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i-wanna-write · 4 months ago

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If One’s Different, One’s Bound to be Lonely - Wolverine Fic - Part 1

Fic Synopsis: We know Wolverine and Sabertooth but the reader is known as Jackal. Just like the other two, their mutation is animalistic, lending them healing factors, enhanced physical abilities, and animal senses. This fic details their relationship with the Anchor!Wolverine and how they ended up meeting the Worst!Logan

Chapter Warnings: violence, cussing, lewd comments/thoughts, reader is described as female

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: I’ve had this idea since I saw Deadpool and Wolverine so I figured I’d give it a go! I wanted to write Worst!Logan and SacredTimeline!Reader but wanted some backstory. Well, the backstory turned into backstories which then turned into this mini fic. Not sure how many parts there will be but no more than 10. This will start from when the reader was born, through snippets of the X-Men movies before FINALLY making its way to D&P. There's obviously going to be changes in scenes due to the reader and it's a fic so I can change what I want! I also love how Wolverine and Sabertooth are brothers in Origins so went with that. The timeline is also a little sketchy because D&W is set in 2024 and Logan 2029 but they discuss how Logan died already… so just bear with me on that… Let me know what you think!

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You were born in 1895 to two loving parents. They were older than the average parents, having struggled to conceive but finally being blessed with you. You were their pride and joy, providing you with all the clothes, toys, furniture, games, and literature you wanted.

You were a secluded child. You preferred being alone and were grateful for being an only child. You hated sharing your things and talking to others.

You were also a sick and frail child. You always caught a cold or broke a bone, or got a scratch. Your parents dragged you to numerous doctors, trying to find a reason for your ailments. It wasn’t until you hit puberty that the truth was revealed.

You were a mutant.

Your genetics carried an X gene and had different DNA then your parents.

A week laid up in bed with a constant fever, sweats, and chills, it was finally revealed when your fingernails elongated into claws, the rest of your baby teeth spilling out and adults ones replacing them. Only they were all razor sharp and could easily shred anything.

Your parents were hysterical at first. They prayed and waited for their miracle child but were terrified at first to learn that she was a mutant.

That she was different.

Your sense of sight was keener than the average human, you heard like a bat, your smell like a bloodhound. You no longer got sick. If you received an injury it healed in a matter of seconds.

Your parent’s initial fear turned into protectiveness and soon you were shut in - no longer allowed all the things you wanted. Your parents kept you at home, not letting you mingle with others your age in fear of something happening to you… Or you doing something to someone else.

As you grew older, you finally escaped your parents and never looked back. You moved around, being adaptable and able to change at any given moment and go with the flow of the environment. You were cunning and evaded anyone or thing you wanted to without thinking twice. And just like in childhood, you grew to be more territorial. You valued all your personal items and were always willing to defend what you called yours.

Through much research over your first years on your own - you were able to determine that all these traits were similar to that of an animal.

A Jackal.

Known for the same personality traits of your own, this dog breed also sported sharp teeth in all regions of their mouth and just as sharp claws to take down their prey. Soon, that's what you became known as.

You moved through the years alone, never staying in one place for more than a year due to the world's hate towards mutants. You often found secluded cabins and would purchase what you needed at a store, then hunted on your own for protein - using your abilities to your advantage.

If someone caused a problem for you, a man making a sexist comment. Someone shit talking other mutants. You didn’t hesitate to take them out. Your instincts would take over in that moment and your claws would disembowel them or your teeth rip out their throat.

Sometime during the 1950s, you were staying in a Montana cabin you found, the nearest town miles away. Occasionally, you would frequent a bar there, wanting a moment to feel the whiskey slide down. It was in that bar that you met two other mutants for the first time.

You were seated alone at a table in the tavern, dressed in slacks, a button shirt, and jacket, A cap was on your head, hiding your long hair to make it appear short. Making you appear like a man.

You were nursing a whisky on the rocks, allowing the liquid to burn your throat and sooth your day. The bar wasn’t too busy, filled with men after a day of work. Two were seated at the bar, another alone at a table than solely the bartender handing out drinks.

You smelt them before they entered. One smelt like copper, the other smoke. As they entered and made their way to the bar, you examined their appearance. Both dressed in jeans and dark jackets, the copper one appeared shorter but with broader shoulders. His hair was buzzed to his head with stubble lining his jaw. He moved with confidence, acting as he owned the establishment and everyone should part for him to make way.

The smoky one was taller, shoulders not as wide but perhaps weighing more due to his height. His hair was longer, curling behind his ears towards his neck with tufts on either side. His jaw was also lined in stubble, but rather than walking like he owned the place, he walked with ease, as if he knew people were staring but could care less about it.

Your eyes followed them as they ordered, noting how the other patrons seemed to watch them too, as if all of you were aware that they could be dangerous. You returned your attention back to your drink when you got a whiff of something you haven’t before. Despite their initial scents, they both smelt off - different than all the other humans you’ve been around your life. They smelt… almost wild.

You were taken from your thoughts when the seat across from you suddenly became occupied. You looked up and saw the two men seated across from you, both with a drink in hand. The shorter one spread his body on the chair, his left arm around the taller ones.

“What’s a woman like you doing in here?” The shorter one asked, nodding his head towards you.

“Women?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow.

So far, no one has been able to distinguish your true gender. How could these new patrons know?

“Can smell the difference Bub.” The taller one said as if it was obvious.

While his companion was spread out, the larger man surprisingly took up a smaller space. His forearms rested on the table, fingers clasped in front.

“Smell?” You repeated, feigning ignorance.

“Come on Frail. We can smell you’re a woman and smell you’re a mutant like us, quit playing stupid.” The shorter one growled, a look of anger on his face. “Never met a woman mutant like us though.” He added a malicious smirk on his lips. He turned to look at the other one, as if wanting him to comment as well but to no avail.

You’ve never met another mutant before. Period.

“Well, pleased to have checked that box off your list.” You smile, quickly finishing your drink before slamming it on the table, rising to flee. “Have a good night gentlemen.”

One of them smelling like blood and acting as he did, you knew they were trouble - and you’ve avoided trouble for so long the past years you weren’t about to start getting into it. You went to leave but the taller man grabbed your arm suddenly, claw like knives slowly breaking the skin of his knuckles and leaving them, puncturing your skin.

“We weren’t finished talking.” He said, finally showing some emotion as a smile graced his face.

You quickly yanked your arm back, watching as your skin healed itself, blood now stained on the sleeve of your jacket.

“Have a seat frail,” The shorter one added, smirk still on his face. “We want to get to know you.”

You sat back down. You wish you didn’t finish your whiskey as you tired to make your escape, no longer having something to fiddle in your hands.

You look up at the men and see them both staring back at you, as if taking you in. You know what they see. A woman with H/C hair hidden underneath a hat with just enough to be seen on your forehead. Eyebrows to match that have strands out of place and eyelashes that prissy girls would kill for circling your E/C eyes.

You do the same, truly taking in the men if they’re going to be talking with you. Assessing you. Determining if you’re a threat or not.

You observe the shorter one first, seeing him as the larger threat of the two. His eyebrows are bushy despite his short hair and has wrinkles on his forehead. He continued to wear a malicious smile and has subtle dimples on either side but they make him appear menacing rather than childlike. His eyes are green and hold a dark tint, as if he’s thinking about fucking you or killing you. Maybe both.

You move to look at the taller one and notice that his expression is almost unreadable, except his mouth is curled up slightly in a snarl. His eyes are a deep brown, holding only mistrust and curiosity, as if solely reading everything about you. His bottom his lip is full, the top one smaller but shaped perfectly despite the snarl.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” The shorter one repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Drinking. What else do you do in a tavern?” You bite back, shooting him a dark look.

He looks around as if debating his answer before saying, “Some drink.” He shrugs. “Others bring a girl in and fuck her in the bathroom.”

You grimace at the thought of doing that act with him. You’d pick the taller one if it was between life and death if you had to choose. At least the taller one looks like he’d make it quick.

“I’m sure you have to drag them back there as no women would glance your way.”

You know you shouldn’t egg him on but you can’t help it. You have just as sharp of a bite to back up your bark and you’re not afraid to use it. Even if it’s against two other feral mutants.

“Hmph.” The man says.

You watch as he reaches his right hand out, going for a handshake. His hand resembles a paw, his nails replaced with claws and sharp as knives. Your eyes travel to his face and now notice how his canines are sharper than an average humans. Perhaps attributed to his mutation.

“Victor Creed. This runt is my brother James Howlett.” He finally introduced.

Two can play at this game.

You elongate your own nails, showing off your claws. You then smile, teeth sharpening to show off points on all of them, not just your canines. You reach over and clasp his hand in your own.

“Y/N L/N.” You tell them, causing him to smile wider.

You let go of his his hand and look at the other one. “I’m not shaking your hand since you already sliced me, asshole.”

He merely shrugs. “Not offended Bub.”

This time you notice how deep and gruff his voice it. It sends goosebumps throughout you and you hope neither can notice it.

“What do you two want?” You ask, switching your gaze between them.

“Like I said, never met a female frail before. And based on your reaction, guessing you've never met another mutant ever.” Victor says.

It’s your turn to shrug. “I like being alone and keeping to myself.” Simple and to the point.

“Why’s that? Afraid you’re gonna kill someone with those claws? Too weak to fight off the instinct to sink your teeth into their neck?” Victor leans forward, looking intently at you for your answer.

