#1. chemise and stays and stockings

[15-lizards]

Having a good day…remembered that GRRM consistently describes Cersei, a high ranking noblewoman and queen of his pseudo medieval England fantasy world, as wearing her hair loose and flowing down her back, her gowns as simple one piece dresses with no other additional skirts/overdresses/kirtles, and plunging necklines that show off her bare shoulders…having a bad day

[caladblog]

A BASIC GUIDE TO VICTORIAN CLOTHING, FOR FANDOMS

wherein VICTORIAN CLOTHING is understood to mean "common clothing from the 1830s to the end of the century, in fashion as set by London and followed to a greater or lesser extent in the rest of the British empire"

This is very much meant as a starting point or a cheat sheet, not a comprehensive historical essay, for people who want to know what the Fuck is happening under that morning coat and/or dress the size of a kitchen table. I've also included a little bit on likely materials and colors so you can add some texture to your fics.

Here's the rule of thumb: Victorians loved LAYERS, BUTTONS, and DECORATIVE SHIT. When in doubt, slap several layers of clothing on your guy, button 'em all together, and flourish the hell out of the top layer. Congrats, you have dressed a Victorian.

Read on for details! And check my reblogs for a note on trans characters. A Part 2 on Mending/Laundry is in the works, because it had a much bigger impact on Victorian dress at all levels of society than it does on modern fashion and I think it's worth talking about.

UNDERWEAR FOR MEN:

a warm and comfortable and easily washable undershirt (typically called a vest) with sleeves that went down to the wrist

drawers, also warm and comfortable and easily washable and covering the whole legs, fastened with buttons or ties at the waist and ankles

pair of socks

If you cover your whole body in this base layer made of undyed, unfashionable, who-cares-if-it's-stained fabric, the sweat and dirt of your body stays on this easily-washable layer and spares the outer layers of clothing that would be damaged by hot water and soaps, or at least that was the philosophy.

The most common fabric for this underwear was flannel, as it was cheap and fairly soft. Bands of cotton could be stitched to the inside of the wrists, ankles, waists, and collar if you found the wool itchy. Socks were almost always knitted wool, holes or thin spots mended with darning whether you were poor or rich.

UNDERWEAR FOR WOMEN:

the chemise / shift: a simple, short-sleeved cotton tube that fell to the mid-thigh

other underwear requires a bit of a history lesson, sorry. At the beginning of the century, you wore like 85 petticoats and no bloomers. Then crinolines--a sort of metal cage skirt that held your dress away from your body to obtain the fashionable wide silhouette--were invented in the 1850s. It was great, because they replaced 30lbs of underskirts, but also inconvenient, in that hoops of steel are inherently bouncy. To preserve modesty (and also warmth) women began wearing bloomers, open in the middle and buttoning at the waist and either at or below the knee. These were also made of plain cotton and only occasionally decorated with a bit of lace-- for all your underthings, male or female, you wanted to be able to 1) make a bunch of sets quickly and cheaply so you could change every day without needing to launder as often and 2) use cloth that could be laundered easily.

stockings were longer and more decorative than men's socks, made of wool, cotton, or silk. White was popular at the beginning of the century, but bright colors and patterns became fashionable in the middle, and conservative black stockings dominated the end of the era. Wool fabrics were the most common, warmest, and cheapest; silk stockings were for very wealthy and fashionable women as they required the most care. Near the end of the century stockings were suspended from the corset, but up til that point stockings were held up by garters tied above the knee.

MIDDLE LAYERS FOR MEN:

shirts, with much longer tails than the button-up shirts we're used to, with a buttoned slit that only went about halfway down the chest rather than all the way down the front of the garment. Lots of volume in the sleeve around the armpit, buttoned up at the cuff. At the beginning of the period, rich men's shirts were checked or patterned while working men's shirts were white(ish), but this swapped over the course of the century as colored fabric became cheaper. (It hides stains better.) The gentleman's shirt from midcentury onward was a crisp, bright white.

As a middle layer, parts of it (like the cuffs and front) could be seen in public, but you absolutely could not go out without a waistcoat and jacket. You only removed your jacket and showed your shirtsleeves at the end of the day, amongst your family.

Trousers were held up by braces / suspenders that went over the shoulders, not belts that fastened around the waist, and you did NOT let them show. They were meant to be covered entirely by waistcoats.

MIDDLE LAYERS FOR WOMEN:

As a very carefully tailored and shaped garment that couldn't really be washed, corsets went over the shift. All women wore them, even laborers, even prisoners and people in workhouses as part of their (institution-provided and deliberately demeaning) uniform. They were viewed as necessary armor to support your weak internal organs, and the physically upright posture they created went hand in hand with moral uprightness in the Victorian mind. They could lace up in the front or back, and the boning could be made of steel (cheap and sturdy) or whalebone (springier and therefore a bit more comfortable) or wood (if you are truly broke AF) or even just stiff cord (mostly for young girls, in which they were called stays).

camisoles (also called vests or corset covers) were tailored shirts worn over the corset, and could be either extremely decorative with embroidery and lace or plainer and made for warmth.

then you've got the crinoline, tied at the waist, a skirt made of steel hoops as already described.

then a couple of petticoats, decorated at the hem for fashion, layered for warmth and to hide the crinoline's hoops.

OUTERWEAR FOR MEN:

trousers, made of cotton or wool. The big differences between Victorian trousers and today's are 1) zippers hadn't been invented yet, the flies were buttoned and 2) the modern waist sits around the hipbones, while the Victorian waist was at the bottom of the ribcage.

jackets, made of thick heavily felted wool that was decently wind- and rain-proof. Darker colors in jackets and trousers lasted longer, so light-colored cloth was mostly worn by the young and rich (or those who wanted to look rich) and flashy.

waistcoats were where the fashion REALLY was. As the back was always made of plain cotton not meant to be seen, even poor men could often afford the cost of the fabric needed to make a neat waistcoat. The front could be made of embroidered silk for luxury, wool for added warmth, or printed cotton making full use of the brilliantly-colored (and relatively cheap) dyes that had just been invented. It's a little bit like people today wearing simple suits and shirts paired with wild socks.

OUTERWEAR FOR WOMEN:

and here you finally get to the f*cking dress. I couldn't possibly go into all the variations on dresses in this era, but I can say that bright colors and patterns were common for women of all classes (but were also part of the ever-present anxiety about people acting "above their station", if a maid dressed too fashionably). The design of the sleeves and the decoration of the hems changed regularly with fashion, as did the precise shape of the feminine silhouette, but the bodice was always tight and the skirts were always full. The average woman would spend more money on flourishes--ribbons, lace, other trimmings--than the dress itself, largely because the average level of skill in sewing was so high that they mostly bought the fabric for the dress and cut & sewed it themselves.

ACCESSORIES FOR MEN:

the collar was not an integral part of the shirt! It was detachable and had to be washed, starched, and ironed separately. Laborers didn't wear them, just a loosely-tied cloth around their neck, but a stand-up collar was necessary for anyone working in a business setting whether you're rich or making really terrible clerk's wages. Turned-down collars like the ones on most of our shirts today were informal and for wealthy men at leisure.

a stock or necktie, ideally black silk. Modern neckties weren't around yet, but the century moved slowly towards that and away from cravats.

gloves. Especially when status was a concern, so, men outside the home not engaged in business and servants waiting on their masters. These were tight-fitting, pale in color, and damn near impossible to launder and mend.

ACCESSORIES FOR WOMEN:

a shawl, often. Your lower half would be covered in stockings and plentiful skirts, while your upper half would only have a few layers that were usually made of cotton, so freezing your tits off was unfortunately common.

gloves. Like men's gloves, these were also status symbols worn when visiting your acquaintances or waiting on your masters. The vast vast majority of servants were women, and the rough labor of washing and cleaning fell to them, so these gloves also covered the evidence of that rough work.

HATS/BONNETS:

Everybody wore a hat when out in public. It's just what you did. The type of hat varied based on fashion, occupation, and social standing, but you had SOME kind of thing on your head when you left the house.

SOME SPECIFIC CLOTHES:

Fishermen wore knitted jumpers instead of jackets. Laborers out in the country (muddy when it rained, dusty when it didn't) wore gaiters, which were basically just rectangles or tubes of cheap-ass sacking that tied around the ankle and below the knee to keep the mud / dust off their trousers. Surgeons and people who worked a lot with ink (clerks, stationers) had sleeves, which were tubes of canvas that tied around the wrist and elbow to protect their shirtsleeves. The advantage of sleeves and gaiters is that you can remove them, toss them in a bucket of water, and beat the shit out of them to wash them without worrying about rips or tears OR getting the stains (mud, ink, blood, etc) onto your other clothes.

Maids and other laborers didn't wear crinolines, but they did wear a corset and a couple of petticoats under their dress.

More prosperous laborers might still own a collar / crinoline, but only wear it to church on Sundays or other occasions that called for nice dress.

When at home and not working or entertaining visitors, both men and women would wear slippers that could be super fancy or very simple or your kid's first sewing project, etc etc. Depends on your preference.

Men would sleep in long, loose nightshirts and women would sleep in long, loose nightdresses. Practically speaking there wasn't much difference between these garments; both might be decorated a bit with embroidery or lace. Rich people would have finer fabrics, fashionable people would have more decoration, poor people might just sleep in whatever combination of day clothes is the most comfortable. Fairly straightforward.

TO RECAP

MEN: vest + drawers + socks > shirt > trousers + braces + collar > waistcoat + stock or necktie > jacket + shoes or boots > hat

WOMEN: shift + bloomers (optional) + stockings > corset > camisole > crinoline > petticoats (minimum 2) > dress > shawl > shoes + bonnet

===

SOURCES

How to Be a Victorian, by Ruth Goodman

Inside the Victorian Home, by Judith Flanders

Episode 342 of Antiques Freaks, Historical Costuming for The Terror (2018)-- the first ~8 minutes talk about men's clothes in general, then they go into naval uniforms until minute 15ish.

[littlejuicebox]

I want to hold your hand.

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character/Ranger AKA AstarionxWren

Chapter number: Ten

Rating/Warnings: PG-13 / All fluff no smut in this one / Act 1 Spoilers / Angst / Anxiety / Feelings Realization / Violence / Gore / Past trauma / Alcohol / Swear words / Lae'zel being a butthole again (I promise I actually really love her character but, come on, the behavior in this chapter pretty in character for her.) Word count: 2.8K Masterlist: Click here. Song inspiration: "I Want to Hold Your Hand" - The Beatles (But really, more so the version in Across the Universe because the yearning is palpable in that version.) Notes: LMK if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series in a message. :)

-----

Astarion took a long time gathering enough gumption to finally exit the Druid’s bedchambers. By the time he made his way toward the center of the grove, all the stars were gleaming in the sky, and more than one campfire had been lit. It appeared everyone already ate dinner, made evident by the empty tables full of used crockery and roasts picked nearly to the bone. He heard faint notes of music and an increasing amount of chatter as he made his way up the stone steps to the camp… it sounded like a party.

His other traveling companions were already there, and their tents had all been pitched. He spied Karlach kindly putting his tent up, and Astarion walked over to help her finish the job. Typically, he would've just left the tiefling to the grunt work and walked off to flirt with Wren or merely lounge about, but since Wren had stormed away from him earlier in the evening after their little tiff… he had nothing better to do.

Apart from Wren, Karlach was probably the vampire's favorite companion. Her easy-going nature made it so he didn’t have to perform too terribly hard around her, and he appreciated their rare moments together. Shadowheart was good for some quick banter, of course, but now the cleric’s preoccupation with Lae’zel made that relationship less ideal and he'd found himself avoiding the cleric whenever her green guard dog was around.

The silver-haired elf took one of the tent ties from Karlach and scanned the crowd for Wren. He spotted her sitting by an attentive Halsin. The unexpected sight created a dull ache in his chest, right around where his undead heart sat stock-still. Gods, he had to find a way to fix things before she found herself enamored with someone that was clearly a better alternative and he wasted all his time and effort for… what exactly? What was this thing between them?

The Archdruid towered over the little bird, especially when she was in a seated position. But despite the size difference, the mountain of a man held her arm in a remarkably gentle grip. The vampire tried to ignore the new duo as he thanked Karlach and then meandered toward the pile of booze. Maybe if he just… loosened himself up a bit, he’d be able to talk to Wren about what he was feeling instead of putting his foot in his mouth again. But what was he feeling, exactly? Astarion didn't have the words. Perhaps that wasn’t the point. Perhaps the point was that whatever role she wanted him to perform, he would do it, if it meant he would stay in her good graces. Surely that was a fair price to pay to be rid of the ache in his chest.

As much as the rogue tried to ignore the scene that was making his insides churn, his eyes kept roaming back to the two of them. The vampire watched as Halsin thoroughly, too thoroughly, spread some kind of salve on Wren’s forearm while she occupied herself with chugging whatever she had in her cup. Astarion had a fleeting thought that it should be him applying that salve on Wren's arm, not the big bear. If not him, then surely Shadowheart. Who the hell was this druid, anyway?

Wren had changed from the chemise he’d given her a few days back and into an entirely different, and significantly more revealing outfit. Where the hells had she even found a set of leather trousers? And was she truly just wearing the bodice she wore under her armor on her torso?

After Halsin was done playing doctor with the little bird, the pale elf was sure the sickening rendezvous would end. But then Wren was digging through her bag and revealing the pipe she’d stolen from Halsin with a guilty grin. The Archdruid seemed very entertained by this; he threw his head back as he laughed in pure delight. Halsin said something with a lifted eyebrow and then smiled and returned the pipe back to the little bird.

Gods, Astarion wished he could hear what they were saying from here. He had the strange sensation of being left out, and he bristled at the thought. ‘They are getting along far too well.’

The vampire reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the scene and snatched a bottle of wine from the booze pile. He was in no mood for this little party, but he supposed he would play this part if he had to.

-----

Wren was tired of performing. The whole self-sufficient, strong ranger woman act was getting exhausting. What was the point? She kept making mistakes, anyway… first losing her own eye, then blowing their cover with Minthara, and then the absolute dragonshitshow of a conversation she’d just had with one of her strongest and most versatile campmates. The campmate that she’d bedded the day before, effectively ending her entirely too long streak of voluntary abstinence. But… had her time with Astarion really been a mistake? She couldn't be sure.

Truly, Wren just wanted someone to hold her. And maybe Halsin wouldn’t hold her, but he’d hold her arm with his warm, comforting hand… and slather some sticky, honey-based salve on her charred skin while she chugged whatever Alfira had just poured into her cup. She liked Halsin. He was nice. He was mature, kind, and held an attractive air of relaxed confidence. It was easy to be drawn to his comforting energy; she saw why the grove trusted him.

Before long, the Archdruid wrapped her arm in a bandage, refused the return of his pipe with an explanation that he had several more, and told her that he didn’t know how to remove the parasites, but he had some ideas they could discuss tomorrow. He cut the conversation short and pushed her into the party, insisting she go and have some fun before returning to business-as-usual tomorrow morning.

Wren wasn’t in any mood for this party, but she begrudgingly obliged. After downing whatever was left in her cup, she found herself roped into a few dances with some of the tieflings and one with Gale. By the third cup of — what was it, wine? — she and Karlach tried to dance without touching, mostly just shimmying and spinning around one another like lunatics before falling on the ground laughing at the stupidity of it all. She needed that laugh, and if she could’ve hugged the tiefling woman then, she would’ve.

After the chortling was over, and the ranger's ribs hurt beyond belief, the two women wandered back to the libations. Karlach flicked her gaze over toward Astarion, who appeared to be brooding and trying to hide the fact that he was brooding, and then she looked back to a buzzed Wren. She filled two more cups with some cherry-scented liquid as she addressed the half-elf. “What’s going on with you and Fangs, anyway, soldier? Normally you two are attached at the hip… or the lip.”

“Karlach!” Wren yelped, her eyes widening as she quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had heard the Barbarian. Her already alcohol-flushed face began to trail the rosy blush up her ears and down her neck.

“Oh, come off!” Karlach exclaimed with a chuckle, rolling her eyes at the ranger. “First of all, you’re a grown woman, so you can do whatever and whoever you’d like. Second of all… it’s not really a secret, Wren. We all know. You should’ve seen the absolute state Astarion was in for those few days you were knocked out after that Gur encounter. I doubt he’s like that for just anyone.”

Wren didn’t know what to say in response to Karlach’s revelation. Her fingers moved up to nervously touch her lip scar and then she shrugged, “I guess… I didn’t know how he felt. I… don’t know how he feels.”

“Well… did you ever really ask him?” Karlach responded with a shrug, as if the answer were quite simple to her, cocking her head just slightly at the ranger before shoving the filled cup into her hand.

Wren almost laughed as she lifted the cup to her lips for a drink. She didn’t ever ask him; she’d been too preoccupied by the parasite, and then losing her eye. She didn't stop to speak to him at all, really. The archer soaked in the irony of her own words from her earlier encounter with Astarion swinging like a boomerang right back to her. The substance in her cup tasted better than the previous drinks she’d been given, and the brunette woman eagerly took another sip as she considered her friend’s words with a soft hum. “Alright. I'll ask him."

