your freeze instincts. When he moved to step toward you you bolted, running for the stairs.
When you returned a few minutes later, housekeeper in tow, the room was empty, the trunk still locked, and the window conspicuously open.
--
It got more absurd. Two days later, having been given the night off, you were on your way to a pub on the north end of Southwark to meet your friend and her fiance. Crossing the Thames would’ve been a bit easier and a bit faster if you’d gone for the omnibus, but penny pinching had become a habit and it wasn’t too far a walk. You certainly began to regret it when you heard sheer pandemonium at your back. Gun shots, carriage slamming against carriage, and the sound of terrified horses and cursing immediately made you push even closer to the edge of the bridge, only to watch them come barrelling down the thoroughfare.
Even in the dimming light you recognised his clothes. It was a distinctive look; the quilted leather collar on the duster, the fine waistcoat, the is-it-a-failed-cravat-or-a-rakishly-casual-necktie. He came and passed in moments, but you’d been struck by the absolutely puzzling addition of a top hat. Even more puzzling was the animosity of the two separate vehicles of Blighters on his tail, guns at the ready even as the thief swerved recklessly between carriages. Given the red band under his belt and the red ringing his hat you’d have assumed him to be on their side - or perhaps tangentially so, given the minimal flagging of colours. But you could only assume, what with the Blighters’ fury and the thief’s bark of laughter, that they were not, in fact, allies of any sort.
You were thoroughly rattled for a moment, your heart pounding loud in your throat as you thanked god for not being trampled. But what else was there to do, really, besides continue? It gave you something to share with your friends, at least: I was almost killed by a madman being chased by armed thugs. What a tale.
--
Somehow, by the time you’d reached the Duke of York and had been greeted by warm smiles and a fresh pint, the story had gone from bizarre to entertainingly absurd.
You let out a not-so-ladylike snort at Emma’s flippant suggestion that the only solution here was to become a vigilante and track down the newly dubbed ‘gentleman thief’ yourself. “If this is your attempt at matchmaking, I cannot fathom what you must think of my prospects,” you teased, grinning.
“Well, if he’s so good as a thief he’d at least provide for you,” she grinned right back. “And think of it this way: with Blighters on his tail, you’d make out like a bandit as his new widow. Could buy yourself your own hovel and everything.”
At that you had to laugh.
“Nah, she’s too good for that now,” William’s tone was warm, merely teasing. “Can barely make it to Southwark for a pint without swooning over the dangerous streets.”
“Oh? Are you slumming it with us tonight, then?”
You rolled your eyes in response. “If I were, I’d be doing a poor job of it. This place is practically clean for Christ’s sake. And none of that enticing rank of stale sweat and piss in the air. Where are the drunken brawls and the gang toughs? I simply am not scandalised nearly enough.”
Emma shoved you hard enough to threaten your beer to spill, and you widened your eyes at her accusingly, quickly wiping away the droplet that had come perilously close to soiling your skirt, and glaring at the girl even as you tried not to laugh.
It was a few pints later that the subject was broached again.
“If you really want to be scandalised…”
--
And that was how you ended up, about 75% willing and 80% tipsy, giggling arm in arm with Emma as the three of you made your way to the foundry. You held her arm a bit too tight, eyes a bit too wide, skin jittering as alcohol twisted your fear to adrenaline. William knew a fellow, supposedly, who fought regularly in the ring at this particular fight club, and he promised it was a sight to behold. He’d laughed, claiming your eyes had gone the size of saucers upon hearing of the primary draw of such events: last man standing.
Still, every time a friend pointed out the breadth of a man’s chest, or a particularly impressive bruise, with the reasoning that such things meant he could take care of himself - and, by extension, any young lady he was escorting - you could only think of back-alley muggings and taproom brawls and, really, would you want to be with a man getting himself into those situations to begin with? If he started a drunken fight because some fellow at a pub looked at him the wrong way, who was to say he wouldn’t do the same to his lady? While you hadn’t known many who’d been put in that uncomfortable situation, you had known some, and the thought of being stuck in such an arrangement was chilling.