He’s right. Of course he is, having hit the nail on the coffin. You’re a loner by mutation and learned that being around others only causes harm by your hand. It’s better to be alone and comfortable, rather then surrounded by prey.

“So what if I am? Can still take your ass down.” You say nonchalantly, trying not to appear bothered by how easily he read you.

He laughs, it sounding hoarse and dry. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Somehow I think you’d enjoy that. Don’t wanna end up in the bathroom with you.” You retort back.

You notice then how the taller one barely talks. He seems to have an air of indifference around him. Like he’s just here because Victor is and has no interest in the conversion. Or you.

“Tell me, how old are you? Gotta be young if you’ve never met another mutant before.”

You watch as he takes a sip of his whiskey, again upset at yourself for downing yours. You think about stealing James due to his lack of participation but think better of it, not wanting him to slice you again.

“I was born in 1895.” You reveal, holding your gaze with Victors.

“Awe Jimmy.” He coos, bumping his elbow into his brothers arm. “She’s just a kitten compared to us.”

You growl at that, not liking the mocking tone. This man was starting to get on your nerves. His gaze keeps drifting down to your chest, as if he has x-ray vision to see your breasts. The other isn’t giving anything and you wish he would, seeming to be the more sane one of the two. If you take out the part where he cut you.

“What? You guys my long lost grandfathers or something trying to bring me home?” You question, arching an eyebrow.

They looked to be your age but based on what Victor has said and you’ve seen, their mutations really are similar to yours. You wouldn’t be surprised if they were older than you. You want to know more about them - you have to. The first people like you since you’ve discovered you're a mutant. Maybe you won't feel so lonely anymore due to your difference form others

“1831 and 1835.” James finally speaks, lowering his whiskey from his mouth.

“Doesn’t answer if you are my grandfathers.” You point out.

“Not your grandfather frail. Quite trying to be cute.” Victor cuts in. “Now, based on your claws and teeth, you’re definitely like us, not just by scent. So what? You got some wolf? Some crocodile? You hiding scales underneath those clothes?”

You laugh, your voice light in the air before you remember where you are and what you’re pretending to be.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You snap back, baring all your canines at him.

“She’s a Jackal Vic.” James says. “Hates being around others. Easily blends into her environment. Able to will her nails to claws and all teeth shape as canines. Makes sense”.

“One point to brains.” You point to James, winking at him. “Zero points to brawn.” You point to Victor.

Said man goes to speak but you don’t let him, continuing. “You’ve got your own set of claws and canines. You’ve been trying to manipulate me and the situation this entire time, proving your cunningness. And you seem to try to include James here, I’m assuming your younger brother, into the conversion because you value family. Making you similar to a Sabertooth.” Something you thought you might’ve been before discovering your similarities with a Jackal.

Victor raises his eyebrows in surprise, not thinking you’d be able to guess their own mutation like James had yours.

“Meanwhile,” you turn to James, “You seem to hate being around other people as much as me. Your quiet but observe everything around you, making sure you have an escape. You were able to debunk what my mutation was, suggesting you’re smart. If I didn’t see your claws earlier, I would’ve guessed you to be a Jackel like me.” You finish.

You watch as James leans forward, both arms resting on the table as his face gets closer to you. You stare into the deep brown and feel yourself getting lost for just a moment before being pulled back.

“So what does that make me?” He questions, curious of your conclusion.

“A wolverine.” You state.

With that reveal, you make your escape. You quickly exit the table, knowing this time to not walk by it as you exit the tavern. You push open the door with one hand and start to pick up your pace. There are people lingering outside and you don’t want to draw attention.

You reach the edge of the forest, taking the cap from your head and letting your H/C locks free. You run a hand through them, trying to catch your thoughts and slow your heart rate at the run-in you just had.

You two sets of footsteps rush up behind you and take a breath, smelling Victor and James. A hand reaches out and lands on your shoulder but you immediately grab it, turning to your right to face your attacker.

A crack is heard throughout the first floor as you break Victor’s arm and don’t hesitate. Your teeth elongate to canines, your face moving to his neck and grabbing it. You bite down, blood immediately rushing into your mouth as you grab a chunk out of him.

You let go and push him away, watching as he staggers back and James stands at his side, hands in his pocket. You spit the flesh out of your mouth and grin at both men.

“If you guys have heard anything about the Jackal, you’ll know to leave me the fuck alone.”

You leave it at that, turning on your heel and walking off into the forest, leaving an angered Victor and impressed James behind you.

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Stay tuned for Part 2!

#wolverine x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine fanfiction #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #james howlett x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett imagine #xmen fanfiction #wolverine #james howlett #logan howlett

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scarfacemarston · 3 months ago

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Abigail should be allowed to say she wasn't prepared to have Jack or did not want him at the time.

TW: Pregnancy, abortion mention, child mortality mention, death during pregnancy mention. People criticize John for not caring for Jack --- as they should! However, when it comes to the idea of whether John wanted him or not, he gets a free pass in comparison to Abigail, who is always demonized. This leads to how women are viewed in society. Why is it so evil that a woman says that she's not ready to have a child or didn't want one? Because of 1950s and earlier notions that women HAVE to be in the home? Ideas that conservatives still try to force down women's throats? Abigail was 18, for God's sake. She was JUST rescued from a brothel. She finally had freedom for the first time in her life. (She was literally either in the orphanage, living on the streets, or working in the brothels.) Most 18 year olds aren't ready to have children ----even if times were different back then. Just because women did have children back then at 18 or younger, doesn't mean they were ready or that they wanted to. She had just fallen in love, she finally had people that cared for her. She was doing what she was GOOD at. Hosea canonically praises her as the best thief/conwoman and actress he has EVER known. I have the audio link as proof if anyone wants it. That was all taken away from her the second she found she was pregnant. Massive amounts of women died, and by 1900 - 30 percent of children died before their first birthday. (hence what likely happened with the Marston baby, but I have my theories on what happened there in another post.) Those numbers would have been WORSE in 1895 and Abigail was living in a TENT most of this time. Can you imagine being pregnant, constantly on the move and giving birth with only the possibility of a roof above your head? Abigail would have grown up seeing the women in the brothels handle pregnancy. She would have seen the fear in those women's eyes. The hopelessness. She would have seen those try to perform abortions or women die during childbirth - or be kicked out of the brothel for becoming pregnant in the first place. Also, Abigail lost her status once she became pregnant. She couldn't provide for the gang in the same way. She didn't have John's support. Grimshaw canonically doesn't like her and Bessie is dead at this point. She has no woman who cares about her. Then Jack came and she was treated like a burden - a charity case to everyone but Hosea and probably Arthur. Single women in the 1890s, especially illiterate ones with zero prospects were almost never accepted. Abigail also might have dealt with post partum depression, too. Abigail talks about how she's always wanted a family, but she also talks about how frustrated she is with Jack and how she wishes she had help. She talks about how the gang views her and outside of Tilly and Hosea, hardly anyone ever talks to her...at all. Sadie is extremely busy and there aren't any conversations between them outside of chapter 2. Most of the camp doesn't. She's completely isolated and considered a source of drama. Abigail had everything to lose, including her life. So why is she demonized?

#abigail roberts #van der linde gang #abigail marston #jack marston #john marston

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marzipanandminutiae · 2 months ago

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Historical Inaccuracies Of My Main Fandom and Favorite Movie, Crimson Peak

The costumes are EVERYTHING. That being said...Edith's daywear is a lot more 1895 than 1901. It's an amazing 1895! Truly glorious 1895! But it IS a bit behind, time-wise.

Especially for a woman, wearing clothing that was about 20 years out of date if you needed people to think you Respectable was just. Not done. It didn't have to be absolutely cutting-edge, but it had to be reasonably current in silhouette to not stand out in a bad way. Sorry, Lucille- I like Natural Form better than 1895 OR 1901, too.

The age of majority in the UK in the 19th century was 21, not 18. This wouldn't matter much EXCEPT THAT. If you look at the dates on various onscreen documents, the timeline works only if Thomas rescued Lucille from the asylum when he was 18. And would not have legally been able to do that.

Not mentioning the 1901 World's Fair in Buffalo isn't exactly wrong but considering the President of the United States got assassinated there...it's just a bit of an odd omission.

At the depot, Edith is shown wearing her skirt and petticoat over what looks like the top part of a chemise or combinations. Her skirts shouldn't fit properly without a corset on; even if she's not tightlacing (as most women didn't), the change in fat distribution and the fat that bodices and waistbands tended to be as tight as possible against one's corset means that this just wouldn't work. I'm not sure how it DID work given that both lead actresses were wearing corsets for the filming, actually...

This is a note for the character bios not the movie proper, but GDT mentions Carter's father fighting in the American Civil War. If Carter is 60 in 1901, he was born in 1841 and therefore more than old enough to fight himself. (Interestingly, that makes him 36 when Edith was born, and assuming he met Eleanor after the war and she was 18 when they eloped, as the bios state, he must be at least six years her senior- clearly Edith was following a family pattern in marrying a man 10 years older than her). Of course, the ages and years in the bios are all over the place anyway- that one just particularly stood out to me.

#crimson peak #meta #rambling

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scribbleseas · 3 months ago

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in love & in war, drabble 3: the one where he trips you up…?