-----

Astarion watched Wren dance with more than one partner. Should he ask her to dance? Would that smooth things over? He knew how to, of course. But then, if she was so angry with him that she rejected him in front of everyone… well the rogue’s pride truly couldn’t stand for that to happen.

The vampire sat frozen in indecision, sipping from his bottle as his eyes tracked the little bird around the camp. She and Karlach had a bit of conversation by the booze table — it must’ve been about him, because Karlach looked his way more than once. Annoyingly, he couldn’t pick up what they said from this distance over the clamor of other conversations and Alfira’s music. The knowledge that he was being discussed made him uneasy, and he huffed, suddenly scanning the party for a distraction. Just as he was about to throw a line at some tiefling in a futile attempt to stroke his own ego, he heard Wren’s enraged voice thundering through the party.

“What the hell did you just say, Lae’zel?” The little bird was standing face to face with the Githyanki, hands clenched into tight fists.

“You heard what I said. I do not need to repeat it.” Lae’zel responded coolly, stepping even closer to the ranger, answering their group leader’s challenge.

The entire crowd had fallen silent, watching the scene unfold. Wren quickly hooked her right arm, and Astarion stared in a ridiculously juxtaposed mixture of horror and delight as it connected with a solid pow on the other woman’s eye socket. Lae’zel, to her credit, took the punch with barely any reaction and then returned it with one of her own. It landed on the ranger’s nose with a sickening crack.

Astarion rushed forward, along with Karlach and Shadowheart, just as Lae’zel was about to withdraw her blade. But Astarion was faster than the alien and he pressed the edge of his dagger against the Githyanki’s neck in warning.

“Now, now, I think not, little viper. You’re clearly drunk. Go lay down with mommy Shadowheart and take a nap before we all do things we will surely regret in the morning.” His voice warned, tone measured but scarlet eyes heated as they glared into Lae’zel’s.

Shadowheart had hold of Lae’zel’s forearm, staying her blade, while Karlach stood a few paces behind the half-elf. Wren was holding her nose, which was now pouring thin streams of crimson. Astarion couldn’t see the blood from where his face was pressed so closely to the alien, but he could easily smell it. Oh, how his fingers positively ached with the desire to slice into Lae’zel’s neck and repay the debt.

Shadowheart spoke, trying with all her might to remain calm and be the voice of reason. “Come on, Lae’zel. You’re drunk… you didn’t truly mean it. Come with me, let’s go lay down.”

The Githyanki relented, inhaling deeply and stepping back, away from Astarion’s blade. The cleric offered an apologetic look to her other campmates before grabbing her lover’s hand and pulling her away from the party, towards their tent.

“Sorry about that, folks! You know how it goes among family!” Karlach shouted, and soon everyone shrugged off the dispute and resumed their conversations, followed by another swell of music.

After Astarion stowed his blade, he turned to check on Wren. She’d already walked towards her own tent and hidden herself inside the little nest. He followed after her, swiftly ducking himself into the canvas shelter before kneeling down to face the little bird. She’d held a cloth over her nose and fixed her closed eyes toward the ceiling, hoping to slow the bleeding.

“I heard it break. Can’t you heal it yourself?” He murmured, cocking his head slightly as he lifted his hand toward her face, removing the cloth for a moment to examine the damage.

“I tried. But it seems I’m out of spellcasting power. I used it all up at the goblin camp. I’m obviously not going to Shadowheart for help, Halsin already helped me with my arm, and fuck Nettie. So… here I am.”

“Hold on.” Astarion murmured, exiting the tent with no further explanation. Wren’s brows furrowed in confusion as she watched him exit, but that caused a sharp pain in her nose, so she groaned and looked back at the ceiling.

The vampire returned a few minutes later, wearing a large amulet with a jade-colored stone that Wren didn’t recognize and carrying his own backpack. He sat back down and moved his slender hands forward, bidding the little bird to lower the blood-soaked cloth. Long, lithe fingers pressed to the woman’s nose and then Astarion uttered a healing incantation.

Wren blinked in surprise as she felt the familiar warmth of a healing spell seep through her skin and into the fragile bones along the center of her face. Soon enough, her nose felt practically back to normal. Astarion seemed to be watching her for an indication that his efforts worked before lowering his hands. She nodded subtly.

The rogue quietly removed his hands and quickly undid the clasp of the heavy amulet, stowing the piece of jewelry back in his pack. Then he rustled around, withdrawing a small bottle of water and a small scrap of cloth. After dampening the cloth, he lifted it to Wren’s nose and began tenderly cleaning the dried blood off her face. He saw the question in her eyes and answered it without her prompting.

“I found it among Counsellor Florrick’s things, when I found your chemise. Seemed worth keeping, but it’s awfully noisy when I move so I don't wear it all the time.” He says in a hushed voice, pausing for a moment when Wren winced as he pressed too firmly to her still-tender nose. He looks at her for a beat and then continues, “Figured I would hold onto it, just in case...”

'Just in case I end up on my own and I don't have Shadowheart or you to heal me.'

A bit of quiet fell between the two as the elf focused on his task, and the woman focused on one of her pillows instead of the rogue. Astarion noticed this, because she normally watched him so intently with those two-toned eyes of hers. It stung, her lack of attention on him, but he kept working, hoping somehow this was a step in the right direction. At least she hadn’t pushed him away. It was clear that in the thick silence of the tent, which was such a sharp contrast to the raging party outside, that the two of them felt the weight of things unsaid hanging between them.

“What did she say?” Astarion questioned in a low murmur, scarlet orbs wandering from Wren's upturned nose to her distant stare, pulling her attention back to him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Wren huffed, beginning to bristle in response and starting to pull away from the vampire, but his other hand clasped onto her forearm and kept her in place.

The rogue paused for a moment, squinting his eyes at the ranger. Wren could see the subtle prickles of annoyance on his face; her eyes took in the scrunch of his nose and the clenching of his jaw. His tone was stiff, curt, as if he were trying to maintain hold over his emotions. “You said you would tell me anything if I bothered to ask. So, here I am, asking.”

Wren fell silent, as she felt the sting of her own words flipped against her for the second time that night. She moved to thumb her lip scar, and Astarion’s eyes followed her finger for a moment before returning to holding her own eyes in an unyielding stare.

“She…” The little bird looked up at the tent and sighed. Hells, it was going to sound so ridiculous when it came out.

“She overheard Karlach asking what happened to Kol, and I told Karlach that Kol had died. I told her what I told you about the ambush. And then Lae’zel said that I have a type… elves with silver hair and red eyes. And that my history of poor leadership would probably get you killed, just like it had the first one.”

Wren’s mouth hardened into a line, and her voice crackled at the end. Fuck Lae’zel for knowing exactly how to cut into her with words and lay bare one of her biggest fears. Wren didn’t want to be the leader… she didn’t fucking want it! So why did Lae’zel or anyone else have to make it so hard? Didn’t they know she was already beating herself to a pulp for every misstep along the way?

Astarion watched as the little bird rolled her gaze up to the ceiling where she stayed intently focused on the canvas of the tent, trying to conceal her tears. He had half a mind to storm across the camp and cut out the Githyanki’s tongue. Maybe they would all be better off for it; her pessimistic nature wasn’t doing the group any favors, after all. But instead, he sighed, grabbed Wren’s hand, grabbed his own pack, and then stood up, pulling her with him.

“Come on, darling. Let’s get away from this party. The wine is shit and the only company really worth keeping is in this tent, anyway.” He grumbled before walking out of the canvas shelter and heading away from the crowd, toward the grove exit. He kept his fingers wrapped around hers as he led her along.

Wren followed without much of a thought. She spent so much time being a leader, she supposed she basked in the few moments when she got to be a follower. She didn’t know where they were going; she didn’t care. She just wanted Astarion to keep holding her hand for as long as possible.

-----

Taglist: Hiii @mancsunite

[foundtherightwords]

All Our Yesterdays - Chapter 6

Pairing: Ralph (Timewasters) x OFC

Summary: Thu, a museum archivist, only wants to escape her dull life in 21st-century Hanoi. The last thing she expects is to end up in 1929 Indochina via a time-traveling elevator and cross paths with Ralph, an Englishman on the run from the French Foreign Legion. Romance blossoms between them, but in a colonized country, unrest is always looming on the horizon, and Thu must decide if she wants to stay with Ralph in the past or return to the safety of the future.

Warnings: outdated/period-typical attitudes about women, mentions of war, mentions of pregnancy and abortion (involving a supporting character), some angst, some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter word count: 3.4k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Chapter 6

After the Mid-Autumn Festival, the weather cooled down considerably. There was a chill in the air of the early morning and late in the evening, and a thin veil of silvery mist could be seen hanging about the treetops, though it quickly evaporated with the rising sun. Clothes shops started stocking up on scarves and jackets, and newspapers started carrying advertisements for the newfangled wool pullovers and cardigans. Thu was glad she'd arrived in the fall; even without the urban heat islands of the 21st century, there was no way she could have survived a summer in Hanoi without at least an electric fan.

October passed by, and November rolled around, bringing with it the first cold snap of the year. Thu tried to hang on to her silk áo dài and cotton chemises for as long as she could, thinking it would be pointless to buy warm clothes if she were to leave soon, but as the days dragged on and there was no sign of Homeless Pete, she gave in and bought herself a winter wardrobe. At least I would have quite the collection when I get back, she told herself. But such thoughts were less and less frequent these days. The city was still not quite like her home home, but its familiarity was now comforting rather than bewildering.

It also helped that work was going well for her. At the office, Madame Phuong entrusted her with the typewriter, and when it was clear that she was overqualified to be an errand girl, she became a sort of unofficial copy editor and was sometimes even allowed to accompany the other reporters when they went to cover some events—unlike their male colleagues, the women found it safer to go out in pairs or a group. If Madame Phuong thought it was strange that Thu could type so well but couldn't speak French, or that her spelling was a little off from the usual standard, she didn't mention it. For this, Thu's wage was raised to 30 đồng a month, which wasn't much, but since her rent was so cheap and her need so little, she could afford to live quite comfortably.

Of course, it wasn't all pleasant, living in the past. In her wanderings through the city, sometimes she encountered scenes of poverty and misery so shocking they haunted her for days. She tried to tell herself there was nothing she could do to help, but it did little to alleviate the guilt that tied left her stomach in knots. That was why she stuck to walking or taking the trams. Most people took rickshaws, but Thu felt bad for the drivers, who always looked like they barely had enough to eat, so she never tried them.

Ralph seemed quite confused when, during one of their outings that took them a little further outside the city center, she had refused three rickshaw drivers in a row.

"It feels like I'm—I don't know—exploiting them," she said.

"But it's their job?"

"Yeah? Where's their union then? Where are their benefits? Do they get to retire with a pension?"

"Do they have all that in the future?"

Thu was quiet, thinking that the cyclo drivers in her time didn't have it much better either, but at least they were paid for by tourism companies, and riding with them didn't feel dehumanizing. "No, the pulled rickshaw was banned," she said. "We still have the cycle rickshaws. They're mostly for tourists though."

"But if you don't ride with them, it won't make their lives any better. In fact, it may make things worse, because that means they won't earn money," Ralph pointed out.

Much as she hated to admit it, he wasn't wrong. Thu realized that applying her modern sensibilities to the past would only lead to frustration. So from then on, she did take the occasional rickshaw, though only when there was no tram, and she always made sure to tip the driver generously afterward.

And there was the matter of amenities. The Internet and TV, she learned to do without quite easily. There were so many interesting things to see and experience every day that she didn't miss them at all. She was lucky that there was electricity at least. Still, she found herself missing the little things, things she'd never thought of before. Like a hair dryer, for example. Now if she wanted to wash her hair, she had to remember to do it the night before so it would have time to air-dry, as the only hair dryers available in town were the giant ones used by Western-style hairdressers. Or a shower. Washing with a bucket and a dipper wasn't the same as showering at all, even if you emerged just as clean. Or feminine hygiene products. Thanks to her birth control pills, she didn't have to worry about her period for a while, yet it still caught her by surprise, and she had to have a horribly embarrassing conversation with Mai about it. She supposed women used cloth napkins in this time; she just wasn't sure if they always carried some around like the modern woman carrying tampons.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Mai said sympathetically and ran to the shop next door, before coming back with a paper bag full of clean muslin scraps and safety pins, which she surreptitiously handed to Thu. She wouldn't even hear of Thu paying her back. Thu had always thought the girl rather empty-headed and flighty, but this incident had made her a lot fonder of Mai.

But despite all these little inconveniences, Thu had started to settle down. She no longer had to reach for her phone to ground herself, and like her modern clothes and the rest of her backpack, it was shoved into a drawer in her dresser, while she went about her day, feeling more and more at home in 1929.

***

On November 11th, Thu was assigned to accompany Lien, one of the newspaper's senior reporters, to cover the Armistice Day Parade. Thu was excited—she hadn't read much about such parades from history books, and wondered how it would look compared to the locals' traditional celebrations. She also thought it would be a good opportunity for Ralph, who had managed to sell a few of his autochromes. An autochrome of this parade would look magnificent. So they agreed to meet at Puginier Square, near the Palace of the Governor-General of Indochina—or, as she knew them, Ba Đình Square and the Presidential Palace—where the parade was to set out.

But Ralph didn't show up.

Thu stood by the little park in the middle of the square, her eyes searching the crowd outside the Palace for Ralph's familiar boater hat. At first, she thought he merely got delayed, but as time went on and he was nowhere in sight, she started to get anxious. A cheer went up as the Governor-General left the Palace, escorted by the cavalry, to inspect the troops, and the parade began, so she had no choice but to go along with it.

"Are you waiting for somebody?" Lien asked. A little older than most of the staff, in her mid-thirties at least, she was considered the managing editor of the paper in all but name, and her warm, gentle ways served as a nice counterbalance to Madame Phuong's sternness.

"No," Thu said, a little more sullenly than she'd intended. Ralph had never missed one of their outings. True, sometimes she'd had to barge into his room and dragged him bodily out of bed to make sure he got to a job in time, but he always showed up. What if—and here her heart went cold for a moment—what if he had been arrested by the Legion? Surely not. If there had been an arrest, she would've heard about it. There wasn't much news around the city, and something big like that would've circled fast. So what on Earth had happened to him?

Twice, Thu thought about asking Lien if she could nip off to check on Ralph, but she felt bad about leaving Lien in that noisy crowd on her own. So she trudged along with the crowd and the troops as they marched down Puginier Avenue, followed by parade floats decked out in flowers and greenery to form dragons and other fantastical animals. To all this, Thu hardly paid any attention. She was still hoping to see Ralph dashing through the crowd, holding on to his hat, and apologizing profusely for being late—

"It's too bad that your photographer friend isn't here," Lien said, as if she could read Thu's mind, while her pencil flew over her notebook. "We're too small a newspaper to afford a photographer, but some of the bigger ones would pay great money for photos of an event like this."

"Oh, I'm sure he's busy with something," Thu said, trying to sound casual.

She was well aware of what the women at the office thought of her and Ralph, but she'd always shrugged it off. Unlike the girls of the time, she didn't care if her reputation got ruined. Nobody knew her anyway. However, when somebody brought him up in a pointed way, as Lien just did, she would still get a prick of embarrassment in her stomach. She almost wished they would tease her about him, just so she could say, once and for all, that they were just friends.

Because that's what we are, just friends. Friends can be angry and hurt when they get stood up. Friends can worry about each other's well-being. Right? Never mind that she had put on her new cardigan to meet him that day. Never mind that she had opted out of the office lunch, although it could save her money, in order to try the many street food vendors around the city with him. Never mind that her heart tended to go into arrhythmia whenever she caught his eyes or one of his smiles, especially the ones that showed his dimples...

Thankfully, she walked into Lien just then, which ended that dangerous train of thought and brought her back to reality. The parade had reached the War Memorial at Robin Park, known as Lenin Park in her time, a popular hangout of skateboarders thanks to its smooth flagstones. She hadn't been around this area much. It was, as it remained nearly a century later, the administrative center of the city, and located a little further away from the 36 Streets, so she had no reason to go there.  

The mayor of Hanoi was going to give a speech. In the past two months, Thu had picked up the odd French phrases here and there, but certainly not enough for her to understand a whole speech, so she turned away to idly eye the memorial. She had only seen photos of it, since it was torn down after Vietnam gained independence from France in 1945. It showed a group of World War I soldiers pointing their weapons toward the Flag Tower of Hanoi just across the avenue (Bet the locals love that, Thu thought with a snort), and around the base were four more statues showing the core classes of the Vietnamese society - a farmer to represent the rural class, a blacksmith for the artisans, a vendor for the merchants, and a scholar for the intelligentsia.

It appeared the locals had little respect for the memorial. Despite attempts from soldiers and policemen to keep it clear, some children and even grown-ups were clambering onto the base for a better view of the mayor and the troops. Some had even climbed on the back of the water buffalo that accompanied the farmer statue. Thu could see their white pith hats and black cloth turbans bobbing amongst the bronze figures while the police tried in vain to pull them off.

Then something else caught her eyes. Or rather, someone else.