Then again, you’d be lying if you said you’d never once admired the strong corded musculature of the boys unloading freight by the docks, or other such industrious types. Truth be told, you were a bit jealous of Emma and her betrothed - a man who could most fittingly be described as a gentle giant. While perfectly harmless (his bulk being mainly attributed to a family farm in his youth and then years of manual labour once moved to the city), he struck an imposing enough figure that you’d begun to think Emma simple when she was puzzled by your complaints over how uneasy the territory wars made you feel. But, of course, arm in arm with William she could walk down the street and Blighters and Rooks alike avoided unnecessary confrontation. You were not so lucky. So your strategy held: keep your head down, don’t get involved; anonymity was the safest course of action.
Of course, that didn’t make you meek. A calculated defense was still calculated, after all, and the front was shrugged easily on and off as you went about your life. A friend would receive a teasing jab in the ribs or a bawdy comment, your laugh perhaps a bit too loud, yet seeing the telltale red or green colours your eyes went to the ground, shoulders tense and both face and posture bland as all hell. And if that front was occasionally difficult to hold? - whether from fear or simply annoyance - well, you did your best. Considering the worse you’d got had been a bit of jeering from a group of drunken Blighters and a few finger-shaped bruises on a forearm, you felt confident in your strategy.
The worst part of it all, in your opinion (and perhaps it was a selfish view of things), was that you thought things would change when you’d moved up in the world. But timing as it was, even as you snagged yourself better employment, a better living situation, a way out of the grittier parts of London, the Clinkers had become the Rooks and the gang wars began again. And now something was strolling through London, leaving death in its wake.
--
Earlier in the day your lip had curled in distaste, stomach rolling at the sight of a red-clad corpse splayed on the sidewalk. A touch of guilt had coloured your conscience as the cynical thought that - well, at least it was mostly Blighters being found dead in the streets - flitted through your mind. (After all, the blood was far less jarring when it melded with the gang’s colours. Bloodied Rooks somehow always looked worse for wear.) A soft sigh had bypassed closed lips as you let your eyes glaze over, legs following the now-familiar path back to your employers’ residence as you pointedly avoided thinking about any and all gangs. It wasn’t like there was much you could do about it, after all, so you may as well accept it and carry on. At least the City of London was far better than Southwark. It was even a pleasant enough experience, the occasional errand on these rare sunny days.
Apart from, you know, the corpses.
So you’d returned to the household.
You’d snagged a choice job, thanks to an awful lot of hard work, careful loitering, and months of impeccable attention to detail. Serving as a parlour-maid for the middle class, as it turned out, was ideal for you. Or perhaps it was simply your employer, or at least his wife, who seemed particularly fond of you. Fond enough to give you a position at least, in the small cadre of household servants, despite lacking much in the way of qualifications. And far too patient with you, truth be told. Regardless, you had a position now, never lacking a roof over your head or food on your table, and even got Sundays off. You felt astonishingly lucky. You would never want to compromise such a perfect situation.
Which was why you hesitated when entering your lady’s chambers only to be greeted by a broad back knelt before the locked trunk at the foot of her bed. Your first thought - laden with curses - was quickly dismissed. A quick flick of eyes over the figure revealed no colours or insignia for the gangs, which might be considered a small relief apart from the minor detail that this was still, ostensibly, a thief. In the rooms you were supposed to be in charge of, at least part of the time. And as lovely as your mistress was, you didn’t wish to put her in such a position that might call her trust in you into question. So it may be best to simply cry out for help, perhaps another servant could at least bear witness to clear your name if need be. But also: thief. Criminal. Potentially the sort to carry a weapon. If you did cry out, who’s to say your neck wouldn’t be on the line? Perhaps the best course of action would be to turn right back around and go report the theft to the housekeeper, she’d know what to do.
Right. So… careful extraction then.
You managed a single quiet step backwards before the floorboards beneath you creaked far louder than such sturdy things should. You froze, breath caught in your throat, an instantaneous debate - if you should run (loud, but quick) or try to continue slowly inching away - pinged back and forth in your head. Before you’d decided which to follow, the thief was standing, turning to face you.
For all his face was mostly shadowed by the heavy hood he wore, your eyes immediately swept the rest of his figure, seeking gang colours again, if only out of instinct. Red? Red on his waistband, at least. And a red-
“Are you wearing a cravat?” The words slipped from your lips without thinking, utterly bewildered. If it was, it couldn’t have been tied correctly.