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica— your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: There’s a minor mention of blood in this drabble—that’s all that comes to mind!

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this is a day late, haha! Last night, my amazing friend @mylostleftfootsock and I were having some crazy story breakthroughs for an upcoming work of mine. They were, in fact, hitting so hard that I had to make the fic outline as we were both losing our minds. That being said, here is a pretty long drabble! I hope you like it—and that it’s a nice palette cleanser from SL. I’m purposely trying to keep this one as light as I can <3

I’m also trying out the taglist for this post! If you would like to be added, just specify for which fics (or if all!) and I will tag you in all my content posts!

Happy Reading!

- Dan

Fun fact: I’m also 2,031 words into Staight Laced 10. I’m on a bit of a roll this week, woohoo!

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The North Pier, Lancashire, 1895

“It is impossible to understate the importance of this promenade, my Lord,” Sebastian explained, matching Ciel’s walking pace to the centimeter as they walked down the cement, having exited the carriage a block away from the beachside pier’s entrance. Sebastian always remained in the same stride as Ciel, a fact that the Earl knew would only delight the demon if he commented on it.

Ciel had no desire to feed the ego of his condescending demon for a butler. Sebastian already gloated endlessly about his upholding of a certain ‘Butler Aesthetic’ that he’d created for himself the first night of his employment.

“You should tell her that her family always hosts the most inspired events, such as this—and you should be sure to show gratitude for her time. Dozens of men not unlike you would do anything for this opportunity,” Sebastian added, emphasizing his words purposefully when he caught on to Ciel’s lack of focus. His butler was correct: a promenade with Lady Y/n at one of TransAtlantica’s seasonal galas for its shareholders, business executives, family ties, and anyone from the business world who mattered. Every year, the shipping company rents out the entirety of the three piers, leaving its multitude of small shops and taverns open for the casual party.

TransAtlantica always picked a weekend that sat towards the end of the spring, the weather a weekend or two away from scorching the Earth. The decision always ensured the best weather—clearer skies, a light breeze, docile sun and seawaves.

Until this year, Ciel would send his regrets, in the same fashion as he would for the company’s fundraisers at the Langham Hotel each season. This event was too crucial to skip, especially after securing himself a promenade. A lot of Britain’s polite society—not just those typical of London’s social hemisphere—would be present. There were no dance cards restricting Ciel’s time with the heiress, and that meant he needed to be especially strategic with the time he managed to have in front of the Y/l/n family.

“I know,” Ciel grumbled. “The color of her gown brings out the…shine in her eyes, or something like that,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes to further his point. Another quick look around them assured him that there were no guests leaving their carriages blocks away from the entrance.

“And that cavalier attitude was what ultimately led her to all except rebuke you, sir,” Sebastian scolded, eyebrows drawing together in a brief show of frustration. “Make her feel as if she is the most important person to you—the deciding factor in which you succeed or you fail. She is just that, after all.” He said purposefully, mahogany eyes interrogating Ciel’s expression. The Earl kept his gaze resolutely forward, watching guests meet the Y/l/n family at the pier’s entrance archway, alongside a handful of the company’s executive board members. “We will be within their natural sightline in about fifteen paces, sir.”

Y/n was dressed sensibly in a light gown, the bodice appearing to resemble a man’s sophisticated white vest, which cut into a feminine design with ruffled short sleeves and lace lining the square neckline. A lot of her clothing tended to include a hint of masculinity—an effort to be taken more seriously in these executive circles, Ciel guessed. Her long blue skirts matched the clear sky, the shade matching the accents in her mother and father’s attire for the afternoon.

The Richmond Earldom always appeared as a matching set, stressing the importance of Ciel’s own apparel during these events. Lord Richmond, Y/n’s father, was searching for an intelligent man who could manage his legacy just as perfectly as his company’s prosperity. All of these simpering suitors could never seem to comprehend that they were vying for more than just a young woman’s hand. They were romancing a company and ultimately, Y/n wasn’t marrying anyone without her father’s approval.

“Remember, my Lord, I can only tip things in your favor so much when it comes to matters of the heart,” the demon lowered his voice, now that they were within earshot of the family, among the last few straggling guests stepping onto the pier.

Ciel fought the strong urge to roll his eyes at his butler’s joke. Tipping things. How cheeky.

Lady Y/l/n, Y/n’s mother, noticed Ciel first. Quickly excusing herself from the conversation she was entertaining, she aimed her publicity smile at him— Y/n always seemed to default to the same empty look without failure.

“Lord Phantomhive! How lovely it is to see you here,” she greeted, accepting Ciel’s hand in a firm handshake. Lady Y/l/n’s short lace gloves matched her daughter’s. “We’re all so thankful that you could make it all this way.”

“The pleasure is completely mine. You’ve picked an auspicious day for this gala once again,” Ciel answered, pleased with Lady Y/l/n’s social intellect. By greeting him so brightly, she had also caught the attention of her husband and daughter, allowing them to respectfully finish their current engagements.

Y/N Y/L/N

You watched Ciel enchant your mother with an entirely faux smile, not unlike the one you kept stretched across your glossed lips. He always managed to look painfully smug, no matter how he tried to soften his expression.

“Lord Phantomhive,” your father greeted, taking the Earl’s hand. He gave it two shakes, never one to waste words. “I understand you will be promenading with my daughter today?”

You flushed, now the object of Lord Phantomhive’s stare. You could also feel the craning necks of others around you, arming themselves with gossip about you.

‘Lady Y/n is promenading for the first time this season, with Lord Phantomhive!’

‘Do you think they will get married?’

You could already see the headlines. There were already peering camera lenses around each corner, the only warning being their blinding flash.

“If she wills it, we shall. A good day, my Lady,” it was your turn to offer your hand to the Earl, but not in a shake. Instead, he took special care in accepting your gloved hand and equally raising your knuckles to his lips and bowing his head to avoid moving your arm too high. His lips hardly grazed your glove.

“To you too.” You dipped into the shallowest version of a curtsy you could manage without being impolite. You hadn’t quite made up your mind about the Lord of Phantomhive, finding him to be contradictory. Sincere enough one moment, crude the other. He reminded you of a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together to make the complete picture.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste time in releasing your hand.

Lord Phantomhive righted himself, clearly attempting to dissect your tight expression. You suspected that you could see through one another as plainly quite easily, no more transparent than glass. You felt a small lump form in the back of your throat, as you were unsure how to proceed.

Unfortunately, your mother could also read you like an open book. “You’ve greeted most everyone already, Y/n. You and Daphne should join Lord Phantomhive and his butler,” she prompted in a gesture that was both helpful— and embarrassing. Particularly in front of your father.

“Right,” you answered. At the sound of her name, your maid appeared. Daphne was always close enough to be a call away—except for when she wasn’t, you thought about your first run-in with the Lord Phantomhive. Was he truly charmed by you from that encounter? You had been, admittedly, short with him because of how nerve-racking the situation was. “We will walk the pier,” you said, forcing your shoulders to drop. High shoulders suggested tenseness, which then, in turn, implicated anxiety.

You couldn’t help but feel the Lord Phantomhive could sense weakness. That was how breakout corporations like Funtom were made, weren’t they? With leadership at the helm.

“Be safe, please,” your mother gave your hand a meaningful squeeze and joined the rest of the guests with your father. Your stomach sank as if they had left you flailing in the middle of the cool sea beneath the boardwalk.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“Did you hear about the ferris wheel they are constructing here? Apparently, it is set to open this July,” Ciel said, breaking the silence with one of the many anecdotes Sebastian armed him with. While the Earl preferred silence whenever possible, apparently long silences unnerved the social butterfly in Lady Y/n. Sebastian had instructed him to keep a steady conversation flowing between them at all times—he’d hypothesized she would feel they were compatible intellectually, if he could manage.

“Oh, I certainly have,” the heiress answered brightly. “Isn’t it fascinating? My father and I visited Chicago’s Columbian Exposition about two years ago. The fuel source are steam boilers with underground main pipes that then funnel the steam into pistons that then power thousand-horsepower engines. It’s an enormous axel,” Y/n explained with an intriguing willingness and clarity.

She knew the intricacies of engineering? How curious of a young noblewoman.

“Did you manage a ride on it?” Ciel asked, not offering his arm to her. That would foil his plan, and he figured Lady Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it at this stage. She valued her independence—or the appearance of being self-sufficient, at least. Ciel had yet to make his final verdict of her disposition. After all, the rumors were that her father trained her with the same intensity he would have a first-born son.

“Heavens, yes.” Lady Y/n said, making a clear effort to look ahead as they walked and maintain casual eye contact with him. Their servants lurked behind them, Sebastian entertaining Daphne with some mindless chatter while picking her brain for more information about her mistress. “There was no chance I would miss that sort of opportunity, being up so high like that.”

“I couldn’t imagine it, myself,” Ciel answered. They spoke aimlessly, cycling through topics they had in common: they were each accomplished linguists, readers, instrumentalists. Y/n even claimed to be a worthy fencing opponent, of all things.

“You are half my height,” not even the Earl could fight the amused twist of his lips at the thought of Lady Y/n parrying his advance. The top of her head just barely reached his chin by a handful of centimeters. And that was in addition to her stately heels.

“But Lord Phantomhive, all warfare is based on deception,” Y/n answered, blinking at him guiltlessly.