A black wool hat over a head of pale, stringy hair. A long, black coat, silhouetted against the white marble of the base. A face that, even from afar, she knew would be covered with a scruffy white beard and contain a mouthful of rotten teeth.

Homeless Pete.

Her heart jumped to her throat. Without even bothering to excuse herself to Lien, she took off, elbowing her way through the crowd, skirting around the soldiers forming a barricade around the mayor, running toward the memorial just as the police chased yet another group of rubberneckers off of it. Homeless Pete was amongst them. He staggered off—soon, he would be lost amongst the crowd on the other side of the avenue, and she would lose her only chance of getting home—

Somehow, Thu managed to grab his coat.

The old man turned around. It was him. She had been half-afraid that, in her eagerness to find Homeless Pete, her eyes had deceived her, but it was him. She almost wept with relief.

"Homeless Pete!" she yelled in English, not caring who could hear. "Thank Heavens I found you! Listen, you have to send me back! I've been following your rules, I've had fun, but can I go back now? Please?"

He blinked at her. For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he even understood her at all.

Then Homeless Pete gave her a familiar grin. "Chocolate?" he said.

Now it was her turn to blink at him. "What?"

"Chocolate," he repeated. When she still didn't seem to get it, he repeated, "Chocolate!" a touch impatiently. He held his open palm in front of her. "Chocolate!" he said, then closed his hand into a fist and walked two fingers across his other palm. "Chocolate! Home!"

"Oh!" Thu exclaimed, understanding at last. "If I give you chocolate, then you'll get me home?"

Homeless Pete nodded.

"OK, great!" She tugged at his coat. "We'll go buy chocolate, and then to the time machine, and you'll get me back to 2023—"

But Homeless Pete stood firm, shaking his head. "No. Stay here." He pointed to the memorial.

Should she risk causing a scene to get him to the Printing House, or should she leave him here and risk losing him again? She looked around at the crowd and the soldiers; already, they were drawing some curious looks, the scruffy-looking Western man and the young Vietnamese woman apparently locked in a game of tug-of-war. Thu gritted her teeth. If she caused a scene here, she knew she would be the one thrown into jail or the madhouse.

"You'll be here?" she asked. "You promise?"

Homeless Pete nodded eagerly.

"OK. I'll be back with the chocolate. Don't go anywhere!"

She ran through the crowd again. She caught a glimpse of Lien's startled face and shouted, "Emergency! Gotta go! Sorry!", before bouncing across the avenue, back toward the city center.

Chocolate, chocolate, cho-co-late, she thought, each syllable echoing in her mind in time with her footsteps. Where would they sell chocolate around here? Sugar Street? No, that's for traditional cakes and candied fruits and stuff... Maybe Godard's? Yeah, Godard's would be the place...

The thought of Godard's reminded her of Ralph, and she came to a halt, almost colliding with a rickshaw, which earned her a curse from the irate driver. She couldn't go. Not yet. Not without saying goodbye. And who knows? Maybe I can convince him to come back with me.

Taking a deep breath, she turned toward Rue Borgnis Desbordes.

***

The studio was closed, but the door wasn't locked. Thu took the stairs two at a time and pounded on the door on the second floor. "Ralph? You home? Open up! I have the most amazing news!" No answer. Cold fear crept back into her heart. What if he had been arrested?

At the third knock, she heard some shuffling from the inside, followed by a croaking voice, "All right, all right, keep your hair on, I'm coming." She sagged with relief. He was fine after all.

Perhaps not entirely fine. As the door opened, she saw that Ralph was in his pajamas, with a thick scarf wound around his neck. His usual smoothly pomaded curls were flopping down his forehead, his face was flushed, and his eyes bleary.

"Are you sick?" she asked. At least that explained why he didn't show up at the parade.

"Must be a sore throat or something. It's this cold snap."

She eyed up him and down. "Can't be just a sore throat. You look terrible."

"Fever for two days, and my throat hurts. What else could it be?"

She reached for his forehead, only to jerk her hand back as if she'd just touched a hot stove. "Heavens, you're burning up! A sore throat shouldn't cause such a high fever."

"So you're a doctor now?" Ralph rolled his eyes at her. "I'm fine, all right? I'm almost twenty-five, I can take care of myself."

Oh, so he was going to be one of those guys that turned into a giant baby when he got sick, wasn't he? Thu had dealt with her younger brother enough to not be offended by that. She stepped inside and peered more closely at his face. Something familiar about that flushed look... She took his arm and pushed his sleeve up. The skin on his arm was flushed too, and her fingers left behind some pale impressions that took a while to return to normal.

"That hurts," Ralph protested, pulling away.

"Do your joints ache? Headache?"

"Yes..." Her worry seemed to be rubbing off on him. "Is it the flu? Or malaria?"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's not malaria," Thu said, her heart sinking. "I think it may be dengue fever."

"What's that?"

"You guys don't know about dengue fever yet?"

"They only warned us about malaria when I was transferred here."

The history of tropical diseases wasn't her area of expertise; she only had the knowledge of a local. "Have you been sleeping under a mosquito net, like I told you to?" she asked.

Ralph looked away, embarrassed. "I forget sometimes."

Thu shook her head disapprovingly. "We also call it hemorrhagic fever," she explained. "It's spread by mosquitoes. You get a high fever for about three days, and if it's severe, you bleed internally."

Ralph's face blanched.

"It sounds worse than it is, actually," she hastened to reassure him. "I've had it twice and it was no worse than the flu. Well, except for the second time when I had to be hospitalized..." Ralph went even paler, and she realized she wasn't doing a very good job of being reassuring.

"I can't go to the hospital," he said.

Thu suddenly understood his reluctance. He couldn't be Monsieur Davinier at the hospital; they would check his papers, and if the Legion had a warrant out for him, that would be the end.

"You won't have to go to the hospital," she said with more confidence than she actually felt.

"I don't suppose you happen to have any modern medicine that can cure this dengue, do you?" he said, trying to smile.

As always, his smile went straight to her heart, even wan as it was now. But she had to tell the truth. "No... Even in my time, we can only manage it, not cure it." Then, remembering her paracetamol, she said, "But I have something that can bring the fever down. Wait here."

She ran back to her boarding house, went up to her room, and dug her backpack out of the dresser. A pang went through her when she realized that, in all the fuss of Ralph being sick, she had completely forgotten to tell him about Homeless Pete. Her mind wrestled briefly with her heart. She could just give Ralph the medicine and ask Mai to check on him before she left. The fever was unlikely to be that bad. But... but... there was always the chance that it would turn severe, and he would need someone to watch him in case he went into shock. And they didn't even know about dengue fever yet, so even if he went to the hospital, someone needed to explain to the doctors what was wrong...

With a sigh, Thu put the paracetamol into her handbag and left the backpack where it was. Homeless Pete and the time machine would have to wait. For now, Ralph needed her.

A/N: I've had dengue fever twice. Even in its less severe form (which doesn't involve internal hemorrhage, just some mild bleeding from mucous membranes), it's still the worst thing I've ever had, worse than COVID even, so I'm afraid poor Ralph is going to have a rough time of it :((

[choerrysjubiles]

Le Céleste et Le Éclatant (Chapter 1)

wc: 1.4k / tw: food mention

an: this feels so short but ive also been sitting on this for like every ahhh

Florentine springs weren't usually this cold.

The frost kept building on the window pane as the sun was slowly rising. Y/n woke from the sound of her chambermaid shifting around her room. Eyes slowly opening, her room was lit by a warm yellow light.

The sun was barely able to warm Y/n's arm as she stretched out her arms and legs. Her blanket and body heat kept her from freezing but the sun helped a little bit.

Waking was never difficult for Y/n. She enjoyed early mornings, it allowed her to take her time getting ready, from washing a little longer, dressing a little more relaxingly, and taking her time to perform her morning prayers.

Getting up from her prayer cushion, Y/n's chambermaid helped her into her dress for the day. She changed from her sleeping chemise into a thicker cotton one, next was her stockings, plain white ones for everyday, and her shoes. Afterwards she put on her dress, a simple cream colored dress that laced at her sides. Y/n's chambermaid braided her hair in a simple crown to circle her head and let the rest hang down.

Walking downstairs to the eating room, Y/n made sure to grab a shawl to keep herself warmer. Walking into the dining room she sits across from her mother, surveying the food for today's breakfast.

"Will papa be joining us this morning?" She asks, grabbing at some sweet bread and fruits.

"No, he is working extra at the bank. I do believe it's tax season." Her mother says, "They need their men more than ever."

“How sad, and we have some of his favorite fruits today.” Y/n frowned.

He used to always eat breakfast with his wife and daughter, but the banks have been busy and he's picked up even more hours than usual. Y/n thinks back on all the times he'd bring up his workers and colleagues or when they'd all exchange their plans for the day. Whether it was to finish a book, paint a portrait, decorate the dining room, even change up the courtyard.

Pondering on it, Y/n wonder's if all this overtime is because of the new pope, with a change of papacy there will be changes everywhere. Maybe Pope Alexander will want to talk more with Firenze. That could be why.

Y/n's thoughts are interrupted by her father scrambling around finding last minute things he needs for work. She grabs a handkerchief from her pocket to fill with some fruits and bread before tying it up to hand him.

"Papa, come! You must eat!" Y/n says.

He walks over, "I'm much too late."

"Then take this for the road." She hands her father the bundle of food.

Kissing the top of her head, "You're too sweet to me." Thanking Y/n before taking off for work.

Y/n and her mother converse more over the rest of their breakfast. She mentions receiving a letter from Y/n's brother, Piero.

"He's doing well, one of the best in the apprenticeship."

"That's amazing."

"Maybe soon he'll come home."

After breakfast, Y/n's mother stayed in the courtyard to look over the flowers as she went over to the library. This is where she spent most of her days. As her schooling days were over and Piero went off to his apprenticeship, there's nothing else to learn but from the books in the library. Between here and the crafting room where Y/n can loom, embroider, knit, and so on.

Yesterday Y/n had her fill of sewing so today she might find something to read or write. Thinking of it, she should pick up writing a little more, it's been trendy lately. Women who are proficient in writing are better at finding suitors, the wealthy ones, at least.

Walking around the shelves in the library, Y/n scans and searches for a book that catches her eye. Read that. Couldn't finish that. Boring. Also boring. That biography was just full of dates. That story was too childish. Finding a decent book, Y/n grabs it and sits on the cushioned bench by the window.

After some time the couch became stiff and her neck started to cramp. The clouds drifted right in front of the window. These day to day activities are nice but sometimes Y/n's daydreamed about a more interesting life. One without solitude.

What would life be like if your father was a merchant? Would he sell cloth, dyes, food, blacksmithing? What if you could work beside him, what would life be like? In arms reach of the day-to-day Firenze. It would be tough, constant competition on top of low wages. But the idea is intriguing. There are thousands who live like that every day of their lives, is it fun? Well, of course not, but to be able to see people, converse, grow relationships with them. What's that life like?

Y/n hates that they're barely on speaking terms with their neighbors, but if they were close? What would that be like? Would they have dinner parties often? Would there be tables full of tasty food to share over telling and retelling stories between each other? To walk through someone else's garden and admire the flowers, the pathways, the stucco and decor of someone else's.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on the library's door. Her mother walked in with a relieved face.

"I was hoping you'd be here."

Y/n scooches over for her mother to sit beside her.

"Your father and I have been making plans about family portraits. He's been working hard to ensure he can have some time off for the portraits."

"What should I wear for them?"

"That's up to you, you can pick the dresses out."

"Dresses?"

"Ah, yes. We'll be having a family portrait as well as personal portraits."

Y/n is shocked, "Will Piero come home for the portraits?"

"Yes, he's finished up by then."

"Well, I'll leave you. Your chambermaid will call you when it's time for supper."

"Goodbye, mama."

Getting up, Y/n marches to her room to pick out a decent outfit.

"Time for a good outfit." Y/n thinks to herself.

Entering her room she goes straight for her wardrobe. Looking through for any bright colors.

'Green is always good, yellow is okay, pink is always an option. Hmm, decisions decisions.'

The day passed by so quickly. Before Y/n knew it, her chambermaid was knocking for her to go down for supper. Y/n tidied her things before going downstairs, walking down she wonders how well the portraits will come out as well as news from Piero. She surprisingly missed him, even with his annoying teasing and constant bickering with the two of them. He's still her brother, a weird hole in her life she never expected.

Arriving in the dining room, her mother and father arrive as well, all taking their seats. The chefs cooked well tonight as the family continued discussing their days.

"Do you have an idea of your dress?" Her mother asks.

"I'm thinking green, but I'm not sure." Y/n confesses.

"Wear that red dress, you look amazing in it." Her father flatters her.

"That's a good idea, thank you papa."

Her mother smirks at him before saying "Of course, if you cannot decide there will be at least two portraits, so do not worry about just choosing one."

"So many choices." Her father teases.

After supper Y/n went back up with her chambermaid to overlook any details in the dresses, there will of course be time between now and the portraits but she'd like to keep on top of everything. As Y/n got ready for bed, her mother knocked on her door.

"Dear, are you asleep already?"

"No, mama." Y/n says sitting up.

"Ah, good. Now after a talk with your father there's a slight change in plans."

She walks over to sit on her bed, Y/n gets nervous, 'what change in plans?'

"Now, don't tell your father. But there will be an additional portrait done for you. This one won't be for us, though."

"It won't?" Y/n asks.

Francesca smiles, "No, but don't worry."

Y/n's heart starts to race, "Is it for a marriage?"

Her mother puts a finger to her lips with a smile before leaning over and kissing her forehead. "Goodnight, my sweet."

"Goodnight, mama."

But Y/n isn't sure if she can sleep. These portraits have to be perfect.

[whennnow]

"Put On Thy Beautiful Garments" Book Review

November 15, 2018

[Image ID: A photo of the title page of a book titled "Put On Thy Beautiful Garments: Rural New England Clothing 1783-1800." The page is blue and has a sepia illustration on a cream background.]

A month or two ago I was in the midst of a Pinterest research trip, when one of the blogs I was reading mentioned a book I hadn't encountered in my research before: "Put on Thy Beautiful Garments" by Merideth Wright. I did a bit more digging (with the intention of adding it to my Christmas list), and found an old library copy for less than $10! So I went ahead and ordered it. Unfortunately, I mixed up my shipping and billing addresses, so it got sent to my house instead of my dorm, and I had to wait a long time before I actually saw it.

There seem to be two versions of the book - one published in January of 1990 by Clothes Press with the title "Put on Thy Beautiful Garments: Rural New England Clothing 1783-1800" and the other published by Dover Publications in December of 1992 with the title "Everyday Dress of Rural America 1783-1800: With Instructions and Patterns." Both have the same cover illustration (done by Nancy Rexford), but I am unsure of the content differences between the two. So to keep from confusing anyone, including myself, I am reviewing the one from 1990, "Put on Thy Beautiful Garments."

The book is divided into five sections. Part 1, “What People Wore,” goes into some background, providing general information, research, and instructions for using the book to make the clothes it contains. Part 2 is “The Individual Garments,” and it looks at each article of clothing individually and discusses who would wear it when, fabric choices, and construction, as well as providing simple, scaled down patterns. It is divided into “Women’s Clothing” and “Men’s Clothing.” Part 3 goes more in detail about fabric and gives instructions on hand sewing techniques. Part 4 is a collection of places you can buy patterns, fabric, and notions, as well as places you can look for more historical information. Part 5 is a very thorough bibliography.

I found the book to be incredibly educational, particularly the section on period-appropriate sewing techniques. Also interesting was the inclusion of clothing worn by the Western Abenaki people! While it doesn’t give instructions or patterns for their clothes, it does talk in depth about what they wore, what it was made of, how it was worn, and how trading with the settlers impacted their wardrobes. I’m actually very glad it doesn’t include instructions on making their clothing, as that would feel appropriative. “It’s a culture, not a costume,” after all.

Having been published in the very early 90s, some parts are a bit dated. For example, in the section on women’s stays, it talks about using cardboard or roller blinds as boning. It makes me very glad that synthetic whalebone exists now, and that the internet makes it widely accessible. Also dating things a bit is the resource section - it talks bout mail ordering and ordering from catalogs. I haven’t had a chance to look into all of the resources listed yet (maybe keep an eye out for a follow-up post?), so I’m not sure if that section is terribly useful.

The patterns start at the innermost layer and work their way out. The women’s section starts with a shift, then stays, pockets and petticoats, three types of gowns (open and round gowns, shortgowns, and chemise gowns), a neckerchief, and an apron, followed by a bit on hair and headwear. The men’s section is arranged similarly, starting with the shirt, then the cravat, breeches, waistcoat, coat, and frock, followed by a hair and headwear section. There are also short sections on stockings and shoes. Patterns or drafting instructions are given for everything except the headwear. The patterns are drawn on grids where each square is an inch, allowing easy drafting and sizing. Instructions are straightforward, often referencing what type of stitch or finish would be used.

I can’t think of anything that disappoints me about this book, honestly. I’m thrilled about the section about sewing techniques and I can’t wait to dig into the Resources and Bibliographies to see what gems are still accessible!

With any luck, I’ll be back before Christmas with a follow-up post!

Stay warm, stay safe, stay dry.