...Shit.
Shit!
Your mouth snapped shut in the same instant as you realised you’d been gaping at him in incredulous confusion, and you quickly turned your eyes to the ground, slipping on the bland, meek little shell that was your shield, drawing into yourself and somehow shrinking your very presence. But not before you noticed the amused twitch of his lips.
Dear god, what had you been thinking? (Of course, that was obvious: an awful lot of nothing useful.) But really; one did not expect a thief in a brocade waistcoat and silken cravat (or was it a necktie?). It had blindsided you, truly. Even now you weren’t quite sure how you should be reacting, though you were quite aware that this certainly wasn’t it.
There was a moment of pause, your eyes fixed on the ground, too tense to blink, your flight instincts gradually overpowering your freeze instincts. When he moved to step toward you you bolted, running for the stairs.
When you returned a few minutes later, housekeeper in tow, the room was empty, the trunk still locked, and the window conspicuously open.
--
It got more absurd. Two days later, having been given the night off, you were on your way to a pub on the north end of Southwark to meet your friend and her fiance. Crossing the Thames would’ve been a bit easier and a bit faster if you’d gone for the omnibus, but penny pinching had become a habit and it wasn’t too far a walk. You certainly began to regret it when you heard sheer pandemonium at your back. Gun shots, carriage slamming against carriage, and the sound of terrified horses and cursing immediately made you push even closer to the edge of the bridge, only to watch them come barrelling down the thoroughfare.
Even in the dimming light you recognised his clothes. It was a distinctive look; the quilted leather collar on the duster, the fine waistcoat, the is-it-a-failed-cravat-or-a-rakishly-casual-necktie. He came and passed in moments, but you’d been struck by the absolutely puzzling addition of a top hat. Even more puzzling was the animosity of the two separate vehicles of Blighters on his tail, guns at the ready even as the thief swerved recklessly between carriages. Given the red band under his belt and the red ringing his hat you’d have assumed him to be on their side - or perhaps tangentially so, given the minimal flagging of colours. But you could only assume, what with the Blighters’ fury and the thief’s bark of laughter, that they were not, in fact, allies of any sort.
You were thoroughly rattled for a moment, your heart pounding loud in your throat as you thanked god for not being trampled. But what else was there to do, really, besides continue? It gave you something to share with your friends, at least: I was almost killed by a madman being chased by armed thugs. What a tale.
--
Somehow, by the time you’d reached the Duke of York and had been greeted by warm smiles and a fresh pint, the story had gone from bizarre to entertainingly absurd.
You let out a not-so-ladylike snort at Emma’s flippant suggestion that the only solution here was to become a vigilante and track down the newly dubbed ‘gentleman thief’ yourself. “If this is your attempt at matchmaking, I cannot fathom what you must think of my prospects,” you teased, grinning.
“Well, if he’s so good as a thief he’d at least provide for you,” she grinned right back. “And think of it this way: with Blighters on his tail, you’d make out like a bandit as his new widow. Could buy yourself your own hovel and everything.”
At that you had to laugh.
“Nah, she’s too good for that now,” William’s tone was warm, merely teasing. “Can barely make it to Southwark for a pint without swooning over the dangerous streets.”
“Oh? Are you slumming it with us tonight, then?”
You rolled your eyes in response. “If I were, I’d be doing a poor job of it. This place is practically clean for Christ’s sake. And none of that enticing rank of stale sweat and piss in the air. Where are the drunken brawls and the gang toughs? I simply am not scandalised nearly enough.”
Emma shoved you hard enough to threaten your beer to spill, and you widened your eyes at her accusingly, quickly wiping away the droplet that had come perilously close to soiling your skirt, and glaring at the girl even as you tried not to laugh.
It was a few pints later that the subject was broached again.
“If you really want to be scandalised…”
--
And that was how you ended up, about 75% willing and 80% tipsy, giggling arm in arm with Emma as the three of you made your way to the foundry. You held her arm a bit too tight, eyes a bit too wide, skin jittering as alcohol twisted your fear to adrenaline. William knew a fellow, supposedly, who fought regularly in the ring at this particular fight club, and he promised it was a sight to behold. He’d laughed, claiming your eyes had gone the size of saucers upon hearing of the primary draw of such events: last man standing.