“Are you quoting The Art of War?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow. That would insinuate Y/n was competent in Classical Chinese, since Sun Tzu’s piece hadn’t been widely translated into English yet. A language that Ciel had still been in the process of mastering with Sebastian. The demon claimed to have been ‘around’ when the military strategist created the ancient military treatise. Presently, he felt it had important lessons for Ciel to understand.

Apparently, Y/n’s father—or her tutor—were incredibly insightful to pick such an ancient text to add to her studies. That was quite an advanced piece of literature. Honestly.

”Yes,” Lady Y/n said, as if this was obvious. “Who better to reference?”

Of course she read it. And learned it well enough to have quotes on hand. She could probably recite it in its original language, Ciel guessed. That wasn’t an unattractive quality in a woman—in fact, he felt a dim respect for it.

“I also quite appreciate Machiavelli’s inspired piece, The Prince,” Ciel answered, finding himself confident that Lady Y/n might understand his reference.

Y/N Y/L/N

His remark made you smile.

Of course, you’d heard the rumors about Ciel Phantomhive, The Queen’s Guard Dog, King of the Underworld, Police of the Underworld. While most of the public could only speculate the sorts of private investigative work that Her Majesty requested of the Phantomhive family, plenty of rumors swirled in the absence of the truth.

You heard whispers of no one daring to cross the Earl, for fear of severe repercussions. Life-threatening ones. You heard of the uncertainties surrounding the fatal inferno that burned down the manor so long ago, killing his family. His miraculous reappearance two years later. Apparently, now the Earl Phantomhive was reportedly a hardened man, callous and willing to crush any opponent in his path.

“You find you relate with the Italian diplomat?” You asked, curious about Lord Phantomhive’s response. Did he read this body of work as a step-by-step to creating a tyrannical regime, or did he perceive it as a frank reading of politics and the nature of diplomacy? It had been so long since you had a proper discussion about such matters with someone besides your father, your tutors, or Daphne, and you were decently assured they were weary of your constant need for knowledge.

The Earl seemed to enjoy this type of logical sparring, embracing it, even. It left you…curious to have more. If not, interested.

Lord Phantomhive took a brief moment to reply, leaving you to appreciate the scenery around you. The sky was impressively clear, no hint of any clouds near the horizon. Seagulls wailed to one another, fluttering about the long piers and across the empty coastline. As warm as it was, the weather wasn’t quite hot enough for there to be beach galas.

The air smelled of salt, gusts of air determined to pull strands of your hair astray. They were certainly doing a number on the Earl’s raven hair, tousling it playfully. This whole promenade, you had walked away from the direction of the gala, and now, as you reached the end of the pier, the two of you turned around, starting back.

“I think there’s more nuance—” Ciel started, “are you alright?”

Before you could process your fall, you were face-first on the sandy boards. Your knee erupted in pain, your bare skin touching your dress. You must have ripped your stockings? How could you have tripped? You had only allowed your mind to wander for a second, and there had been nothing obstructing your path, either!

Not to mention, your balance was typically impeccable. You were no ballerina, but years of fencing helped you regulate your posture and weight distribution.

It was as if the wooden board had simply decided to loosen, give somewhat under your weight, and catch your heel between the planks in order to trip you! How peculiar.

“I’m…fine. I only scraped my leg, I think,” you said, more mortified than pained. Your face reddened as you accepted Lord Phantomhive’s helpful hand, dusting off the sandy front of your dress with the other. You forced yourself to give him a weak smile, looking back down at the flooring. The wooden panel seemed to be perfectly in place.

“I’m not sure what could have caused that,” you added awkwardly, releasing the nobleman’s hand.

You were thankful that no one else was present to witness such an unbecoming moment of yours. It was a contender for one of your worst moments with a suitor.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The panic in Lady Y/n’s face should have been enough to make Ciel regret his and Sebastian’s plan. However, he’d found it to be rather promising. If he could nail the proper response her ideal gentleman would give, Lady Y/n would feel vulnerable around him. That was key to making love inevitable. She might look to him for support going forward.

Of course she didn’t know what had caused her trip. Sebastian was fast enough to loosen the plank just enough for it to shift under her confident step and throw her off balance, only to re-tighten and return to Daphne’s side in milliseconds. Faster than a blink. That left Ciel to provide Lady Y/n with a helping hand, some validation…and apparently a young woman appreciated a man who could bandage her wounds.

“Oh dear,” Ciel said, his eyebrows drawing together in a construction of curiosity and concern. He ignored his own nagging thought that he sounded like his butler, swallowing down the embarrassment. He could feel Sebastian surveying his performance, having coached Ciel on this part of the interaction. “I wouldn’t wish for it to continue bleeding, you did scrape it,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I have a handkerchief.” He gestured to one of the pier’s benches with his chin.

“It truly doesn’t hurt,” Y/n attempted to deflect, still staring at the plank curiously. Of course, she was smart enough to know that there had been something amiss, but of course, smart enough to never consider the supernatural.

Judging from the way her fist squeezed at her side, the superficial wound stung more than she wanted to admit. There was likely sand around the injury or near it, only an added irritant.

Ciel merely met her eyes, asking her if she truly intended to push ahead in mild discomfort. Y/n surrendered begrudgingly mumbling a mildly unladylike, “Oh, alright.” Not always so untroubled as she seemed, was that it?

“You’re not in any other pain?” Ciel asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Y/n’s scrape. Daphne, unconicidentally, didn’t have any medical supplies with her. Sebastian had conveniently hid them from the maid to afford Ciel the right to tend to his intended.

“No,” she confirmed, cringing at the light pressure Ciel applied to stop the bleeding and clean the debris. “Honestly, the plank had a mind of its own, it feels like,” she mused, her tilted head racing for some logical explanation. There was none.

“And you are positive you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Ciel asked her, appreciating the ghost of a laugh that escaped her lips. That was the right thing to say, he could tell.

This battle of love was only growing easier. The Earl was growing confident, fashioning his dialogue to that of a novel protagonist’s. Bland and kind, slightly humorous.

“Positive. Unless I hit my psychotic break last week in agreeing to have you join me for a promenade,” Lady Y/n said, standing once Ciel tied the handkerchief around her leg tightly, stopping any more bleeding. “In which case, we might need some more urgent care.”

“Would it take another such reckoning for you to agree to meet me again?” Ciel asked, adding a new flair of seriousness to his voice as he righted himself in front of Lady Y/n. He took a quick moment to dust the fronts of his trousers free of sand before refocusing on Y/n, urging her for the answer he craved. The key to becoming an official suitor of hers.

One outing was a trial. Two was one step closer to serious consideration.

“No, it would not,” the begrudging grin at the heiress’ lips told Ciel that he’d offered her a masterclass in lying and deception. “Perhaps, the 1895 Grand National next weekend. My family loves to attend.”

Y/n Y/l/n was already inviting Ciel to the 57th renewal of the Grand National horse racing event? Perhaps, this endeavor was going to be easier than Ciel originally thought….

Tag List: @vixxzill, @theblueslytherin

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demonslayedher · 5 months ago

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The first fanbook tells us that lately, Mitsuri is hooked on "youshoku" (Western food) like pork cutlet and omelette rice, so her expenditure on food is pretty extreme.

Nowadays, these Japanese-style "Western foods" are pretty ubiquitous but not actually things you run into much in "the West." The ingredients and recipes have changed here and there with how long they've been around, so a nerd buddy who knows Tokyo better than I do (and who is a Mitsuri fan) insisted I try out what these things would have tasted like in Taisho. That's why she took me to Rengatei, where some of Mitsuri's favorite dishes were born.

I'm going to let this food blog do the talking about the restaurant itself and how it has the credit for creating many well-known dishes, including pork cutlet and omelette rice. It's an interesting, short read.

We'll focus most on what Rengatei might mean for Mitsuri, and on that note, I'll call your attention to the fact that this food blog article first mentions looking for a similar restaurant with a long history in the Azabu Juban area. Mitsuri is from a spot that was known as the Iikura neighborhood of the Azabu area in the Taisho period, and what is now known as the Azabudai area. Back in the Taisho period, this was a glitzy shopping and entertainment area where Mitsuri would have had many options for popular Western style restaurants. Even today, Azabudai feels like an area meant for people who make far more money than I do.

So, if she was spoiled for choice closer to where she lived back then, would she have bothered going over to Ginza, another glitzy shopping area of Tokyo, to visit Rengatei? The restaurant opened in 1895, a year or so before she was born, so it would have been well established, but not exactly new. To that I say, let's assume she'd have had plenty of opportunities to go to Ginza. It's perfectly reasonable to assume she might have visited the restaurant that developed some of her favorite dishes. Even today, Rengatei plays up the retro atmosphere with the table setting and wait staff uniforms.

Thing is, despite the retro feeling of modern-day Rengatei, this building was constructed in the 1960s. Mitsuri's wouldn't have seen the place in the same way you can see it today.

The kicker is that it would have been the same Meiji era recipes.

My friend who took me along asked for my thoughts on the food afterward, and we arrived at the same conclusions about it being not amazing, but feeling a little imperfect compared to many other versions of these recipes that we've had. Like you can tell these were freshly developed and on the homestyle side. I had the omuraisu (omelet rice, as it is better known today instead of the long o-mu-re-tsu-rai-su* as it used to be known), and she had the tonkatsu (pork cutlet, which is also a shorter way of saying po-o-ku-ka-tsu-re-tsu*, with "ton" for "pork").