[gwennafran]

Cordelia clothing layers. (A practical Guide to Evil fanart)

Honestly, this one is all for me, and I geeked out. So, first of all, this is fantasy. I combined a lot of different historical inspirations from approximately the same century, to get the look I wanted.

This is roughly based on elements from Saxon Cranach dresses from between 1510 and 1540, as well as some Tudor and Elizabethan inspirations taken from around 1530 to 1580. The stay in particular is from the later part of the 16th century. Seeing how we know from Hakram’s excellent reading choices Procerans uses corsets – but everything else about them scream Renaissance inspiration – I figured we’d be talking early stays, that still are well within the Renaissance setting. Rather than much later Victorian corsets.

The ruffled petticoat might actually be the biggest historical deviation away from the general time period used for inspiration. They had petticoats around that century, but not with the ruffles. It just seemed so very, very Proceran. So yeah, one of biggest fantasy part in this due to being very out of time: The fluffy ruffled petticoat! Totally on par with the rest of Guide where one of the most modern parts also is the lace panties. ;)

More geeking out beneath the cut

1. Chemise and stockings. The stockings would be made from very finely knitted silk. Much more comfortable than is you sew stockings from fabric. The go above the knees and are fastened with lace garters.

Not pointed out on the image is the ratling tooth bracelet given to Cordelia by Friedrich Papenheim when she was quite young. In fact, she was so young it probably is a bit too small for her wrist now. Digging into it beneath her fancy sleeves.

2. Stays or corsets was used for quite a few centuries with very different goals. The early stays actually was not trying to give you a sexy hourglass figure. Rather the opposite, really. They worked to flatted out your chest into an – at the time extremely fashionable - cone shape. Body ideals change a lot in fashion…

3. I took a vote on Discord if Cordelia should be in white or blue. 3 voted for white. 13 for blue. And a couple of wonderfully mad souls started to argue for pastel pink to match Cat’s soon to be pastel fashion choices. These pink bows are for you lot. They may be hidden, but they’re there.

4. Lower dress and letter. Well, technically the letter from Friedrich Papenheim goes between the stay and the lower dress (called a kirtle). I figured it’d be much safer between these two pretty even and stiff layers, than if it went under the stay. Not sure what Cordelia is going to do now that she has two letters that are extremely near and dear to her. Double up on letters worn over her heart? Also, honestly Cordelia, you’re a weird and non-fashionable item short from Friedrich to form a proper rule of three.

5. Gown: If you look very closely, the bracelet is still just visible from beneath a sleeve.

6. Finishing touches: So yeah, the front part of the gown being pinned in place with needles is not something I’m making up. Someone not familiar with this style of fashion is in for a potentially pointy surprise if making a successful pass at a Proceran noble lady.

[emjee]

Bridgerton thoughts-

Daphne is insufferable and her super put on accent drives me up the wall

How the fuck are Kate's stockings supposed to stay up with no garters, with all the elastic kicking about in 1813

Anthony could be awful is the actor was so outrageously charming

The sex scenes 500% hotter than series 1 (although rip the duke)

Eloise and Penelope 😭😭😭 Pen was a shit friend, but I think genuinely trying her best to solve the situation

Eloise and Theo 😭😭😭 they were so cute

Eloise and Benedict should be queer solidarity if Netflix weren't cowards. It could've been a male model and a slow burn of Benedict giving gay the good old college try as they slowly flirted (there seemed to be less side plots than in series 1, which felt like a shame) even if Benedict decided he was straight after

I wanted the cute poet who was courting Edwina at first to come back, but so be it

I hate Lady Featherington but also good for her

Lady Danbury and her eyebrows are still the MVPs of the entire show

Agreed on all counts, particularly Lady Danbury and her eyebrows, and on Jonathan Bailey being so charming he makes you forget all the shit Anthony pulled in season one. The stockings also frustrate me although I will handwave because Rule of Hot, but the lack of chemises ANYWHERE are a personal affront to me personally, because painful-looking ill-fitted stays are NOT hot and do you know how sexy chemises are? Translucent fabric? You can bare a shoulder?? Call me for season three, Bridgerton costume department.

[cavane]

style gallery cavane Chemise Maisonシャツ / ca-22047 + Pantalon Maisonパンツ / ca-22049 made in Japan ノーカラープルオーバーシャツ ワイドなボックスシルエットで抜け感がありノスタルジックな装い。 時間をかけて丁寧に織られる生地は、高い耐久性と豊かな風合いをもつ特別な生地です。着用する度に独特の風合いが出てきます。 詳細は下記よりオンラインストアをご利用下さいませ。 https://cavane.stores ・ ・ ・ cavane NO : ca-22047 ITEM : Chemise Maisonシャツ TYPE : women・men SIZE : F COLOR : INDIGO BLUE (limited) STOCK：1 素材：麻(linen)100% 付属 貝ボタン(shell) ・ ・ cavane NO : ca-22049 ITEM : Pantalon Maisonパンツ TYPE : women・men SIZE : F COLOR : INDIGO BLUE (limited) STOCK：1 素材 メイン：麻(linen)100% 付属 紐：綿(cotton)100% ・ ・ home decor & living wear with stay home '2022 collection by cavane 自宅で過ごす時間が増えるなか、心身ともにより快適に “おうち時間”を過ごしていただける���う、生活を中心としたライフワークスタイルの限定コレクションとなります。 リネン・コットン・ウールを中心としたシンプルな天然素材を使用し、素材そのものの風合いを最大限に生かした丁寧なモノづくりで、人にも自然にも優しくありたいと思っています。 大量生産ではないため、限られた数しか生産できない「cavane（キャヴァネ）」の服 時間をかけて一点一点を大切に心を込めて製作しております。 ヴィンテージのように、着る人の好みによって生地のエイジング感を育てられます。 プルオーバーシャツ 時間をかけて丁寧に織られる生地は、高い耐久性と豊かな風合いをもつ特別な生地です。着用する度に独特の風合いが出てきます。 ポケットは両サイドに２箇所、フロントボタンには黒貝ボタン2ツを採用。 重ね着やレイヤードスタイル、一枚で着用しても肌さわりが良く、さらっとした着心地が印象的です。 カジュアルなスタイルから、クラシック・ヴィンテージまで幅広いテイストに溶け込むデザイン。 メンズ・レディース共に着用することができます。 生地について： こちらのファブリックは、日本の機屋さんで織られた少量生産によるリネンファブリックとなります。 丁寧に育てられた麻から紡ぎ出されたリネン糸で織られたファブリック。 ヴィンテージ ライトブルー色となります。 すべて手作業によって完成され洋服が作られます。 工程は大量生産とは比較にならないほど手間がかかり、糸は不均衡なためネップ・糸むらや節などの特徴があります。 ヴィンテージ感の雰囲気、味わい深い素材をお楽しみくださいませ。 ・ ・ ・ DM・MAIL迄 お問い合わせください。 Please the contact below for more information online upしました⇨ ・ ・ ・ ・ #22ss #lifestyle #indigoshirts #linenshirt #livingwear #fashionphoto #handmade #frenchstyle #eurowork #vintage #cavane #ワークウェア #リネンシャツ #リネンパンツ #ライフスタイル #インディゴ #ヴィンテージ #春夏 (at Cavane) https://www.instagram.com/p/CdhOT-VvCKR/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[prettywordsyouleft]

The Cowboy - Part 5

Summary: Leaving the city for a rural area called Blayne seemed simple enough. Your task was to convince the people to agree with selling their land for a resort redevelopment. But once there, you soon realise that your city ways are entirely different to theirs. Winning their trust was going to take some effort, and when you start to fall for a local cowboy, you wonder if you really needed Blayne more than the city life after all.

Pairing: Jung Jaehyun x female reader

Genre: cowboy au / drama / romance / if you squint there’s some enemies to lovers up in here.

Warnings: Jung Jaehyun is a cowboy, need I say more? (a bit of angst and drama, and it sometimes might feel like you’re reading a Nicolas Sparks book, so I’m told lol) — if you aren’t a meat lover, there is a scene at the end that involves talk about meat.

Word count: 2093

This series will be updated every Thursday and Friday.

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

It was dark out by the time you reached your homestead, and you frowned when your headlights shone against the back end of a truck. Shutting off the engine after parking beside the unwanted vehicle, you got out and approached the man leaning against the veranda handrail.

“Here to see whether or not I’d skip town?” you accused with a dry tone, walking passed Jaehyun and straight to unlock the front door. You didn’t stop for his sake, flicking on the lights and went into the kitchen.

Jaehyun followed you in. “No.”

“Then what brings you around here, Cowboy? You made yourself clear enough last night on your stance. I’ll stay out of your way as best as I can. I’d appreciate if you did the same.”

He had removed his cowboy hat and held it in front of himself, his grip tightening when you turned to look at him. You witnessed the remaining sincerity get squashed by a hard look instead. “Well, I shouldn’t have bothered. It seems you’re just fine, Y/N.”

“Perfectly.”

“I won’t keep you then. Goodnight.”

You followed Jaehyun back to the front door where he stepped over the threshold and turned to look back at you. He seemed to want to say something more, and you waited with bated breath before he turned for his truck. Closing the door, you re-trailed your steps into the kitchen in a daze.

Why had Jaehyun come if it weren’t to check on your plans to leave?

You glanced back at the door in surprise. Was he going to apologise for last night?!

“I ruined it!” you whined and stomped your foot, rapping your knuckles gently over your head, berating yourself. “I waited so long for that apology too!”

Looking out the kitchen window, you watched as the truck roared down the driveway until his taillights were no longer visible.

That apology was long gone now.

The following morning, you heard several new noises outside and blearily shunted a window up and leaned out it to see what was going on. Blinking slowly, you focused on the barn out back where the sounds were coming from. You watched as more of the scene started to make sense to you, the two men throwing hay bales out of the loft of the barn onto the back of a truck.

The same truck that left your drive last night.

“Morning Y/N!” a cheerful Avery suddenly greeted, and you shrieked, knocking the top of your head on the window frame as you ducked back inside, your hands covering your chest. Looking down at the sheer chemise you wore, you then stared at the mirror across the room in horror.

Did they see anything just now? Darting over to your wardrobe where your dressing gown hung, you threw it around your body and thumped down the stairs, slipping your feet into the gumboots Avery had gifted you that you kept at the back door and walked over to the barn.

“What are you doing?!” you exclaimed and both men stopped transporting the hay.

“Oh, sorry, did we wake you?” Avery asked with a friendly grin. “Around these areas, we’re up long before now. We should have realised it might not be the same for you.”

“It’s the crack of dawn!”

Jaehyun snorted. “It’s seven-thirty. You’ve missed dawn entirely.”

“Ah. Well, it’s still early for me.” Both men stared at you, and you started to feel awkward. “It’s fine… I just… waking up to men…”

“Ahhhh,” Avery concluded sheepishly and came down the loft ladder to your side. “We needed hay. We stock the barn up down here since no one’s living here to utilise it for livestock with our excess hay. Although we have plenty of grass now with it being spring, we’re preparing for summer when the grass dies off, and we need to feed out again.”

“You don’t need to explain it to her. This is our land, and we waited until a sufficient hour,” Jaehyun stated, throwing down another bale onto the pile they were making.

You stared up at him in the loft and then turned back to Avery. “Sorry, I over-reacted.”

“Seems to be a trend.”

Avery glanced at his cousin and then rolled his eyes, pulling you aside. “Did something happen between you two?”

“N-No. Not exactly.”

“Huh. He’s been exceptionally irksome over the last day. He even cut off early from work yesterday, saying he needed to meet with someone to settle a problem. I had thought it was with you.”

Grimacing lightly, you shook your head. “Don’t worry about it. I get that a lot of people don’t like me here.”

“I don’t mind!” Avery countered, and you grinned at him. He mirrored your expression and then pointed at your head. “But uh… is this what you look like when you wake up?”

“What?” Feeling the top of your head and then clamping your eyes shut at the evident mess of your hair, you heard Avery chuckle heartily. “It was nice seeing you again Avery!”

“I can’t wait to see what other looks you’ll sport whilst you’re here in Blayne, Y/N!” he called after you as you dashed back inside the house, whining outlandishly at looking so ridiculous in front of them.

The next two weeks went by with research inside and out. You took down detailed accounts of the families in Blayne and met with some of them when you went into town. You familiarised yourself with the map of the area and went out on afternoon excursions to discover where best would suit development. You spent your evenings in the town modelling software on your computer, transferring data you had taken down during the day. It was still early days, but you were excited to show your progress to Pierce in a Zoom call on Monday.

But for now, it was the weekend, and it was your first one here where you felt that you didn’t have to work overtime and could officially relax.

Back in the city, you used the weekends for recreation after a busy week. You would sleep in and lounge around your house until you were ready to head out. You’d get your weekly groceries, hit up the gym and then meet with friends in the evening.

You’d already done the lie in part of your usual routine and had lounged around for as long as it took you to eat your breakfast. Without the internet being so readily usable, you couldn’t catch up on current affairs, or the latest social news on Instagram.

You had come to realise just how often your phone had been in front of your face back home.

“Well, I guess it time to get some supplies,” you announced, going upstairs and putting on another of your new casual dresses. Although you still didn’t like the countryside, you did enjoy dressing down a lot more than you expected. You wondered if it was a waste bringing all those pencil skirts and pantsuits with you.

Humming along to a song as you drove into town, you were surprised when a couple of the people you crossed paths with waved. It was a contrast to when they would simply stop and stare, which brought a wider smile to your face.

“Maybe they’ll start to like me soon,” you hoped and pulled up in front of the small grocers on Main Street. You grabbed your reusable bags from the passenger seat and got out, locking the door out of habit. Walking up to the entrance, you pushed on one of the doors to enter.

Except it was locked.

“Huh?” you said in confusion, reaching for the other handle. It didn’t budge either.

“Don’t you know how to read?” a familiar voice asked and you glanced to your left, inhaling a deep breath at the sight of Jaehyun.

You were still too bothered and humiliated by him that you wished to meet with anyone else than him. Still, Jaehyun stepped closer and pointed to the closed sign. “It’s shut until Monday.”

“Who closes their shops on the weekend?”

“Blayne does. You should have come during the week. You’ve been here for almost three weeks, and you didn’t know it closes on the weekends?”

“I was working.”

“That you were.”

“Must you always turn up where I don’t wish for you to?” you asked honestly and then tapped your mouth when you realised you had said that out loud.

Jaehyun smirked. “I guess so.”

“Sorry. I just… whatever. Are the shops open in the town nearby? I need milk.”

“I can get you some milk.”

“It’s fine. I need a specific kind.”

“The grocers won’t be open there either.”

“Really?! Then I have to travel two hours to the closest city for my groceries?!” you wondered hopelessly, flapping your bags around with frustration. “Why is everything closed?!”

“Can I talk now?” Jaehyun questioned humouredly, and you nodded once. “We close the shops on the weekends around here, but the market’s open.”

“Market?”

Jaehyun had gestured for the keys to your car, and without much thought, you offered them to him, climbing into the passenger seat and staring at his side profile as he drove. He glanced at you before looking back at the road. “Am I that handsome?”

“You’re full of it,” you responded weakly, snapping your eyes onto the road. “What kind of market is this?”

“A fresh produce kind. Have you never attended one?”

“Ahhh, an organic shop. We have a grocer three streets down from my apartment where they get fresh produce and meat from the growers on the outskirts.”

“Seriously?” Jaehyun shook his head. “Just you wait.”

“This is amazing!” you enthused an hour later, thanking another seller for the fresh fruit you had just purchased from them.

Jaehyun took the bag from you again and shrugged. “It’s just a market.”

“Just a market?! Can you smell what I’m smelling?! Oh my god, we have to stop for lunch here.”

“Do we?”

You pointed to a burgers sign and nodded eagerly. You bounced up to the counter of the food truck and then gasped. “Avery!”

“Y/N! You finally found out about the produce market!” He looked over your shoulder and then nodded. “So that’s why you bailed on me.”

“Huh?” you asked, looking between the cousins as Jaehyun rubbed at his neck. “I want to try something delicious!”

“Are you opposed to lots of meat?”

“No! Load me up, Avery!”

Once seated at a picnic table with your bacon and beef burger, you beamed across at Jaehyun. “This is totally what I needed.”

“You’re like a kid in a candy store.”

“You’ve been to a candy store before?!” you teased with feigned surprise, and Jaehyun laughed.

“You’re different today.”

“This is me normally.”

“Then how come I haven’t met this version of you, Y/N?” Jaehyun wondered, and you frowned, wiping your lips when you felt sauce from your burger on them. Jaehyun merely watched you, and you coughed lightly, reaching for your juice.

Once composed, you shrugged. “You never really give me the option.”

“I’ve given you plenty of options,” he remarked, and you shook your head. “You turned me away first, remember.”

“I’m really sorry about that. I’ve never had someone speak to me so blunt like that. At the time, I was annoyed with you. But I get why now. I am a stranger with bold ideas, and none of you asked for me to turn up.” You let out a little laugh. “I waited for an apology, but I realised it’s me who owed you one. You’re right. I showed up with little knowledge. But give me a chance. I’m ad-”

“Adaptable,” he finished off with a grin, nodding lightly. “I know.”

“This is amazing, though. The produce markets out here are an entire affair. There’s music and pony rides for the kids, and it just has a general festival vibe. Does this happen every weekend?”

Jaehyun nodded. “We celebrate life a lot out here. We work hard, and at the weekends we try to have fun as best as we can. We might not have fancy technology or-”

“No, this is loads better than the city. Believe me.”

“It is?” he asked earnestly, and you nodded.

“And you thought I wouldn’t last more than two days,” you told him with a laugh and Jaehyun joined you.

“Maybe a month isn’t so hard to imagine with you around, Y/N.”

You stopped laughing then, staring at the man in confusion as your stomach erupted into flutters.

_________________

Part 6

All rights reserved © prettywordsyouleft

[NCT Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

[isis-astarte-diana]

Milk and Honey: Day 3

Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3 (Fin)

Summary: “I think we need to talk about yesterday.” Inches are lost; miles are gained; things are said that can’t be unsaid.

Warnings: Tiny bit of non-sexual nudity and also, separately, a sexual reference. Dodgy dynamics (I tried to fix them!). Angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 3880

NB: This chapter was such a struggle to figure out and I think it shows (!!) but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Also, yes, I did write another ‘Missy and reader watching a horror film’ scene, and no, I won’t apologise for it. (Maybe there should be a seasonal Hallowe’en film night fic?) I consider this the end of the story!

You think it’s the rain that’s woken you.

It’s deafening against the window, a downpour that floods the road outside so that the sound of each passing car is turned into a crashing wave. The room is black as pitch. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust and make forms of the shadows.

“Go back to sleep.”

Missy’s voice close behind you makes you jump. You twist around awkwardly, tangling your legs in the duvet, and almost smack your face into her elbow. She’s reclining on top of the sheets beside you. In the inky gloom you can just make out the pillows propping her up against the headboard, the open book she holds in her lap.

What time is it? The first hazy thought shakes loose in your mind. Almost immediately afterwards, how long has she been awake?

What comes out is thick and groggy. “Too dark to read.”

“Hmm.” It’s not quite a chuckle. She turns the page, a slow, rasping sound near your ear. “Is it dark to you?”

There’s something low and melancholic in her voice that makes you frown. You try to sit up, propping yourself up with one arm, but the duvet pulls tight and stops you halfway. You’d hoped to see her face better by moving; the shadows give no such clarity. She’s featureless in the dark.

“Go back to sleep,” she says again, not waiting for an answer. “It’s early.”

“And you?” Your head falls back to the pillow of its own accord. Wakefulness is still out of reach, a tendril of smoke that you cannot grasp. “Will you sleep?”

No response.

Even as your eyes close and you slip back into unconsciousness, you can feel her gaze on your face, warm and ticklish. Or maybe it’s her hand.

+++++

Missy is brushing her hair.

Eyes half-closed, you pretend not to watch her. She stands in front of your mirror, purple housecoat flowing around her like something from a fairy tale, sweeping a wooden brush through the tangles. Four hairpins jut from her mouth.

I’m glad you changed your mind about the bed.

The swelling there is gone. A ragged line is all that remains, dark through her pale pink bottom lip. She sets the hairbrush down and drags a pin from between her teeth, running it across the scab. Her eye twitches.

I think we need to talk about yesterday.

Red splotches on her cheek mark the place where the graze had been, new skin that looks tight and itchy. Parts of the large cut are healed completely. It’s only by the faint purple scratches - one below her eye, one on her jaw - that you can even find where she was injured. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger and pins it at the back of her head.

I don’t know what to do.

Your throat feels tight. She finishes putting her hair up, skilful and unhurried, eyes never flitting from the mirror.

I wish you would look at me.

Slender fingers chart the healed cuts on her face.

I wish you would touch me.

She unbuttons the housecoat and drops it from her shoulders, revealing her chemise. She twists as if to look over her shoulder. It’s no significant state of undress but you clamp your eyes shut all the same.

A long moment of silence passes.

“Could you look at my back?”

Her voice is soft. When you open your eyes, she’s turned back to the mirror, having shrugged off the gown and hooked it over her arm. The white linen chemise ends just above her knees. Her pale calves are dappled with fine, dark hair.

“Please. I can’t quite see it in the mirror.”

You throw the duvet off and sit up, skin prickling with goosebumps as it meets the cool morning air. Outside the rain is torrential. “Of course.” Your voice is still groggy.

She tilts her head as you approach. A single strand of hair hangs loose at her neck. It stirs with your breath.

“Can I-?” Your fingers hover at the embroidered straps on her shoulders, not touching, not asking. Just waiting.

“Please,” she says again.

There is no right way to ease the top of the dress down her arms. You search for something to look at that won’t make your chest hurt but there’s only her bare shoulders, her bright eyes in the mirror. Closing your eyes would be insulting. So would turning your face away.

You can do nothing but watch her shoulder blades twitch as you guide the straps down past her elbows. The fabric droops, falling clear to her waist. She shivers but makes no effort to cover her chest. Your eyes drop to the small of her back.

“Well?”

There’s an indent, a quarter of an inch deep, maybe more. The new skin that lines it is a furious shade of pink. It’s sickle-shaped, with jagged edges, curving to the left of her spine. You catch your fingers drifting towards it and clench them into a fist at your side.

“It looks good.” You clear your throat. “It’s healing. No swelling or anything.”

“But not healed yet?” A strange sort of optimism tints the question.

“No, not- not properly. It still looks...” Painful. “Fresh.”

“Good.” She tugs her chemise back into place hastily. “That it’s healing. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Still cold, you reach for your dressing gown and draw it around yourself. “I’m, uh - I’m gonna go for a shower, okay?”

“Of course.”

She fastens her housecoat with quick fingers. 

+++++

When you find Missy reading on the sofa, there are two steaming mugs on the coffee table in front of her.

She’s gotten changed.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before - the dark floral blouse, the wool skirt - but it feels uncanny. Somehow, seeing her in her chemise or in a pair of your pyjamas is less bizarre than this, her usual clothes with a softer silhouette, no corset, no boots. She has her legs tucked beneath her and her back angled away from the cushions in a way that’s startling unfamiliar. She looks relaxed. She looks comfortable.

“I made tea,” she says, and you realise that you’re staring.

“For me?” It sounds pathetically surprised.

“No. They’re both mine.” She glances up at you with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, for you.” An arrogant, sarcastic sort of lopsided smirk; a faint flicker of her usual self. It makes your heart flutter.

“Thank you, Missy.”

She blinks. When was the last time somebody said that?

You take the cup and sit beside her. Her foot, stocking-pale and peeking out beneath the folds of her skirt, brushes your leg. You don’t flinch. Neither does she. To keep from reaching down and resting your palm on her ankle you wrap both hands around your mug. In times of desperation you can undress her, in darkness or in anger she can lay her hands on you to push you away or pull you close, but by the cold light of a rainy noontime you don’t know where you stand.

You don’t know the rules of this game.

As you drink your tea in silence - save for the occasional drag and rasp of a page turning - the words roll over and over behind your teeth, a tangle you try and fail to straighten out before speaking aloud. There’s too much to unravel. Too many thoughts, emotions, sensations are knotted together, and how do you ask if she feels what you feel when you don’t know what that is?

How do you ask if you can touch her?

How do you explain that you want to?

Missy watches you from the corner of her eye. It’s clear from the set of her jaw that she can sense something of the tumult in your skull. You wish she would put the book down and stop pretending to ignore you. You wish she would speak first.

You wish she would hold your hand.

“What are you reading?” You ask, and immediately wish that you hadn’t when she lifts her eyes from the page and sets them on you. They crinkle at the corners with her smile.

“Immensely dull,” she admits as she shows you the cover. It’s a nondescript black hardback titled in an unfamiliar language. “He’s been telling me to read it for centuries. I let it gather dust in the vault just to get under his skin.”

You can see where this is going. “And now he’s conveniently forgotten to bring you any other books?”

“Clever girl.” You hope she doesn’t see the way it makes your fingers twitch. Dropping her gaze back to the book in her lap, she shifts just enough that her foot rests against the outside of your thigh. She leaves it there.

“I think-”

The words come out before you can stop them and now it’s happening. You’ve lit the fuse. Missy looks at you again, properly this time, and you’d do anything for her to jump in and plug this gap with a derisive, do you? or, try not to strain yourself  but she doesn’t. She just waits. It hurts to meet her eyes.

You do it anyway. She deserves that much.

“I think we need to talk about yesterday.”

She nods, almost imperceptible. Something cracks behind her smile but it stays put, too wide, too false to be comfortable. “Do we?” It’s hollow. Not a question, not a snarl. Maybe a scoff.

Maybe a plea.

The doorbell rings.

+++++

In the doorway to your flat the Doctor proffers a damp plastic bag. The smell of hot oil and chip shop vinegar rises from it in a haze. It instantly makes you hungry.

In his other hand he carries a folded umbrella, wet from the rain.

"I brought food,” he says, and you realise that you’re staring.

“Is that-”

“Yes.” He taps the end of Missy’s sonic umbrella against the ground. “Can I come in?”

Uncertain. Like he thinks you might actually say no. He looks down at his full hands, the chips, the sonic; peace offerings. The closest to an apology you could ever expect, and one you aren’t quite ready to accept.

You don’t know when you got so angry with him.

“Did you do anything to it?”

“No,” he says, fire in his eyes, and it means I would never. You know his vehemence is supposed to be an olive branch, too, but it incenses you. He understands the notion that some things are sacred. He knows that there is a line and this is where he’s drawn it, too far on the wrong side of cruelty.

You stand to the side to let him through the door. When he’s close enough, you snatch the umbrella from his hand.

+++++

Missy is so different when he’s there.

She sits up straighter. Even when he takes your seat beside her, banishing you to sit cross-legged on the floor, she keeps her distance. Her feet are back on the ground. The book that she was reading is, you can see from your low vantage point, hidden beneath the sofa.

The umbrella is propped up against the coffee table in front of her. It doesn’t leave her sight for an instant.

“So,” he inspects a chip on the end of his fork. “You look better.”

“Than you?” A tilt of her eyebrow. “Always.”

He ignores it. “How’s recovery going?”

“Tiresome. Next time I get stabbed I’ll make sure that it kills me.”

Next time I get stabbed. Your stomach twists painfully and you put the remains of your meal aside. Their tight back-and-forth continues for almost half an hour.

When the Doctor gets up to leave, Missy sees him out, closing the living room door behind her. In a bid to ignore the low murmur of their voices in the hall, you tidy up as loudly as you can.

+++++

Four knocks against the doorframe, just audible over the rolling boil of the kettle.

You’ve never drunk this much tea in your life.

Even before she speaks your stomach is dropping. The kitchen feels smaller than it ever has before. Counters and cabinets press in on you, claustrophobic, like the room is shrinking around you in the silence.

“It’s time for me to go back.”

Squeezing your eyes tight, you fight not to make a sound until you’ve steadied yourself. Horror and sorrow and pain tug at your throat. When you finally manage to reply it’s terse, partly with anger, partly because your voice will break if you say any more. “Do you want to?”

“Does it matter?” She asks, and somehow it’s worse than yes. “The Doctor and I- agree, that I’ve recovered enough to travel again.”

“Did you show him your back?” There’s an ember of something too much like jealousy in the question.

“No.” I would never. A trace of disgust in her voice. Some things are sacred. “No, but we spoke.”

You scoff. “You mean, he said jump and you asked how high?”

She doesn’t even argue and god, you’d take being thrown against the bathroom sink over this, any day. “Yes. That’s how it has to be.”

“Does it?” For the first time you throw a glance over your shoulder at her. It’s a mistake. It makes your bottom lip quiver. “Why?”

Her brows draw together, a soft sort of torment on her face. “You know why.”

“I don’t.” Squaring your shoulders, you turn to face her, bracing your hands on the countertop behind you. You set your jaw against the plaintive whimper that races up your throat. “Tell me.”

“I’m not- ready. To be around people yet.” She waves a delicate hand in front of her face. “I thought I was, but obviously I was mistaken.”

“You look ready.” You gesture to her. “You’re standing here with me.”

“I’m not safe.”

“You haven’t killed me, have you?” You indicate your very-much-still-living body. “I’m still here.”

A quick hand wraps around your extended arm, just over your wrist, where she’d grabbed you yesterday. It’s not a tight grip but the joint is stiff and, despite your best efforts, your face twitches with discomfort. Spotting the movement, she loosens her hand until she’s just barely touching you.

“I hurt you.”

Your eyes flicker over her face, the pain written into it. It’s not a question, but you answer anyway. “Yes.”

Her gaze drops from you and she lets go of your wrist, but you catch her hand in yours and take a step towards her. She could pull away easily, you know that; but she doesn’t. Her fingers lace between yours.

“Do you want to go?” You ask again, making a conscious effort to keep your voice soft. She doesn’t look at you.

“I have to,” she murmurs to the floor.

“You don’t.” Closer still, letting your clasped hands swing between you. Less than a foot of distance from chest to chest. “And that’s not what I asked.”

Missy lifts her bright eyes to you and the desperation there makes your breath catch. She doesn’t speak.

“You can stay.” It comes out like a plea. “If you like.”

Her voice is a cracked whisper. “I can’t.”

“Why?” You reach for her other hand and she doesn’t flinch, letting you slot your fingers together with hers until you can feel her heartbeat through both palms. “Why can’t you, Missy?”

“Because-” with a steadying breath, she sets her jaw and twists her lips in contempt that you know isn’t directed at you. “Because I am not a good person.”

“Then be a good person!” 

You don’t mean for it to be so loud. Her eyes widen and you squeeze her hands, closing the distance until you’re almost touching. Your faces are inches apart.

“It’s not something you can learn. You’re not stupid, and you’re not helpless, and, whatever, the Doctor thinks, you are not his pet monster. If you lock yourself up with him until you feel like you’re good enough you’ll be there forever.”

Her face crumples, tears shining glassy in the low light of the afternoon, and it looks like she wants to lunge and pull you close but she doesn’t. She parts her lips and takes a breath and lets you carry on. You can feel a mutinous sob building at the back of your throat.

“You don’t have to save the world. Most people never do. You don’t have to be kind all the time because nobody ever is but you have to choose, Missy. You just have to choose not to be cruel. Every day, you choose. That’s all you do. That’s all there is to it.”

She laughs, low and tearful, a strangled sort of noise. “You say it like it’s easy.”

“On a good day, it is.”

With a shaky breath like she’s drowning, Missy asks, “and on a bad day?”

“On a bad day, you do the best you can.” When a tear streaks down her face you can’t stop yourself dropping her hand, reaching up to cup her cheek. It’s cold. Her mouth falls open with a quivering gasp when you wipe away the moisture with your thumb. You feel your own eyes burning and offer her a watery smile. “And then you try again tomorrow.”

She covers your hand with her own and looks at you for a moment as if she’s waiting for permission; and then she holds it there and tilts her head to press a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The tears you’ve been swallowing back escape with a choked whimper.

“Stay, Missy.” You crook your fingers and curl them lightly against her jaw. She shivers. “Please. I’m asking you. Stay here with me.”

Closing her eyes like she’s struck with pain, she moves your hand from her face and rests her forehead against yours. Slowly - so achingly slowly - her hands release yours and come to rest on your waist. It makes your breath hitch. You mirror her, just as tentatively, pressing your palms to the line where thin blouse and thick skirt meet.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, the breath of the words ghosting over your face. “For yesterday, I-”

“I know you are.” Her fingers tighten on the fabric of your clothes. “Don’t do it again.”

“Never.” She opens her eyes, so close that you can hear the moisture on her lashes. “I promise you. I would never.”

“I believe you.”

“I want to be good.”

You chuckle through your tears, breathless and high-pitched. “For what it’s worth, I think you already are.”

She makes a fractured sound in the back of her mouth and slides one hand into the small of your back. Lifting her head, she moves closer, pressing her chest to yours. Her fingers are cool and feather-light on your face.

“Everything,” she murmurs, brushing the tears from your cheek. “It’s worth everything.”

The kiss is damp, and salty, and it knocks you breathless.

For a second you worry about hurting her, feeling the rough line of the scab through her bottom lip drag against your mouth, but she has no such concerns. She kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t.

You know how she feels.

When, too soon, she pulls away, you can’t help whining and trying to chase her mouth with your own, but she steps back, just enough that you can’t reach. For a long moment you’re terrified that she’s changed her mind, that this has been some mad and frenzied mistake, but she presses her lips to your forehead and tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

“You’re cold.”

It takes you a moment to even process the words. “Am I?”

Smiling, she reaches back to move your hand from her waist and show it to you by way of explanation. It’s trembling.

You hadn’t noticed.

“Oh. Yeah, I s’pose I am.”

She kisses your knuckles, just once, just lightly, and you realise that you are, in fact, shivering.

“You go and sit down.” Gentle fingers brush the underside of your chin. “I’ll make tea.”

The touch has you ducking your head shyly and you tease, “twice in one day?”

“Only for you, poppet.”

+++++

“It’s obviously the little girl.”