*Both the KnY fanbook and the Rengatei menu use old, long names, though there was some linguistic variation like ka-re-ka-tsu or ka-to-re-to until the current names were settled on.

So why were these sorts of foods such a big deal? There were a lot of new foods introduced to the Japanese diet over the course of the Meiji period, especially meat, since Japan was very influenced by Buddhism and not widely in the habit of eating it (but you can always find exceptions, and different strains of Japanese Buddhism vary in how much they condemn certain lifestyle choices). Many new meat dishes, like curry and sukiyaki (or rather, gyunabe as Rengoku knew it in his bentou), were fancy and expensive and novel in the Meiji period. Perhaps more surprisingly, eggs were also a luxury item (though they have a complex history in the Japanese diet).

Granted, by the time the Taisho period rolls around, a lot of high society in Tokyo has already had some time to get used to these new menu items being a thing, and how much they were adopted into people's lifestyles varied as much as how much they adopted Western attire and houses. On that note, it is very interesting how in the flashback to Mitsuri's family life, they live in a very Japanese-style home and visit Japanese-style establishments and eat Japanese-style sweets, but by the time we join Mitsuri for Hashira training, there are Western elements to her home (though it is not clear if she lives with family or not), and she eats Western style sweets (beekeeping has a long history, and Western methods of beekeeping were introduced in Meiji long before Mitsuri was born). We can see how quickly what was normal for Mitsuri changed over the course of her life, so it's possible she really hadn't been in a habit of eating Western food until closer to when she joined the Corp. While I'm sure Rengoku was happy to eat anything, his home and tastes still seem to lean distinctly non-Western in comparison.

Anyway, so how was the food at Rengatei? Back to that topic!

I usually associate restaurant omuraisu with being impeccably fluffy, and with a variety of sauces and rices seasonings to choose from, even if ketchup is traditional. However, this omelet had a distinctly flatter, more inconsistent texture than you usually get with standard restaurant omuraisu. It's closer to just the usual flat, bumpy, but at least smoothly beaten omelette you'd be more likely to accomplish at home. Even the ketchup had a bit of a freshly-blended quality to it, but I can't exactly say I'm ketchup connoisseur. For all we know about Mitsuri, she might be.

The pork cutlet was, as you get into it yourself instead of having somewhat pre-cut strips like at many tonkatsu establishments, very clearly a hunk of meat. My usual image of tonkatsu is a evenly tenderized, evenly cooked hunk of white meat, with a stretch of fat along one side. Not so with this--the textures and darkness and lightness of the meat, as well as the amount and distribution of fat, was more typical of a cut of meat that is first and foremost meat; not a uniform product. My friend really loves tonkatsu, and says she prefers this juicy, not-quite-perfected version. Because it is a greasy dish, this is why Rengatei introduced the convention of serving it a bed of shredded cabbage to aid in digestion, which all of Japan has copied ever since.

As a brief note, most online sources say "yeah, Rengatei invented tonkatsu (but we're all probably copying the same source)." It seems there is another restaurant (Ponchitei) that claims to have invented tonkatsu before or after 1897, and for what I've poked around, the claims for Rengatei's invention aren't clear, but 1899 seems like the most likely time it entered the menu (I saw a claim for 1890, but the restaurant didn't open until 1895...).

Anyway, tl,dr; I did feel I was eating something closer to what Mitsuri would have known and loved by having eaten at Rengatei.

I also felt it went to show why her food bill was so high, because Rengatei is not cheap (like, about twice what I'd typically be willing to pay). You're paying for some ambiance and history here, as opposed to just a standard meal. Also, it is worth noting that although there is scant official information for the parent restaurant in Ginza, there is a lot more information for an off-shoot restaurant in Fukagawa that opened in 1928. That includes a short, cute English article introducing Western foods.

But hey, despite the stiff prices, I was full and satisfied after one plate of omuraisu and a couple bites of pork cutlet. Mitsuri-chan has a Hashira salary, so she can afford as many servings as she likes.

#kimetsu kitchen #but not MY kitchen #kanroji mitsuri #kny nerdery #hey look an info-dump

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ideas-on-paper · 6 months ago

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On Carlo and Romeo's relationship & homosexuality in Victorian schools

In my quest to find out more about Carlo and Romeo's lives at Monad Charity House, I have once again resorted to my tried and tested method of historical research, this time with a primary focus on Victorian boarding schools.

Along the way, I stumbled upon Lord Alfred Douglas, aka "Bosie" Douglas, the lover of Oscar Wilde. As people familiar with them may know, their gay romance caused quite a stir in 1895 due to the (in)famous trials of Wilde for “gross indecency”, the tragic result of which was that the latter was convicted to two years of hard labor that ruined his health.

Both already had their fair share of gay affairs beforehand though - Bosie specifically was very popular among his peers during his time at Oxford University, being excellent at sports, artistically gifted and incredibly handsome, so it's not too surprising he hooked up with some of his fellow students. What absolutely had me rolling on the floor was this statement, however (quoted from this page):

"[...] we argue that the English public schools in the last part of the nineteenth century tolerated, if they did not actually encourage the development of strong homoerotic friendships between students."

Apparently, homosexuality in boarding schools was so common people made off-hand jokes about it. In the novel Rites of Passage by William Golding, the protagonist finds a fellow traveler engaged in oral sex with a sailor, thinking of it as "that silly schoolboy prank". Admittedly, Golding wrote his novel in the 20th century, so we don’t know for sure if the 19th-century attitudes portrayed in it are accurate, but this might imply that sexual interaction between schoolboys was fairly common.

In the first edition of Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes, published in 1857, there was even a passage of the protagonist insulting two boys who were clearly in a sexual relationship with senior boys, with the author commenting that "everyone who studied at Rugby would understand why this passage was necessary". (Hughes himself was Christian and condemned homosexual relationships; the concerning passage was cut out in later versions).

This does not mean, however, that all the boys attending boarding schools were gay - rather, because boarding schools were restricted by gender, they had their first sexual experiences in this male-only environment. Many of them would try the exact same thing out with a girl later and find they enjoyed it much more. However, there were also those who never felt any desire to try it out with a girl - and given how close Carlo and Romeo were, I would honestly be more surprised if there wasn’t anything romantic going on between them.

I mean, it’s not like the entire LoP community isn’t already shipping Carlo and Romeo, but in case there was ever any doubt about it, take it from me: I’m positive these boys were gay.

And in case anyone feels like pointing out that “well, actually, the setting of Lies of P is based on France”: Homosexuality was already decriminalized in France as early as 1791 by the National Constituent Assembly, making France the first Western European country to do so - or rather, the penal code drafted with the intention to only punish "real crimes" made no mention of homosexual acts in private. Still, it was a major step for gay rights.

#lies of p #lies of p carlo #lies of p romeo #carlo x romeo #carmeo #they are gay your honor #gay history #victorian england #also still got this out during Pride Month yay!

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telekineticseance · 2 years ago

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STUDY BUDDIES

pairing: ted logan x afab! reader

summary: your teacher gives you the assignment of tutoring one of the dumbest kids in school

genre: smut

word count: 1895

cw: p in v, dick riding

author’s note: this is mainly for @animulnitrate because they asked so nicely and they're my roomie so i can't say no

“Help out Ted Logan? The guy who thinks Joan of Arc is Noah’s wife?” You asked your teacher, you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You were usually fine with tutoring others but when it came to Ted Logan, it was a lost cause. He barely knew basic math, spending hours with him trying to teach him history would be a nightmare.

“Yes..I know it’ll be hard at first but he needs to pass this exam or else he’s not passing the year and he’ll have to repeat a grade.” Mr.Ryan, your history teacher, explained to you He knew how bad Ted was and Ted’s best friend Bill was just as bad. You couldn’t imagine being in his shoes and having to teach not one of them, but both of them, at the same time. You let out a sigh of agreement and nodded before walking out of the class running into Ted at the end of the hallway.

“Whoa hey there Dudette! Gotta watch where you’re going.” He said, his hands holding onto your arms as he looked down at you with a grin on his face. You scoffed slightly at him while rolling your eyes and brushing his hands away. “Look Logan, I’ve been given the task of tutoring you tonight in preparation for your exam.”

Ted chuckled while nodding his head, his hair bouncing in the process, “Well alright! Alone time with a babe like you? I’m so down!” You hid back a giggle, as he smiled down at you. “Uh yeah..right. So do you want to study at your place?” You asked him.

“My place sounds sick!” You nodded as he gave you his address and the two of you parted ways before you went to the rest of your classes.

—

You walked up the steps to Ted’s front door and knocked gently, while holding onto the bag on your shoulder with your other hand. You heard footsteps run down the stairs before a loud bang on the door and the door opened revealing a disheveled Ted with one of those grins on his face, “My savior! Come in.” He said, moving to the side so you can walk in. You walk past him, looking around at the decorations, expecting to see something the total opposite than the preppy vibes you were viewing.

Ted lightly grabbed your arm and led you up the stairs, “Come on we can go to my room!” He ran up the stairs with you closely behind before leading you to a bedroom which was a lot more like you expected. The bed was unmade with posters plastered in random spots all over the walls of different movies and rock bands. Including some homemade posters of something called Wyld Stallyns. He stood in front of you throwing his arms in the air, “Presenting tu casa!”

You paused looking at him, “Actually..” You started before he dropped his hands and raised his eyebrow and you stopped, “Nevermind. Yes this is tu casa.” He grinned while nodding again before sitting down on his bed with a plop and you took your bag off your shoulder, sitting next to him before pulling out books. You sat your history book in your lap, opening it to a page before turning to him, “Okay so I thought I would start with the beginning and then just going through at whatever pace is more comfortable for you?” You asked him, looking over as he looked down at the book in your lip while nodding.

As the two of you looked through the book, Ted would inch closer to where your legs would be touching and you’d scoot away a little more. He would also move his hand close to yours as you held the pages open, lightly stroking his pinky against your hand in the process. Every time he’d try you would awkwardly clear your throat and move away from him, but he’d just go back to trying. Eventually Ted took a deep breath before looking at you, “You know…you’re quite the babe.”

You raised an eyebrow, looking at him as he grinned that same grin he’s had practically all night. “Thank..you?” His eyes widened a little bit and he shifted his position to look at you more, “No what I meant was you’re bodacious! Uh..a sight to see! Hot!” You couldn’t help but let out a giggle at his actions, he wasn’t smart but you did think he was cute at times. He blushed slightly, looking back down at the book, pointing at a picture of Napoleon, “Who’s the guy with the funny hat?”

You started to tell him the history of Napoleon Bonaparte and the French Revolution as he listened closely, nodding while you talked. Eventually you were interrupted by Ted moving in close, kissing you deeply. Your eyes widened as you pulled away and looked at him, “Oh I’m sorry.” He apologized, putting his hand over his mouth. You sat there in shock before leaning in and kissing him yourself. He slowly moved his hand up to your arms, stroking them as the two of you kissed. Your hands gripped onto the black vest he was always wearing as you deepened the kiss.

He pulled away, his lips a dark shade of pink from the kiss as he looked down at you, “Whoa.” He grinned as he slowly opened his eyes, almost as if he were in a trance. You felt your face heat up as you nodded. He bit his bottom lip slightly looking in your eyes, as his hand lightly stroked your cheek. “Can we do that again?” He asked gently, leaning closer again. You nodded, caressing his cheek before kissing him again. You repositioned yourself, letting the history book fall to the floor as you sat in front of him on your knees.

Both of your hands were on the sides of his face, while his hands moved to your waist. Your tongue explored his mouth as he let out a few hums during the kiss. You slipped off the vest from his torso, and started to pull at his shirt before he put his hands on yours, pulling away. “I can’t.” He whispered against your lips. You pulled your hands away and distanced yourself from him, “Oh.”

“No no I want to,” He corrected before thinking for a minute, “But I just…I wouldn’t know what to do.” He mumbled, looking down at his lap, picking at one of the patches on his shorts. Did he mean? You lifted his face, looking into his eyes, “Have you done anything like this before?” He shook his head, looking into your eyes. You thought for a minute before moving close to him, “I can teach you..if you’d want.”

He smiled as he looked at you, “You would?” You nodded slowly as he nodded back, “Okay!” You giggled while rolling your eyes playfully before kissing him again, leaning him back against the headboard. You straddled his lap, moving your hands to start pulling off the shirt again. He moved his hands to your waist, pulling you close to him. Your hands moved to your own shirt, pulling it over your head as Ted watched, his eyes widening once he saw you in your bra. His gaze lingered on your chest, “Do you want me to take this off too?” You asked him, tracing your fingers along the lace of your bra. He gulped, nodding slowly as you unclasped your bra, pulling it off and putting it next to the two of you.

His eyes stayed focused on your chest, as you felt his length growing against your crotch. You bit your bottom lip before Ted leaned in, placing wet kisses on your chest before placing his lips on your nipple. Lightly sucking and biting on it, causing you to let out a moan. Your fingers tangled into his hair before he pulled away and looked up at you, “Is this okay?” You nodded slowly and he moved his mouth to your other nipple before repeating the process.

You moved your hips, grinding your crotch against his. He pulled his mouth away, letting out a breath of air while closing his eyes tight from the feeling. He looked up at you, his lids barely open. You bit your bottom lip before removing yourself from his lip and starting to pull off his shorts. You were slightly confused from the layering he was doing as when you pulled down the shorts, he had a pair of gray sweats on underneath. He bit his bottom lip, “They’re comfier than boxers.” He said softly.

You nodded, pulling down the sweats, revealing his growing length. He bit his bottom lip when he noticed you staring. He was definitely above average and you couldn’t help but let your gaze linger. You slowly pulled off your panties from underneath your skirt and threw them onto the floor before straddling Ted’s lap again. You could see the sweat beads from his forehead as he looked up at you, “Are you sure you want this?” You asked him, your hand caressing his face. He nodded slowly, “I-I’m just nervous. You’re really really pretty.”

You giggled slightly at him before kissing him deeply, moving your to the base of his cock, stroking him gently. He let out a gasp into the kiss, followed by a soft groan. You positioned the tip to your throbbing clit before lowering yourself down, He buried his head into your chest, letting out a small whimper as you continued moving your hips against him. He leaned his head back against the headboard, biting his bottom lip as you slid up and down on his length.

A mixture of moans and whimpers escaped his lips as you continued moving, rocking your hips in the process. You dug your nails into his chest, as his grip tightened on your hips. He thrusted his hips up causing you to let out a moan, throwing your head back in pleasure. Ted opened his eyes partially, watching you before leaning back and starting to kiss on your chest again, leaving marks all the way from your neck down.

Your hips moved in sync with one another as you felt Ted’s stomach tighten from underneath you before his eyebrows furrowed, “I-I’m cl- hmm.” He interrupted his sentence with a hum, throwing his head back against the headboard once more. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his once you felt yourself starting to reach your own high. Ted let out a small gasp as you felt his tip twitch , the two of you releasing at the same time. You rode out your high, practically sinking onto his chest, feeling the energy evaporate from your body. Ted’s face was flushed a deep shade of pink and his hair was sticking to his forehead from the sweat. You pulled yourself off of him, sitting on the bed next to him while processing the events that just happened.

“That was..” You started, “Excellent?” Ted said, looking at you.

You giggled slightly in response, “Sure. Let’s go with excellent.”

“Can we do it again?” He asked, his hand snaking around your waist as he buried his face in your neck. You nodded, knowing the two of you probably wouldn’t be getting much more tutoring done for the night.

#this was fun #thanks bestie for suggesting this #ted logan #ted theodore logan #bill and ted's excellent adventure #ted logan x reader #ted logan smut

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eretzyisrael · 1 month ago

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Jews ‘treated horribly’ in 19th century Morocco

The indefatigable blogger Elder of Ziyon has been delving into his archive. He has found testimonies from European travellers which bear witness to the subjugated status of Jews in Morocco:

Jews in Morocco

Ten years ago, I discussed a book by a European traveler to northern Africa and the Middle East, using the pseudonym Ali Bey al Abbasi, about what he saw in Morocco in 1895.

“The Jews in Morocco are in the most abject state of slavery; but at Tangier it is remarkable that they live intermingled with the Moors, without having any separate quarter, which is the case in all other places where the Mahometan religion prevails. This distinction occasions perpetual disagreements; it excites disputes, in which, if the Jew is wrong, the Moor takes his own satisfaction; and if the Jew is right, he lodges a complaint with the judge, who always decides in favour of the Mussulman. This shocking partiality in the dispensation of justice between individuals of different sects begins from the cradle; so that a Mussulman child will insult and strike a Jew, whatever be his age and infirmities, without his being allowed to complain, or even to defend himself. This inequality prevails even among the children of these different religions; so that I have seen the Mahometan children amuse themselves with beating little Jews, without these daring to defend themselves.

“When they meet a Mussulman of high rank they are obliged to turn away hastily to a certain distance on the left of the road, to leave their sandals on the ground several paces off, and to put themselves into a most humble posture, their body intirely bent forward, till the Mussulman has passed to a great distance; if they hesitate to do this, or to dismount from their horse when they meet a Mahometan, they are severely punished. I have often been obliged to restrain my soldiers or servants from beating these poor wretches, when they were not active enough in placing themselves in the humble attitude prescribed on them by the Mahometan tyranny.”

It turns out that newspapers in the 19th century had a number of articles from multiple sources that showed that, if anything, Ali Bey was soft-pedaling the problem.

Read article in full

#Colonialism #Dhimmitude #Jews of Morocco

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hellfirenacht · 9 months ago

Text

Reader ==> Have Lunch With Hellfire Club

Isekai Chronicles Master List

START HERE <<<--- FIRST CHAPTER HERE

Fic Summery: Through no powers of your own, you end up in Hawkins 1985, in a tv show that you once saw on Netflix. Slow burn, Eddie Munson x Reader will be canon, choose your own adventure to a degree, monkey’s paw author.

Chapter Summery: You sneak into Hawkins High to have lunch with Hellfire Club.

Tags: Eddie and Reader, sfw, Reader is on her period, reader is also just a little horny and touch starved but nothing really happens with that.

Reader ==> Have Lunch With Hellfire Club

"Ow'' You hissed, laying your head down on the cool table. You had been doubled over for 10 seconds and most of the club looked at you with concern.

"Uh... You good, Lipton?" Jeff asked.

You winced, from both the cramp and what he'd called you. Why did no one at this school use first names? It was already hard enough responding to a false name to begin with, even after memorizing the information on your new kinda-fake ID card. Thanks, Murray.