“Is it?” You glance away from the gore on the screen and down to Missy. Her head rests in your lap, over the thick blanket that covers you, her eyes fixed on the horror film playing out on the television. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, first of all, I don’t recall telling you to stop.” She looks up at you with a quirk of her eyebrow, rolling her eyes to indicate her hairline. With a fond scoff you resume gently scratching her head. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Mistress is fine.” Judging by the sharp smile that flashes across her face, she doesn’t miss the choked noise you make. “It’s a revenge film. I mean, look,” she gestures to the screen, “everyone who was nasty to her is dying. It’s poetic justice.”

“Like Carrie?” You prompt helpfully, smoothing a frustrated line from her forehead.

“Exactly like Carrie.” She wrinkles her nose. “But with worse practical effects.”

“I s’pose they all look fairly bad to you.”

“Hmm. It’s like pornography.” Your fingers falter against her scalp and she chuckles. “Pales in comparison once you’ve done the real thing.”

You look back at the television, debating for a moment whether to speak, but curled on the sofa here with her it all feels so much simpler. With forced casualness, you ask, “do you miss it?”

“Pornography?” She snorts. “Sometimes. I had a lot of me time in the vault.”

“No!” Feeling heat rise into your cheeks, you swat the side of her head very gently with your palm. She laughs. “I mean-”

“I know what you mean.” She takes your other hand - the one resting on her shoulder - and brings it down to her lips, kissing your palm. It makes you melt. “Which answer do you want? The good one, or the bad one?”

“Just the real one, Missy.” You lace your fingers through hers. “I don’t mind what that is.”

With a soft exhale, she clutches your hand to her chest. You can feel her hearts beating. “Like I said. Sometimes.” She throws a sideways glance up at you and you smile.

“That makes sense.”

“Does it?” So much aching vulnerability in the question. You squeeze her hand.

“Yeah. Makes sense to me.”

She nods like she doesn’t quite agree, and the movement turns into a nuzzle against your thigh. Taking the hint, you set up the rhythm of light scratches through her hair once more. “We still have to talk, don’t we?”

“Yeah. I think so.” She presses your palm tighter into her blouse. Her eyes are still red and puffy. “But not right now. Unless you want to.”

“Not right now,” she echoes softly, and ducks her head to kiss your knuckles. Her head twists in your lap as she settles herself again.

“Are you sure you don’t want a pillow?”

“Positive.” Her lips tilt at the corners. “This is perfect.”

Yes, is all you can think, watching the red-and-blue light of the television flashing on her pale face. She hums contentedly when you scratch behind her ear.

This is perfect.

[sabraeal]

Documented for Posterity, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

1:20    Method 1: Subject attempts to sleep off effects

In those first few halcyon moments before Yuzuri reaches for the lamp, Suzu has high hopes. It’s not the first time he’s slept off an inappropriately pitched tent; college dormitories and trips to the field don’t leave much in the way of privacy.  He prefers other methods, of course, but as he settles down against a pillow of his jacket and a blanket of Yuzuri’s cloak, he’s got a good good about his chances.

But then her fingers flip the flame down to the faintest flicker, light dancing through the glass with a demure wave, and--

Well, now he’s just locked in a dark room with stiff cock and a girl dressed not only in a clinging chemise-- there’s a flirty ripple of lace sewn to the curve of her decolletage that he’s personally finding very hard not to dwell on-- but also smelling like apples and vanilla. His heart gallops triple time in his chest, not sure if he’s ravenous for pie, biscuits, or her cunt.

It’s a bit much, that’s what he’s trying to say.

“It’s hot in here,” he complains, because anything else will almost certainly end with him doing a walk of shame in his long johns and boots across the university’s main floor. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”

“Just try to sleep already,” Yuzuri sighs, impatient, somewhere behind his head. He can’t see her; she’s moved away from the lamp’s hazy glow, and from the sound of it, is back at the table, pen scratching at the rough parchment of the page.

Experiment one, she must be writing, in the looping, fat hand he’s seen in the log book and on placards in the hothouses. Subject trying to sleep away erection of middling size. In this researcher’s experience, it should only take fifteen minutes to reduce to its normal size, though the standard deviation for cocks--

“I can hear you thinking.” Her pen skips to a stop. “Stop it.”

“It’s hard.” He rolls over, half on his stomach before he’s reminded-- ah yes, not a good plan having that touch...anything. Even if it’s just cold storeroom floor. “I’m very smart, you know.”

“I can’t see how.” He can’t see her, but he knows how her mouth is pinched, elongating the elegant oval of her face, and her arched brows drawn down to look like the sternest librarian fantasy. “It’s not like you do it regularly anyway.”

He nearly corrects her-- once a day, whether he needs to or not, just to keep the pipes working and his sheets clean-- but she’s not talking about that.

“Hey.” Suzu’s in no position to put his hands anywhere near his hips, but spiritually, they’re there, arms indignantly akimbo. “I have plenty of ideas--”

“Then have more of them about sleeping,” she informs him, stocking feet scuffling on the floor. “It’s impossible to have results if a test subject refuses to participate in the experiment.”

“Fine.” His arms fold across his chest in a huff. “I will. But you should know--”

“Suzu.” The way her mouth wraps around his name, so soft and resigned, has every bit of him standing at attention in all the best worst ways. Or worst best. He can’t quite decide. “Shut up.”

2:10

Suzu would like the record to show-- if Yuzuri would be kind enough to oblige him, which he knows she won’t be-- he does give it an honest effort.

Five minutes of honest to goodness silence settles him-- at least, enough to realize he’s too scrawny to ever lay on a stone floor in comfort. His shoulder blades jut oddly into the mortared edges, and when he rolls into his side, his ribs grate. It’s cold too; even in his woolens, Suzu feels the frosts of winters past riming his spine. And quite honestly, warm as his coat is, it’s nothing next to a good down pillow. Most bedding doesn’t smell of lab chemicals and yesterday’s lost dumpling. And Yuzuri’s cloak--

Well, it’s soft, warm-- and it smells like her. And, fool that he is, Past-Suzu thinks that’s a plus. Oh, Past-Suzu just catches that hint of dessert on the air and sticks his nose right in, huffing down that sweet scent of apple crisp, letting the soft, flickering of the lamp lull him. He can’t see her, but line of sight has never been necessary, oh no, not when a semi-eidetic memory meets an imagination as overactive as his.

Yuzuri sits up on her chair, one stockinged leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling, foot arched as her toes strain to press against the floor. Her golden hair falls over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, chemise sliding down its pale cusp. It’s chilly in here; she raises a hand to guide it back up. Her fingers hesitate-- maybe it would be better if they shared heat. Suzu, after all, looked so cozy there on the floor. Angelic, even, with the way his hair curled over his jacket.

Slowly, she stands, padding over, dropping to her knees. Her breasts strain against the soft linen of her chemise, nipples aroused by the contact, her hand reaching--

“Nope!” Suzu bolts upright, hunching over his knees. It’s a bit of a feat, now that his tent had expanded into a pavilion. “This is...definitely not working.”

The valve squeaks, the shadows deepening as the lamp brightens. The glare Yuzuri levels at him over the table describes all the way that his fantasies will stay firmly in the realm of imagination, aphrodisiac-induced arousal or not.  “Really?”

“Yes,” he informs her a little more manic than he would like. “It’s giving me far too much time to think.”

Yuzuri hum, flatly. “I can see how that might be dangerous to your health.”

“It’s not funny,” he snips, head snapping over his shoulder. “I’ve had an erection for two whole hours. That’s-- that’s at least a whole hour longer than I’ve ever done before.”

The pen scratches across the page, but he could swear he hears a muttered, hour fifty-five.

He frowns. “What was that?”

Yuzuri doesn’t bother looking up. “What was what?”

“You said something.”

“No.” Her mouth forms the word carefully as she crosses her ankles, legs drawn tight together from knee to thigh. “I didn’t.”

His mouth purses, annoyed. “I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously.”

“I’m handling it with the seriousness it deserves,” she informs him primly, her tone implying another half to the sentence, which is none.

“I’ll have you know it hurts.” At least it does now, now that he’s said it. Stings, quite honestly, like skin pinched in a hinge, too full for too long.

For the first time since this whole debacle started, a real thrill of fear rushes through him. The whole situation is ridiculous and mortifying and carries the vague threat of ending his career if someone with more pearls to clutch than Yuzuri found out he was sporting an erection in an educational institution, but it hasn’t seemed dangerous. But now he nudges his cock, just the barest bit, and tears spring to his eyes. Something might actually be medically wrong. This could have lasting implications.

“Oh, honestly.” Yuzuri squiggles in her seat, thighs rubbing together in a way that brings new meaning to the words painfully hard. “Can’t you just jack yourself off?”

Suzu, age twenty-five, of sound body and mind, nearly has a cardiac event.

“What?” He stares at her hard enough to pop a vessel-- which he doesn’t, but it’s a close thing, considering. “Right here?”

“N-no, Suzu!” A blush blooms over the rosy rounds of her cheeks. “I’m not just telling you t-to whip it out in front of me!”

He nearly asks why not-- it’s not like it will be the first penis she’s seen outside of a clinical setting-- but his teeth snap shut around the impulse. That’s one of those things that could be career limiting, if one considered the bedroom a place of employment. Which he didn’t; it was his sanctum sanctorum, the place in which he rested his head at night, but--

Well, if he had a reason to be employed in there, he might. He’d at least like to be conducting interviews, instead of, ah, self-review.

“I meant that you could, I don’t know, go around the corner.” She waves her hand vaguely towards the back of the stockroom. “Use a shelf for cover or, um, something.”

“There’s a closet,” he says, because elaborate self-sabotage could be listed on his curriculum vitae under professional skills. “We use it for storing light sensitive materials.”

Against all reason, she actually lifts a finger to her chin and ponders the suggestion. “You’re able to do it in the dark?”

He could find his cock blind, deaf, mute, and one-handed, but that strikes him as a relatively unimpressive feat, considering how it’s attached to him.

“Yeah,” he says instead, “if you, ah, don’t mind.”

There is a distinct, heavy hesitation before she replies, “Well, it’s not like you’ll be in the same room.”

“No,” he agrees, technically.

“I think--” she worries at the edge of a page, thoughtful-- “that as long as we’re, ah, recording our findings, then it’s fine to be...scientifically rigorous.”

He swallows, hard. It makes a noticeable thunk.

“Right,” he says, weakly, rising to his feet. “Scientifically...rigorous.”

2:15    Method 2: Subject attempts manual stimulation

“What?” Suzu squawks, peeping out of the closet. “You can’t write that!”

Yuzuri flattens the journal against her chest-- that’s not helping what going on down in his whole...Pavilion Street reconstruction down south. “Why not?”

“People are going to read that!” He makes a terrible, uncoordinated swipe for it. She easily sidesteps him, giving him a withering glare. There was a reason Kirito always asks Obi to be on his team for the little snow battles him and his rascally friends enacted on the quad and not Suzu.

“That’s the point,” Yuzuri deadpans, “it’s being documented for posterity, like all you scholars love.”

“Right, yes, I get that.” He shuffles, cock bobbling painfully in his pants. Really, something has to be done about this. “But Shidan will read it.”

Her mouth pulls thin; or at least it would, if her lips weren’t full and quantifiably kissable no matter their configuration. “Shidan is a person, yeah.”

“Which means I’ll have to talk about it.” He licks his lips, nervous, and Yuzuri watches him with ever-increasing incredulity. “In, you know, a meeting.”

She stares for a long moment, then opens the journal with a sigh.

2:15    Method 2: Subject attempts manual stimulation to self-administer proposed course of treatment

“That’s better.”

Yuzuri glares up at him. “Just get in the closet already.”

2:19

This should be easy. After all, Suzu always joked-- with Obi, alone, door locked after surreptitiously checking the halls to make sure no one was lingering too close to hear through the solid oak-- that if they’d handed out doctorates for masturbation, he’d have three. He is, in as much as one could be at a private practice with no grading rubric, a professional.

But as soon as he unbuttons the fall of his trousers, letting his cock sit heavy in his hands, he’s just...lost.

It should be a relief. When he’s left to his own devices, there’s no bigger rush than making it to his room before midnight, work finished-- or at least, avoided-- and stripping down to nothing. Just him, his bed, and a bottle of vanilla-scented oil, with the whole night before them.

But now he stands here in the dark, cramped closet, the scent of herbs so heavy he can feel it pressing against his skin, and even with his aching cock, he just can’t quite, well--

Get it up. No, wait, it’s definitely up, but--

But there’s nothing sensual about this. No romance. No chemistry. Like the dates Yuzuri always complains about-- no dinner first.

“How’s it going?” The wood muffles Yuzuri’s voice, but he can hear each word as crisp as an accusation. “Getting close?”

Suzu’s tongue falls in an exasperated cluck, swiveling his neck toward the door. “Just how long do you think this takes?”

“In my vast experience,” she drawls, her tone vibrating at the frequency glass shatters, “you should already be done.”

He’s tempted to balk, maybe even disparage her previous paramours, but, well-- if she was here, her soft, slender hands wrapped around his cock, whispering encouragement into his ear, Suzu doubts he’d fare much better. His cock gives a good twitch of agreement, and promptly continues to get absolutely nowhere.

“Well,” he manages, mouth utterly dry-- another factor making this whole venture both uncomfortable and unlikely-- “I can’t do it when you’re right out there, listening.”

Even through the door her sigh is heavy, frustrated. “I’m taking notes!”

“I don’t see why,” he snaps, giving his shaft a vengeful stroke. It, like all the others, feels good while also being irrevocably, disappointingly wrong. “It’s not like you’ll be describing this in Methods.”

“Because if I take notes, this is experimentation,” she explains haltingly, “and if I don’t, then...”

Then he’s just a young man fruitlessly jerking off in a closet while she listens, no matter the details. She could sit back at the table, of course, folding those shapely legs beneath her, biting her lip with a longing glance over her shoulder but--

But it wouldn’t change anything. He’s still in a closet, hand around his cock, hoping for some relief, and she’s enabling him. The science is the only thing between her and a scandal.

“It’s just...” His palm squeezes the base of his shaft, a spark of arousal zipping up his spine. “It’s like trying to pee when there’s someone in the next stall.”

There’s a long moment of silence, enough that he wonders if she’s wandered away after all, ready to wash her hands of the whole thing. It’s his problem, after all, not hers, and she--

“Suzu.” Her voice is low, the kind of deep-throated whisper that sends static swirling over his skin. “Are you a shy pisser?”

His cheeks sting, heat prickling like a rash. Unfair-- by any natural law, or at least the ones in his repertoire-- he shouldn’t have the blood to spare for a blush, let alone one that fully threatens to expand its horizons in either northern or southerly direction. Any moment now he’ll start to get dizzy, maybe even pass out in this tiny bolthole of a closet, and Yuzuri will have to drag him out with his pants around the ankles before she goes and writes something like, subject’s delicate constitution precludes finishing trial, and--

“NO ONE LIKES PEEING IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.” His breath huffs out of him in ragged pants, and for once it has nothing to do with the state of his erection. Well, tangentially it does, but-- “honestly, Yuzuri.”

“Strange stance to take when you can pee on any tree you want,” she mutters, just audible through the oak. “Now are you going to finish this up or what?”

Suzu looks down at his cock-- still painfully hard, ridiculous jutting out from the ruin of his trousers-- and glares.

“Why are you even still here,” he grumbles, shoving it back behind his fall, buttons fumbling out of the grip of his trembling fingers. “Nothing about this is arousing.”

2:20

“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” Yuzuri says, incredulous, for what had to be the twelfth time since he’s stumbled out of the closet, desperately aroused and with no relief in sight. The repetition has not made the observation any less embarrassing. “You must do it all the time.”

Suzu hunches over his knees, willing himself to disappear. Like everything he wants, invisibility remains frustratingly elusive. “I’m not talking to you about-- about--”

“Jerking off?” Her brows make a rousing bid for her hairline. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

He shrivels sullenly. “It’s not fair.”

Yuzuri sighs, but she tips her head to look at him, hair falling like a solid sheet of gold over her shoulder, neck curved in an elegant line, ready for a mouth to--

Ugh. Suzu buries his face between his knees. His suffering is unending.

“How is this unfair?” She asks, annoyance adding spikes to every oblivious word that falls from her lips. “Just because your genitalia is external and obvious?”

It should be impossible to be so angry and so aroused at the same time, not without blissfully passing out to avoid both states, but here he is, still conscious. Still conscious, and the tatters of his brain-to-mouth filter frittered away by the ache in his crotch.

“It’s not fair,” he seethes raggedly, “because nothing is happening to you!”

The silence his shout leaves behind is deafening. What was he thinking? He never raises his voice, not like this, and especially not at Yuzuri. Yuzuri who could be doing anything else instead of sitting here, nursing him through the worst night of his life.

“What?”

He can barely bring himself to look up, to look at the confusion furrowing her perfect alabaster brow.

“I know it’s not your fault, but--” he should really stop himself, but an object in motion stays in motion, and there’s no friction he can provide that can stop the truth from barrelling out of his mouth-- “here I am, experiencing death by erection, and you--” he waves his hand vaguely in her direction-- “are immune or something.”