"Just dying. It's fine, I'll live." You groaned, and forced yourself to sit up and look down the table at Eddie, passed Mike and Dustin. "Got any painkillers?" You asked.

"None that would help you." Eddie shrugged.

"Ah, lovely." You laid your head back down as another cramp shot through your uterus.

It was the last day of school before Hawkins High went on fall break. You had snuck over to the school to have lunch with Eddie and the rest of Hellfire Club. Currently, all of you were sitting outside, enjoying one of the last warm days before the cold set in. Out here, none of the teachers would see you all, and even if they did, they wouldn’t take note of one extra person who shouldn’t be on school grounds anyway. Besides, it’s not like it was your first time sneaking into the school, as it had become a habit over the past few weeks as you made yourself a part of Hellfire.

By this time next week you’d be set up in the small trailer on the opposite end of the same trailer park that Eddie lived. Just a few more days and you could finally move out of Benny’s and you could stop dealing with stupid jocks and bugs and all the other bullshit that came with being a squatter.

"What's wrong with you?" Asked Gareth.

"Alphabetically or chronologically?” your voice was deadpan and muffled from being pressed against the old picnic table. “And how much time do you have?"

You wondered briefly what “chronologically” even meant with you. Would you start chronologically in a direct timeline starting in 1895? Or maybe you’d start at the year you were born and loop back around.

"She can't be in too much pain if she's still a smartass," snorted Jeff.

"You're laughing. A party member is bleeding to death and you're laughing." The cramp subsided and you sat up again.

"Gross." Muttered Gareth.

"I bleed for days at a time and survive. Get on my level" you hissed.

"Level 5?" Jeff shot back. "You're still behind us, even with Henderson's help."

"Motherfucker I swear-"

"Hey now, no need to fight" Dustin piped up, looking between everyone with concern. "We're all stressed because of midterms, we don't need to take it out on each other."

You closed your mouth and backed down. You didn’t mind the occasional fight with Gareth, honestly you almost enjoyed it when he picked a fight with you because it meant you could blow off some steam. But Dustin was currently your only real friend, and you weren’t going to risk pissing him off. That kid was the only one to try and figure out how you ended up here anyway.

Plus, he’d been running some one on one adventures with you between Hellfire meetings. With Eddie insisting that all new players start at level 1 no matter what the party was at, Dustin had convinced him to let him do some smaller adventures to help you try and catch up with everyone else. Sometimes Mike and Lucas would even join in.

"Just ignore me." You sighed. "I'll live even if it kills me." You looked at the uneaten sandwich in front of you. The idea of eating it made you feel gross even if you were hungry. You grabbed it and tossed it down the table in front of Eddie who looked at you with a cocked eyebrow.

"Don't want it. You eat it." you mumbled, forehead against the table again. You were starting to feel like you should have just stayed at Benny’s until it was actually time for Hellfire.

"You gonna be okay to play tonight?" Eddie asked. "Or do you need us to find a sub for you?"

You shook your head. "I'll be there." You promised. "I'll just hit up Robin or someone for some aspirin before the game and I'll be fine. Might not be the most talkative-"

"That'd be a first." Muttered Jeff.

You flipped him off. "I'll be there. I can still roll dice as well at anyone here."

Eddie grinned. "Good, and I'm not gonna go easy on any of you tonight."

"Do you ever?" Mike laughed.

"Yeah, you've always been tough on us, but Cult of Vecna has been your most sadistic campaign yet." agreed Jeff.

"That's because this is my year." Eddie said. "I'm gonna graduate and I'm going out with a bang." Eddie drummed on the table with his hands, revved up now. The vibrations of his drumming echoed through your head and you sat up again.

He stood up, the sandwich left forgotten for the moment. You watched him, and the way he moved was like a full-on rainstorm. Eddie only ever seemed to have two modes, 'on' and 'off'.

He was very much on now.

There was a fire in his eyes that had burned you for the past month since you'd been invited to Hellfire. Your initial attraction to a fictional character turned coworker had burst into a full blown genuine crush. In the autumn air, his cheeks were flushed red from the cold and his natural excitement, and his hair was flying everywhere. Even with Eddie circling the table as he bragged about his campaign to the members your heart felt like it might leap out of your chest, distracting you from the other organs inside you that were ripping themselves apart.

A firm hand grasped you at the crook of your neck, and you tensed slightly at Eddie's touch, your mind blanked for a moment as he made physical contact with you.

Eddie was... Very handsy. He wasn't afraid to grapple, wrestle, grab, and generally put his hands on his fellow Hellfire members. Eddie had picked up Dustin and Mike by the shirt collars and pushed them more times than you had bothered counting.

This however, was the first time he had laid a hand on you. You held your breath as you tried to ignore the shiver that slid down your spine and into your core. You didn’t dare let anyone see that this had any effect on you.

‘Not the time, self.’ you scolded yourself.

Eddie gave you a shake, which changed that warmth in your core to a vague sense of nausea.

“Please don’t shake me right now.” you groaned. Your guts were not interested in physical movement right now. Your legs were already nearly constantly sore from biking everywhere.

To Eddie’s credit, he did stop. His hand was still firm against you though, and you could feel the cold metal of one of his rings against your skin.

“See this one,” he gave you one more shake, the asshole. “This one is so metal that even though she probably should retreat tonight she’s still willing to show up for us.”

The compliment made your heart swell and the air didn’t feel so brisk as your own cheeks warmed up. You tilted your head back to look at him with surprise; Eddie didn’t hand out compliments too lightly with the club. He was always so straight forward, firm. He wouldn’t say anything unless he meant it.

“I’ve always shown up when it mattered.” you said quietly, flashbacking (flash forwarding?) just a split second to a group of friends from the future. Not that it mattered, I guess. What was that??

The hand slid off of you, and a sense of emptiness echoed through your chest and at the loss of the warmth and pressure. You shoved down the lump in your throat by taking a long gulp of water. You had been here for nearly 2 months, and that had been the first bit of physical contact you had with anyone outside of a small scrap with Murrey or a handshake with someone, or your literal run in with Steve Harrington.

One small touch, and you felt like you were falling apart. You were really starting to be sick of this feeling.

Eddie sat back down and pulled out the sandwich you had offered him and you watched it disappear in 4 bites.

“Jesus Eddie, did you even taste that?” asked Mike, and to be fair it was a valid question.

“Didn’t need to, it was edible. Thanks, Lipton”

“Why do you all keep calling me that?” you asked, looking around the table.

“What, ‘Lipton’?” Mike asked. “I don’t know, it’s just something we do here.”

“Could... you please not call me that? Just call me by my name please. Or ‘Dipshit’. Or ‘Hey You’ or ‘That one girl in Hellfire’. Anything else.”

“You’re barely in Hellfire.” Gareth grumbled, flicking a chip crumb off the table and onto the dirt below. Gareth had been nice enough the first night you showed up for Hellfire, but then the more you hung around the less he seemed to like you. You’d deal with that later.

Eddie looked over at you, his wide brown eyes meeting yours and he said your name.

The back of your neck prickled at the sound of your name on his lips. You wanted him to say it again.

‘Not the fucking time, self’ You scolded yourself again. You had so many bigger issues than a guy with pretty brown eyes and a chipped front tooth that made your stomach explode in butterflies.

Oh, who the fuck were you kidding? You did not. In fact, he was absolutely the main problem that you were going to have to deal with in a few months. If he wasn’t planning on being a hero, maybe you could actually sleep at night.

You gave him a small nod, and wondered if you looked as tired as you felt.

“Sorry, it's an old habit.” Dustin said. “We’ll stick with your first name”

“Thank you.” you said, relaxing. You looked at the time, not long until lunch was over. Then two more hours, then school was over. Hellfire started at four, a half hour after school ended. That gave you a few hours to just wander around aimlessly until school ended.

You zoned out for the rest of lunch, poking at the food you had brought until it was all passed along to Eddie. He never did bring enough food for himself anyway.

When the bell rang you took your time gathering your stuff up as most of the club started back towards the school building.

As you were about to turn and head in the opposite direction towards the woods. something grabbed you by the shoulder and moved you behind a tree before you realized what was happening. Eddie stood in front of you, hands on your upper arms, head tilted with that look of intense concern on his face. You found yourself stiff under that gaze, thrown off by how he had suddenly grabbed you.

“Eddie....?”

“I meant what I said, earlier.” he said. “There’s no shame in retreating. If you feel like shit, you don’t have to come.”

“I want to.” you said. “I- I really do, I promise. I don’t want to let you down.” It took you three seconds to realize that you had said ‘you’ and not ‘everyone’ and heat burned your cheeks.

Eddie put a hand on your forehead. “You’re warm and you look like.. You look fucking tired.”

“....Thank you, Eddie. Just what every woman wants to hear from a man.” Your voice was deadpan. “I’ll be fine. I just need to take an aspirin and maybe take a small nap before Hellfire.”

His brown eyes bore into yours and you wondered how easily he could see through you. “Come on, you can take a nap in my van.” Eddie didn’t bother giving you a chance to answer before dragging you around the school, towards the parking lot.

It took a moment for his words to register in your brain as you followed him. "....Huh?"

"I have some spare blankets and a pillow back there. I crash in the back all the time. Might not be the... Cleanest or the most comfortable but it's safe. Not like anyone's interested in messing with the freaks van" He said, his hand sliding down your arm to grab your hand.