“Immune?” The word hisses between her teeth, sharp as a page’s edge. “Suzu, I’m dying. I-- I can barely sit upright, but someone has to write this down.”

Suzu stares. Properly this time, gaze fixed to her face, and-- she’s flushed, pink blooming around the gathering at her collar, and twinging up her neck, flooding her cheeks. “W-what?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’“ she snaps. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding it! Just because I don’t have external genitalia doesn’t mean I’m not--”

She throws up her hands, the noise she makes halfway between a grunt and a scream,all frustration. Her one arm drops, wiping at her forehead--

Her forehead, which is coated in sweat. Wiped by her hands, which are trembling. Right above her eyes too, too dark even for the dimness of the room. And her thighs, they rub together, pressed tight at their apex--

His mouth dries. Her chemise is wet, right where it settles over her crotch. The scent in the room now is not just herbs and alcohol, but something earthy and tantalizing, something he’d like to taste on his tongue.

“Yuzuri,” he says slowly, heart pounding in his ears. “Are you...horny?”

She turns to him with those too dark eyes, breath huffing out her small nose.

“You,” she sighs, trembling fingers pressing to her temples, “are an utter moron.”

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Monday 6 August 1838

7 25

..

some minutes with A- till 8 – fine morning but brouillard low on mountains again – F69 ½° at 9 had Charles and Pierre – then chasseurs guides say that the prince de la Moscawa has engaged Cassos the Gèdre Vignemale guide to go to the top of that mountain on Thursday (the prince to sleep at Gavarnie on Wednesday night) be the weather fine or not – my 2 guides have hope that the weather will improve – at last fixed to go this afternoon – to leave here at 3 pm for the cabane – all 3 mounted and take Charles’ brother-in-law to bring back the horses and bring A- and then to meet us at Bouchero at 4pm on Wednesday – Breakfast at 9 ¼ to 11 A- read aloud the paper – strawberries, raspberries, and figs the 2 latter 1st time at breakfast and figs the 1st time of tasting them here – A- wrote copy of letter to Mr. SW. and I wrote on the 1st half of p. 1 of the sheet she is to write on, as follows –

‘Monday 6 August 1838. Pay to Mr. Samuel Washington a order two hundred pounds A. Lister

to the manager of the Yorkshire District Bank at Halifax

St. Sauveur. Hautes Pyrénées. France. Monday 6 August 1838.

Sir,

I send you as above, an order on the Yorkshire District Bank for two hundred pounds – you were right to pay William Mallinson whatever balance might be due to him, as I told him his bill should be paid out of the rent – Do what you think best about paying the small bills due to Messrs. Barber, Firth, and Keighley – as Mr. Greenwoods’ bill for papering at Northgate was not sent in when I left home, I do not know what is due to him  on this account; but as he has chosen to begin paying himself out of his rent, I shall determine, on my return home, whether to let him go on doing so, or not – I am tired of laying out money on the Stump-cross Inn – but Mr. Harper may have a shade – I will have nothing to do with the new brewing pan –I was not prepared for being called upon to raise the brew house, which I therefore beg to decline for the present, whatever I may do hereafter – you had best see what the town will do for William Green – when he has done his own money, [?] him have half a crown a week till my return ��� I am, sir, etc. etc. A. Lister’

then wrote as under to ‘Mr. Mackean, Yorkshire District Bank, Halifax, Yorkshire, Angleterre’

‘St. Sauveur. Hautes Pyrénées. France. Monday 6 August 1838. Sir – I received your letter of the 7th ultimo on the 16th ultimo – you would receive on the 10th ultimo one hundred and sixty pounds on my account – I shall be at home, and will settle my account before Christmas – In the meantime, I shall be obliged to you to honour Mr. S. Washington’s drafts on my account to the amount of two hundred pounds – I am, sir, etc. etc. A. Lister’ – leave these two letters with A- to go by tonights’ post – had just written them, and so far of today besides listening to A-‘s letters (she is writing to her sister) till now 1 5 pm – did up my things – take my tartan cloak my Charles cape and jacket – and in my travelling bag a night chemise and one day ditto 1 pair large grey woollen stockings and 100fr. tied up and put in one of the stockings and 2 pair gloves and 1 pocket handkerchief and tooth brush, soap, comb, needle and thread, and stiletto all on one parcel tied up in a sheet of large whitey brown paper and then in a towel – and also in my bag 1 pair shoes and gaiters – nothing else but what I have on – my merinos gown and 2 white petticoats etc. pair of new strong St. Sauveur shoes, cotton socks and spun silk black stockings legs – a night cap in my pocket and pair of socks and pocket handkerchief and one silk handkerchief in my breast and ½ silk ditto and a sheet of paper in my hat – just written so far at 2 55 when the horses came – off at 3 35 – Charles and Pierre and I all mounted – at the Pont de Sia at 4 ¼ - at the pont de [Douroncate] in 20 minutes more at 4 35 – had passed the bridge and was out of Gèdre at 5 20 – sent the guides on before and alighted for a minute at 5 55 in the chaos and at the Inn at Gavarnie at 6 ½ I did not alight but waited ¼ hour at the door while Charles borrowed 2 pair crampons at 1/. per day each and 2 bâtons ferrés at 1/. each per day, the wife of Cazos [Cassos] having unexpectedly told Charles in passing thro’ Gèdre to provide us with these articles – How is this? Cazos declared on the Piméné and since we had neither glacier nor snow to pass – Charles had luckily bought a light baton ferré for me thinking it might help me and A- had persisted in my having my crampons (these I got for Mt. Perdu in 1830) with me, I nothing loth – off from Gavarnie at 6 ¾ - toujours brouillard, but otherwise fine – at the cabane de Saoussats Dabattes at 8 5 – Cazos and Charles’ brother-in-law had arrived at the cabane just before us, having come direct from Gèdre – we had just got a glimpse of them on the other side the gave as we rode along – our provisions that we had brought were [mine] a     lbs. roll put with my little bundle in the sack de nuit bought in Paris for our night things – 2 biscuits in the breast of my dress, 2 hardboiled eggs in Charles’ waistcoat pocket, and my small Swiss Chamouni [Chamonix] guide full of brandy slung over Charles’ shoulder – the guides’ provisions     lbs. bread (white like mine) ./70 a leather bottle of white wine ./70 for the bergers to drink of as Charles said and          lb, fromàge ./40 and this I had added a bottle 3/. of the best eau-de-vie (the same as that I had for myself) our pharmacien had in his shop – I had in my little bundle 1 chemise and 1 night ditto and 1 pocket handkerchief, and 2 pair gloves, and 1 pair large grey woollen stockings in the foot of one of which a small parcel containing 100/. in five franc pieces, besides which I had about 50/. in my pocket – and I had also 1 pair lightish shoes and gaiters in the sac de nuit which was done up with my Charles jacket in my Charles cape and strapped on my horse behind me – my Maclean tartan cloak tied up and hung on my saddle crutch, or on my back, or carried for and with me everywhere – I was dressed as I have been ever since my arrival here – for riding – and as I was when I ascended the Mt. Perdu – flannel waistcoat and drawers and light small merinos loose sleeves (as for the last 20 years) chemise, stays, short cambric muslin under petticoat – ditto ditto upper ditto over which striped jaconot waist with high collar and long sleeves – broad hammed 3 frilled muslin ficher – and over this double muslin handkerchief and double dark silk ditto and then my black merinos dress lightly ouattée [ouatée] and doublée de persienne, and besides, loose white cambric muslin sleeves sewed into the sleeves of the dress for cleanliness – as usual – and a double lined with persienne pelerine to the dress, and crossed over my chest a light black china crape shawl – I had had (as on going to Mt. P-) tape loops put round the bottom of my dress and string at the top, and just before setting off, had my dress tied up all round me to just about or above the knee – I wore white cotton socks and black spun silk legs with tape straps, and strong leather ¼ boot shoes with nails in (made here for the purpose) and black satin gaiters – I had my white cotton night cap in my pocket and my claps-knive of London 1826 – I had in my breast pockets a pair of cotton socks, a whole black  twilled silk handkerchief, and ½ a light coloured foulard (the one I went to the top of Ben nevis in 1828) and Charpentiers’ map of the Pyrenees, and my little note rough book containing my passport – yet I was lighter equipped and my heart was light but for the thought that I had left poor A- dull and perhaps anxious about me for my own and what I was going to attempt – she thought perhaps that I had not been free from biliousness and vertiges for many days, and perhaps she fidgeted about me – but Charles’ brother-in-law is to be back with the horses and see her tomorrow evening and bring her to meet me at Bouchero on Wednesday – the vale d’Ossōnne a fine savage valley – but latterly too dark for me to know much or see much of what I was passing – we had scarcely entered the cabane before the fire was made and pâte set on – it might be about an hour before all huddled in round the pâte-pan – ten of us 5 bergers and our 5 selves including Cazos and Charles’ brother-in-law – I declined assisting at the pâte but ate 1/3 of my roll and drunk a little cold new milk and then lay down about ½ hour before the rest – I lay in my tartan cloak and wrapped in my cape upon a couple of the bergers’ capes and my Charles jacket stuffed between me and the big granite-stone forming the far end of the cabane – my sack de nuit

SH:7/ML/E/21/0161

 was my pillow aided by one of the bergers goat-skins bags in which they keep their cloche and provision of bread and meal (bled du turquie meal for pâte) – not comfortable enough to cheat one into sleep – it might be about 10 when all were lain down in 2 rows – head to foot – so crowded no room to stir – cabane hardly 5 yards by 2 – awoke at 11 50 – lighted candle and looked at my watch – I should have been glad to be off – but Cazos said il faisait trop nuit

[frogsmulder]

You Are the Answer to My Question II

part 1

House of Mirth; Lily and Selden share a moment in a hotel room; rated t; about 700 words; for @mypanicface​, I hope I captured that repressed eroticism

Lily lay on the edge of the bed, heart beating the rhythm of a racehorse. And they were out of the stocks, Selden and herself. She felt like she was hurtling around the tack, turning a blind corner in this journey. Ahead was a fog of unknown, but for the first time in her life, she didn't feel vulnerable and exposed, seeking protection. For she already had all the protection she needed. Lily lay on the edge of the bed, heart beating a thousand gallops, but all she could do was smile.

It was at that moment that Selden knocked on her door and entered. His presence instantly lit a spark in her and she let the exhilaration flame. She could taste the danger in what they were doing, but that was half of the allure. The other thing she could taste was his lips still, fresh from when she had asked him to embark on this journey with her. That particular flavour of thrill and the tacky interior of the clifftop hotel was proof that he had said yes.

"Lily?" he questioned, softness at the edge of his voice.

She sat up upon an elbow, smiling still, wanting to pinch herself to see if it was all just a cruel dream, but not daring to wake herself either.

"Why are you crying?"

Her smile slipped away as her fingers dabbed at her cheeks, catching droplets of tears she hadn't known had fallen. She sniffed, a laugh caught in her throat, as she was unsure how to answer.

Selden moved to sit next to her and held her tear-stained cheek. He placed the tenderest of kisses to it, watching her eyes close as he did so. Lily held her breath, feeling heat rise through her and a blush bloom under his touch.

Eventually, she found her breath to utter the question on her mind. "Have we beaten the game?"

"The game never ends." He looked her in the eyes, meaning every word and seeing her disappointment. "But that is okay because we can spend the rest of our lives cheating it."

He smiled as Lily's forlorn expression grew into a grin. His hand curled round to hold the back of her head and before he could stop himself, he was undressing the pins from her hair, strands tumbling indecently out of their hold. He hesitated but she reassured him, finding and plucking a pin herself and placing it on the nightstand with the rest. Watching his eyes flick as he felt for more pins, she sighed, melting into the affection like ice cream on a warm day.

He smiled at her when all were removed, his fingers flowing through the tight curls, loosening them and setting them free. Grazing his finger across her cheek, he brought his hands down to admire her beauty; soft and gentle and charming like venus herself. His hands settled in her lap, resting on her legs through layers of skirts.

"I should go," he whispered, looking away from her eyes holding him captive.

Lily's heart quickened. "Stay."

Mirroring him, she placed her hands on his legs, twining them together. "I have only just got you. I could not bear to let you go just yet."

She found her nose incredibly close to his, nudging the air between them persuasively. Selden closed his eyes and let her win the argument, closing also the gap. Her lips tasted so sweet under his tongue as they played the old, familiar dance of chase. Yet the way she played was as though she had invented it herself.

Together they undressed the rest of her clothing down to her chemise when Selden averted his eyes respectfully, although a sinful thought at the back of Lily's head wished he wouldn't. She slipped under the blankets and reached for his hand, linking their fingers together and locking him in place.

"Lawrence, stay," she breathed.

He lay down on top of the bed next to her, brushing away her out-of-place hair. He wouldn't be anywhere else in the world. They looked into one another's eyes, exploring still, if only with their sight, until Lily's eyelids grew heavy. Selden continued to watch her as the waves of slumber rolled through her and closer to crashing over him.

Tomorrow, they set sail for the rest of their life.

...

part 3 part 4 part 5

[melanoradrood]

I know this is tooo far away right now when we are just at the prologue but please please please write the corset opening/removing (whatever) scene in Dramione Bridgerton AU!! When I saw that scene I just zoomed in my Dramione OTP..I want to read it. I hope I don't annoy you with my request..but you are combining two awesome fandoms and since I can't write as well as you I thought I'll make a request!

LMAO okay so! I’m actually writing Episode by Episode. In that, I am currently working on Episode 1. Episode 2 has already been fully plotted out with full notes. Episode 3 is currently bullet points, as is Episode 4. Episodes 5+ are currently just... a paragraph.

BUT.

My intention is to release Episode by Episode, in that I announce Episode 1 will be released the week of ___________ and then every other day, I’ll upload the Episode... and then we take a week or two break, and then the next Episode.

Why? Because my ADHD brain is pleased by this. But also because I don’t want you guys waiting a thousand years. AND because I’m actually planning this now.

I will say that you will, uhhhh have the first chapter.....

I don’t want to use the word soon, but with the move and all, life has settled TREMENDOUSLY. I’ve had a house guest all week helping me with my kids so that I can unpack, so my writing time has been very short, BUT! The first Chapter of Episode 1 is written. I’m starting on Chapter 2 today. ( there’s 4 chapters per episode there about )

So, this is a rant and doesn’te ven answer your question I’m sorry it’s early.

THE CORSET SCENE.

THE. CORSET. SCENE.

Listen. LISTEN. I’m going to be including an Author’s note that talks about how she should be wearing a chemise underneath her corset, or stays - I haven’t stopped and studied the scene enough yet to figure out which one it was but I’m pretty sure they were stays, ANYWAYS.

There will be an author’s note about how this is not appropriate regency/georgian attire..........

And then I’m going to write 3000 words about Draco Malfoy carefully unlacing every single piece of Hermione Granger’s corset, including explicit details about his fingers brushing her skin, Hermione gasping at each touch, her body prickling with goosebumps, his breath on the back of her neck, and the way he basically then falls to the ground at her feet in worship to roll down her stockings while looking up at her otherwise naked body through hooded eyes...................

The whole chapter will probably just be him undressing her.

There’s like three scenes that I’m EXCEPTIONALLY delighted for. One is a conversation that will be happening between Draco and Theo. The second is the final resolution conversation at the end of Episode 8. The last???? 

THAT WEDDING NIGHT.

I got you, anon. I GOT YOU. WE ARE GONNA LIVE OUR BEST LIVES.

edit : jus tlooked at the gifset that just came out of my queue and was reminded of that scene - i’ve plotted out the draco telling hermione to call him by his name scene, and y’all. YALL. I may actually just be found in the discord chat screaming about it for days in the lead up to me posting it. it’s......... it’s so good.

[verai-marcel]

Between High and Low (RDR2 Fanfic, Morgan Twins x F!Reader, 18+, Part 2 of 2)

Chapter 1 has all the tags, notes, and summary.

AO3 Link is here, Darlin’.

Chapter 2: A Dream Doubled

Word Count: 3822

Four months had passed since you joined the gang, and you had just finished setting up the last tent. The gang had moved south, settling near a small town called Sheridan. It was small, beautiful, and a major hub for travelers; fantastic for making money in not-so-legal ways.

As you were about to take some clothes down to wash by the river, Arthur and Thorne came up to you. Together.

“Hey darlin’.”

“Hullo, sweetheart.”

You smiled at them both. “Hey there, gentlemen. What can I do for you two?”

They glanced at each other for a split second before Arthur stepped forward. “Would you come with us to town? You been a great help to us, and, well, we’d like to treat you.”

Caught off guard by their question, you sputtered. “I, um, well…” You looked down at your basket of clothes.

“The clothes can wait, sweetheart,” Thorne said, moving closer and taking the basket from you. “We won’t take no for an answer.”

Arthur slapped Thorne in the arm.

“I mean, if you really don’t want to, I guess we’ll just go on our own, but I really don’t want to have a nice dinner with just Arthur.”

You laughed. “Alright, you twisted my arm. Let’s go.”

***

Arthur was riding steadily up the path to the mountain town, with you holding onto him. Thorne looked incredibly annoyed, having lost the paper-rock-scissors match you had spotted them having before you joined them for the ride to town. Wanting to tease him a bit, you looked over at Thorne, making sure he made eye contact with you.

And then you lay your head against Arthur’s back and winked at him. You were a former saloon girl after all. You knew how to flirt.

Thorne’s eyes glowed and he snarled. You’re goin’ to pay for that, he mouthed to you.

Making a kissy face at him, you almost missed Arthur’s comment.

“Don’t tease him, or he won’t go easy on you.”

You just laughed, not knowing what that would mean for you later.

***

Dinner was wonderful. Having the two of them charm you with stories of their childhood misdeeds and both of them asking to have a turn with you on the dance floor was like some kind of selfish dream come true. You had grown very fond of both of them, but you knew a difficult decision was in your future. You couldn’t have both of them. At some point, they would ask you to choose. You wondered if it was better to not have to choose at all, to just let them both go. Your heart cracked and your eyes began to tear up at the thought.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” Arthur asked, seeing you grow silent.

“N-nothing,” you said, quickly getting your emotions under control. Determined to enjoy tonight without any thought for tomorrow, you grabbed your beer and took another swig, using the motion to swallow your fears about the future.

Thorne, sensing your need to be distracted, touched your arm. “Why don’t we go for a nice walk, get some fresh air.”

Arthur chimed in. "I’ll go get us a room. It's pretty late now."

They led you out of the restaurant, and as Arthur headed to the hotel, Thorne led you down the road and onto a small walking path until the two of you reached a small cliff overlooking the nearby creek. It was beautiful, with the moon shining over the water and the soft sounds of the creek babbling over the rocks. 

“It’s so beautiful up here,” you said quietly.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

You turned to Thorne. The way he was looking at you, like he wanted to eat you up, made you shiver with desire.

Which meant you knew that Arthur would show up to interrupt anything else Thorne might have to say.

You turned away from him and looked up at the stars, trying to steady your heart. All these vivid thoughts of getting a room, a single room, with both of them… you shook your head. You had a dirty mind. Filthy. They probably just wanted to save money by sharing a room.

Thorne took two steps closer, his broad chest bumping into your shoulder. His hand rested on the small of your back, the heat easily passing through the thin cloth of your blouse. You shivered again, but not from the cold.

“Yer lettin’ her freeze,” Arthur said as he walked up to the two of you.

“She won’t be cold for long,” Thorne muttered.

Arthur came up on the other side of you, trapping you between them. He gently took your hand. “Let’s get you back to the hotel, warm you up some.”

You nodded, following them docilely. As Arthur placed your hand onto his arm and walked you back to the hotel like a gentleman, Thorne trailed behind the two of you, looking around, on the alert for any trouble. You glanced at Arthur, who was also watching his surroundings. You’d like to think that they were protecting you specifically, but you quickly let go of the selfish notion. It was because they were trained fighters, outlaws who could handle anything, and they knew how to stay alive.

As the three of you reached the hotel, you realized that they hadn’t really bickered at all this night. Something was up.

“Why don’t we get you a bath,” Thorne said as he came up to you, caressing your arm. “Our treat.”

You weren’t innocent. Well, you were physically innocent, but you knew things. Not all saloon girls were as discerning as you and had taken customers after hours. They would gossip with each other afterwards, and you heard plenty about the act, just had never gone all the way yourself. And you had bathed a man before, picking up extra work at a hotel as a bath girl before you joined the gang. You weren't ignorant of a man's anatomy. 

But the thought of having the Morgan twins giving you a bath… You had to breathe deep to calm your racing heart. It was probably just them buying a bath for you at the hotel, not them physically giving you one. 

But you could dream.

"Alright," you said. "A bath sounds lovely."

Arthur opened the door for you and guided you inside the hotel, his fingertips brushing along the small of your back. He tipped his hat at the desk clerk as he led you upstairs to the hotel room.

You could hear Thorne requesting that a bath be brought to their room, and you wondered at the cost. Surely there was a bathing room downstairs that was easier to use? You looked over at Arthur, who immediately shook his head, knowing you were about to ask.

“Don’t worry about the price, darlin’. We’re treating you tonight.”

You swallowed. Something was definitely up.

***

You watched two men carry hot water buckets to the bathtub on the other side of the grandiose hotel room that Arthur had rented for the night. Sitting on the settee by the window, you sat next to Arthur, who was quietly writing in his journal. Thorne was leaning against the wall, watching the two men fill the tub. You and Thorne would quietly talk about the meal you just shared and favorite dishes in general, but you knew he was talking just to keep you from thinking too much about anything else.

“That should be it,” one of the men said, looking at Thorne expectantly. 

He sighed and flipped the man a quarter. “Thanks,” he mumbled, glaring at the men as they left, quickly shutting and locking the door afterwards. Then he turned to you, a fiery look in his eyes. 

Arthur finished his writing and closed his journal. Turning towards you, he stood up and held his hand out to you. Taking it, you stood and followed him to the tub. Standing before the steaming water, you looked back at the twins, who were stepping away. They set up the wooden room divider to give you privacy.

Part of you was relieved, part of you was disappointed. Too timid to ask them to stay, you sighed as you started to take off your clothes. Taking off your shoes and stockings, you could hear them removing their gun belts and gear. Unbuttoning your blouse and your skirt, you draped them over the divider. You removed your drawers, and as you placed them with your other clothes, you heard their footsteps coming closer. Your heart pounded faster.

“Can we come around, sweetheart?”

“Um, sure,” you answered hesitantly. Dressed only in your chemise, you knew this was inappropriate.

When they both came into view, dressed in just their short drawers and nothing else, you decided you didn’t care about being inappropriate. Smiling at the two of them, you felt yourself grow wet as they came closer, sandwiching you between their almost bare bodies. Arthur stood before you, his eyes traveling up and down, taking in the sight of you as his hands caressed your arms. Thorne came up behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his head dipping down to kiss behind your ear.

“You tell us when to stop, darlin’,” Arthur whispered, his face so close to yours.

“Otherwise we won’t,” Thorne rumbled. His lips grazed down your neck before he lightly bit the junction of your neck and shoulder.

You gasped when Thorne bit you. “Don’t stop,” you moaned.

Arthur’s hands cupped your face as he narrowed the distance and kissed you. His kiss was gentle, slowly coaxing you open as his tongue flicked at your lower lip. You moaned softly, and you heard Thorne behind you groan. 

“Sweetheart, you keep makin’ sounds like that, and I won’t last,” Thorne muttered. He slipped the chemise off your shoulders, pushing it down your body, his hands exploring your exposed skin. Holding your hips, he pulled your body against his, his hips grinding against the curve of your ass so you could feel his excitement.

“My turn,” he growled as he pulled you away from Arthur, who stepped back and let go of your face. Thorne gripped your jaw and turned your head towards him before devouring you. His kiss was so different from Arthur’s; if Arthur was a campfire, warm and inviting, then Thorne was a firestorm, forcing his tongue into your mouth and taking you passionately, his other hand cupping your breast, his finger and thumb teasing your nipple as he ground his shaft against you.

“Be gentle with her,” Arthur chided.

“Sorry,” Thorne said as he let go of your jaw. He kissed your temple. “She’s just so delicious, I can’t control myself.”

 Arthur drew you out of Thorne’s embrace and helped you into the tub. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” As you sat down in the tub, he sat on the edge and helped you clean your hair, his hands massaging your scalp. You closed your eyes and just enjoyed the sensual feeling of his fingers on you.

When you heard Thorne sit on the other side of the tub, you opened your eyes and watched as he lathered up the soap and started to stroke your chest and shoulders.

“We’re goin’ to make you nice and clean,” Thorne murmured as his hand went lower, stroking your belly, the heat growing as he moved down to your hips. His dark turquoise eyes burned with lust as he watched you writhe under his touch. “You’ve wanted this, right?”

You nodded.

“Both of us?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, both of you” you answered truthfully.

“Naughty girl,” Thorne chuckled. “But I like naughty girls.”

As Thorne sat back and ran his fingers lazily up and down your arm, he watched Arthur finish with cleaning your hair. Then together they moved further down the tub, their hands reaching down to massage your legs and feet, taking their time to work out all of your tense muscles. It was heaven. You leaned back and closed your eyes, enjoying being pampered like this, wondering if this was a dream.

“Sit up, sweetheart,” Thorne said, his hand guiding you forward towards one end of the tub.

You moved as he directed, then felt one of the twins get into the water behind you. His hands gripped your hips and lifted you into his lap, and you felt his naked shaft against your rear. You gasped at the size.

You heard Arthur laugh softly beside you, which meant you were sitting in Thorne’s lap. You opened your eyes when you felt Arthur stroke your breasts, taking his time to tease and pinch your nipples. You squirmed under his touch.

Then Thorne’s fingers skimmed along your inner thighs. “Spread your legs, sweet girl. Have to clean all of you.”

You bit your lip as you did what he said, spreading your legs under the water. 

“Good girl,” he murmured as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, his beard brushing against your skin. He slipped his fingers through your folds as he nibbled on the shell of your ear. Your hips moved on their own, grinding against his fingers and his cock beneath your ass.

His hand gripped your hip tighter. “Don’t move,” he growled. “Or this’ll be over before it begins.”

You stilled as you gripped the sides of the tub to steady yourself. His fingers found your clit and began stroking you steadily, your breaths becoming erratic as he pushed you higher and higher to your peak.

Arthur had not stopped touching you as he watched you get fingered by Thorne.

“Oh, oh my god,” you moaned as you felt a wave building up inside of you.

“That’s it darlin’, let go. Give in to that feelin', let it take you away.”

Like a kettle overflowing, your climax took you, a burst of hot pleasure rushing through your veins. You couldn’t stop yourself from jerking your hips upwards, your grip on the tub tightening as you nearly screamed, if not for Arthur’s hand quickly covering your mouth to keep you from alerting any neighbors.

You felt Thorne’s hand on your ass, his fingers moving along the divide of your rear as you caught your breath. 

Arthur let go of your mouth, a wide grin on his face. “That was beautiful to watch,” he said, looking at you in awe.

“Felt good in my arms,” Thorne added. He let you rest for a few more minutes, idly stroking your sides as Arthur went to get two towels for both of you. They helped you out of the tub and Arthur dried you off. Then he worked on drying your hair while Thorne quickly scrubbed himself clean. Once he was out and dried off, your hair was dry enough that it wasn’t dripping everywhere.

“C’mon,” Thorne said as he wrapped his arms around your waist and picked you up. You saw Arthur get into the tub to clean off as Thorn carried you away to the bed.

***

Setting you down on the soft sheets, Thorne immediately flipped you over and pulled your legs over the side of the bed. As you started to get up, he splayed out his hand on your back and kept you down.

“You stay there, alright?”

“Why?”

“I told you. Yer goin’ to pay for teasin’ me earlier.”

His hand caressed your backside.

Then he spanked you.

You yelped. “Thorne!”

He only chuckled darkly as he caressed you again, the reddened skin more sensitive, before spanking your other cheek. “Two more, sweetheart.”

Two more spanks. Two more soft caresses in between each spank that burned, your skin becoming oversensitized.

You panted, the spankings almost too much for you. Just when you thought he’d let you up, you felt his fingers playing with your slit.

“Seems like you enjoyed that,” he said arrogantly. Letting go of your back, he flipped you over again and tossed you so far across the bed that your head was almost off the other side.  He crawled after you with a predatory look in his eyes. “You ready fer me, sweetheart?”

You swallowed. Were you?

Thorne didn’t give you much choice as he took hold of your knees and spread your legs wide open. Kneeling between your legs, he lined up his thick cock and pushed forward, your body already wet and willing to take him in. He leaned down, taking your head in his hands. “Eyes on me,” he growled as he slowly penetrated you.

You could barely breathe as you felt his girth fill you, his body covering you, his eyes hypnotizing you.

“Lemme see her too,” Arthur said.

You looked over to see Arthur, freshly bathed and naked, walking closer to you before kneeling next to the bed. Thorne let go of your face, pushing himself up to let Arthur caress your cheek. With Thorne’s cock taking you, Arthur leaned in closer. 

“Tell me you want this. Tell me you want us,” he murmured.

“Yes, yes, I want both of you!”

Thorne slammed his hips the rest of the way inside of you just as Arthur kissed you, swallowing your cries. He pulled back and watched your face as Thorne started to fuck you, sitting up on his haunches so Arthur could play with your breasts.

“Yer our little darlin’ now,” Arthur said, the tone of possession in his voice sending shivers through you. “We’ll take real good care o’ you.”

Thorne hummed in agreement as he pounded you into the mattress. “Fuck, yer so tight, I can’t get enough of you.”

“Move aside,” Arthur growled as he got onto the bed, practically shoving Thorne out of the way. You giggled softly as Thorne pouted and pulled himself reluctantly away, letting Arthur settle between your legs. He wrapped his arms around you as he entered you, holding you close and nuzzling you gently. His hips slowly moved, making sure you were alright before he thrust deeper. 

“Darlin’, you feel so good,” he mumbled before he kissed you, stroking your face as he rolled his hips. “Can’t wait to feel you let go around me.”

You gasped as he rolled over onto his back, his hands moving up and down your back as he kissed your neck and your shoulders, sitting up to suck on your breasts as he encouraged you to ride his cock. You moved your hips, giving in to your selfish desires and reached down to rub your clit.

“That’s it, there you go. Find yer pleasure,” he whispered as you rode him hard, your hands on his shoulders as he lay back down and held your hips.

You were so lost in your passion that you hadn’t noticed Thorne coming back onto the bed until he started to caress your ass. When he found your rear entry, you bucked forward, unused to the contact. His fingers were covered in something slick, and he began to push one digit inside of you.

He shushed you when you yelped in surprise, his hand covering your mouth. “Keep it down, sweetpea. We’re making you ours, so just enjoy it.” He pushed his finger in further, working you open as Arthur’s cock slowly moved in and out of your pussy, keeping you distracted as Thorne pushed a second finger in, getting you ready for him. 

As your muscles relaxed and became used to his intrusion, Thorne leaned forward and wrapped his arm around you, gripping your shoulder. He pulled you into his chest and kissed your cheek sloppily, his lips against your skin. 

“Yer goin’ to take my cock in yer ass, girl,” he murmured.

Pulling his fingers out, you felt Thorne pushing the head of his cock past your ring. He filled you slowly, taking his time with you. 

Arthur reached up to caress your arms. “Breathe, darlin’. Breathe.”

You took slow, deep breaths as Thorne slowly took you, until his hips were flush with your rear.

Then the twins began to fuck you in tandem; as one filled you, the other pulled out, and together they made you lose your mind as Thorne grabbed your breasts roughly, squeezing your nipples hard before letting you go to dig his fingers into your hips, letting Arthur kiss your breasts. He playfully licked your skin and nipped at your neck.

“I… this is… too much…” you panted as you felt your mind slowly lose its grip on reality.

“Come for us, darlin’,” Arthur coaxed, reaching down to thumb your clit.

“Do it,” Thorne ordered, his breath heavy in your ear. “I know you love being filled with our cocks, dirty girl. Show us how much you love it.”

You swear you saw stars as you came, the pure bliss shooting through you, the best, greatest high that you would always and forever be addicted to, now that you experienced it. How could you ever go back to anything else?

And still, the twins pumped their cocks into you, moaning your name as they filled your ass and your pussy with their spend.

Thorne collapsed beside you as you fell on top of Arthur. For minutes, or perhaps hours, you weren’t sure, the three of you lay on the bed, sated. You felt like you were floating, slowly coming back down to earth.

You vaguely felt the two of them move around, one of them picking you up and tucking you under the sheets. You felt both of them sandwich you in between them as you fell asleep, surrounded by warmth and love.

***

The morning sun stabbed you in the eyes and you turned around, burying your face in the nearest chest.

“Hah, she takes after you,” Arthur said, laughing. He was already up, half dressed, packing your bags.

“You’re an abomination, wakin’ with the sun the way you do.”

You giggled at Thorne’s jab at Arthur’s morning habits. Then the events of last night came back to you like a wall of memories slamming into your brain, and you gasped softly.

“What is it?” Thorne asked, immediately wrapping his arms around you protectively. Arthur reached over Thorne and placed his hand on top of your head to pet you soothingly.

“Was last night real?” you asked meekly, looking up at Thorne and then past him at Arthur. “Are we… are all three of us… together?”

Thorne turned his head to look back at Arthur, who glanced down at him and nodded.

“Darlin’,” Arthur said softly. “Last night was the real thing. We want you to be with us. If you’ll have us both.”

“We came as a pair into the world,” Thorne continued, “and we wanted to have a woman that’d accept us both.”

You nodded. “I love you both. I’m so glad you didn’t make me choose. I would’ve just left if I had to pick.”

Both Thorne and Arthur surged forward to hug you.

“We love you too, darlin’.”

“Ain’t no one gonna take you from us, sweetheart.”

-------------------

End Notes: So that happened. I don’t know why I wrote so much for this, it was supposed to be just a quick threeway, but then some damn plot came out of nowhere and delayed the smut until the second chapter… Anyway, hope you enjoyed this, @mrskrazy!