Eddie was holding your hand. Shit shit shit shit shit-

Your brain caught up to you. "Ah, yeah that would be really nice actually." you said. "I probably really need the short rest of I'm gonna survive you tonight."

You wondered if Eddie realized that he had given your hand a squeeze. "Get those spell slots back, you're gonna need them."

"Thank you, I really do appreciate it.” And you did, passing out in his van was definitely safer than passing out in the woods somewhere until Hellfire started.

Eddie looked over at you and smiled. "Everyone in Hellfire has crashed in that van at least once. It's basically a right of passage to help break in the newbies."

You couldn't stop your mouth from running. "You break in all the newbies in the back of your van?" You looked up at him with a teasing half grin. "Damn, this really is a cult." ‘Not. The. Fucking. Time. Get your head out of the gutter please.’

Eddie snorted and shook his head. "You'd be surprised what's happened in the back of that van."

"Sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll?" you offered. ‘What did I just tell myself??’

"Two out of three. I'll let you guess which ones."

The bell rang and you jumped. "Shit, you’re gonna be late to class.” You looked over at Eddie, worried about his getting in trouble.

“It’s just gym, no one will care if I’m late” he said. “I don’t like being the first in the locker room anyway. Are you sure you're okay?" Eddie asked, looking you over. "I'm not trying to be a dick but you really look rough."

"I feel rough. I'll be fine." You promised. "I just need a nap. You said it yourself, I'm metal. Can't exactly let everyone down when you called me that."

"You're either very brave or very stupid." Eddie said, opening the back door to the van, giving a sweeping gesture to motion you inside.

You tossed your backpack in first before crawling in. To your surprise Eddie hopped in with you and closed the door.

"Just need to move some things around. As a Hellfire member and your DM, you know that what happens in this van stays here." Eddie's eyes narrowed slightly and you nodded dumbly, wondering if he was aware of how some of the things he was saying sounded. "Good."

He pulled up a section of the floor where a spare tire should be, and pulled out a small box. You leaned against the back of the front seat, closing your eyes. Whatever Eddie was doing, it wasn't your business, not when he was being so nice. You really thought you had completely blown it a few weeks ago when you first went over to his home, but by some power he kept letting you hang around. Being coworkers probably helped.

With your eyes closed, you breathed in deeply and took in the scent of the van. There was a lingering smell of weed and cigarettes, mixed with the natural smell of him and a hint of some sort of air cleaner to mask the smells. It could have been much worse, you found that your tolerance for the scent of narcotics had gone up a lot since being here.

Your body was already starting to relax, knowing that rest was coming soon. You had been running around Hawkins all week between shifts and doing your own investigation work of the town, looking for anything that could help you come Spring Break.

Something soft hit your head and you opened your eyes. Eddie had tossed you two blankets and a pillow. "They were washed recently." He said.

"Eddie you- can you come wake me up before Hellfire?" You asked, feeling the texture of one of the blankets. It was worn and thin but nice against your hands. "I don't have a watch or an alarm." Your watch had died two days ago and you wouldn’t be able to get a new one until Bev paid you again.

"Don't worry, I'll need to come back here anyway. I'm keeping my notes for today in the front seat. Don't peek. I'll know if you do, and there will be consequences." Eddie's tone was serious as he tossed his Hellfire notes in the front seat. He put his whole being into this campaign, and you wouldn't dare betray that trust that was starting to form between the two of you.

"Wouldn't dream of it, I doubt I could read your chicken scratch handwriting anyway." you said and he grabbed the pillow from you and smacked it on your head again with a laugh.

"Stan tried once. Once. He learned his lesson after that. He didn't even read the right notes, he ended up with an attempt at my English homework."

Stan. Another name from his past that never was in the show. You had already accepted that Eddie was real, even if it had left you spiraling for a good two days. But there were still small moments to just how real he was. Hellfire Club existed before now. Eddie had friends before this version of Hellfire. Each new piece of himself that he offered you was tucked away in your mind, a reminder of what you were really working for. You wished you could offer the same.

It was comfortable in the back of the van with him like this. You could count on one hand the amount of times you had been alone together for longer than five minutes, not counting your shifts together at The Hideout . There was a part of you that was still nervous about being with him, this person who shouldn't exist with you.

Eddie looked at his watch. "Business calls. Get some rest, I'll be back for you before Hellfire."

"I'll try not to die in your van."

The van shifted as he scooted over to the door, opening it and letting in the late September air for a moment.

“Night" He said before closing the door behind him, leaving you alone.

Reader => Take A Nap In Eddie’s Van

You grabbed the blankets and started adjusting them. Thankfully there were no mysterious stains on any of them, but the pillow was very much a 'boy pillow' which was flat and old and offered zero support. But it was his and it smelled like him and it was... More clean than expected. Not like you had any room to complain.

You laid back and took a few slow breaths. You didn't expect to actually get any sleep but some time to just lay down and relax was enough for now. You were sure that Eddie would tire you out again tonight-

‘With the campaign you fucking pervert.’ You scolded yourself, trying to ignore the warmth in her stomach again from just his hand on your arm and shoulder. Hellfire was always very high energy, and Eddie's stamina was unwavering. As a Dungeon Master- no fuck, not that kind of dungeon master-!

What was wrong with you today? Being on your period and the stress must be catching up to you. You were starting to think you needed to get laid. Or maybe convince Steve or Robin to loan your their Family Video discounts to rent from the back room-

No. You were NOT going to hit up a jock and his lesbian best friend for porn. You didn’t even have a VHS player.

You were so fucking touch starved.

You shut your eyes tight and tried to clear your mind of any perverted thoughts. It was pleasant in his van in a weird way. Cool, and parked in the shade, and just dark enough to let your mind shutdown slowly. Maybe you’d get a contact high, but you didn't know enough about drugs to know and at this point you were too afraid to ask.

You tossed and turned for a bit, trying to get comfortable enough to just relax. The van's floor was hard, and it took a half hour to find a position (with doubling your backpack with the pillow) where your brain could shut down fully.

It felt like you had just closed your eyes when a knock came from outside. You jumped and sat up quickly, fumbling in the sheets to cover up before remembering that you were still fully clothed.

"Wake up, Sunshine, Hellfire starts in 15 minutes!" The van door opened and Eddie smiled at you. "Hand me my bag"

You reached for his bag and pushed it over, shaking your head to reoriented yourself. Right, Eddie's van. Naptime.

"Last chance to back out." Eddie said. "Say the word and I'll walk away and drive you home after Hellfire."

"I'm okay!" You said, not knowing if you were going to crash at Benny’s or in a basement. "I actually feel a lot better after laying down for a bit. Just let me use the bathroom and I'll be all good for tonight, I promise."

Eddie reached out to take your wrist and help you out of the van, and you stumbled slightly before readjusting. Eddie grabbed your arms to make sure you didn’t eat shit on the pavement.

"I'm good, you just threw me off. I'm fine, Eddie."

Eddie answered by letting you go and closing the van door. "You know the house rules. Anyone late gets a penalty at my discretion."

"Yes, Dad" you rolled your eyes and the two of you made your way back to the school. Once inside you stepped away and slipped into the bathroom to freshen up and readjust your clothing and pee. After splashing some cold water on your face and cleaning up you did feel a lot better.

"You actually showed up" Gareth said as you made her way down the stairs.

"Get on my level Gareth." you said, taking your seat at the table.

"Feel any better?" Asked Dustin.

"Yeah, much better." You pulled out your folder and set your mini fig on the table. "Eddie let me crash in his van for a bit."

The overhead light went out and with a click a single lamp that hung above the table flickered on. Eddie was now seated in his 'throne', his side of the table now set up.

"If we're done chatting now gentleman, lady" he nodded at you. "Last we left the party...”

Notes: I haven't forgotten about this series! I feel like I am constantly writing and yet have noting to show for it lol

So what would you like to see Reader do next?

Tumblr User ==> Leave A Suggestion

Dividers by @strangergraphics

#nacht fic #eddie munson x reader

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dresshistorynerd · 5 months ago

Note

Hiii, I love your page and you helped so much with research. I am doing a project for my costume course, I have to design costumes from 1895, 1894 and 1896 are kinda accettable, but I having problems with creating the moodboard for every outfit. I really can't find photos or archival pieces for men, especially a character who is supposed be a 17 years old and I can't really find photos/illustrations of children nightwear (boys). I know by heart every archive of every museum and I even looked on internet archive at old magazines, but still I can't find much. Do you have any niche sources that you would recommend? Sorry to bother you, just a student losing her mind

Thank you so much! And sorry for the wait! I hope you're course is not over already and I'm late with the answer :')

17 years old boy would be already dressing in basically same clothing as men. With nightwear it's also pretty easy, since all people wore basically the same nightgowns, only details would vary. Here's an 1874 example of children's nightgowns, which are long white dresses gathered at the neckline, with long sleeves and often a bit of collar. This is the basic shape everyone wore. They tended to be more simple for children and men. Women, especially rich women, might have some more decorations. Night chemise was also an option for women. It's what it sounds like and shaped exactly like a chemise, with just maybe some differences in details.

Men and boy's nightgowns were usually called nightshirts and while they were mostly the same as women's nightgowns, they were usually a bit shorter by 1890s, usually covering just the knees. Here's an add for children's undergarment with a nightshirt for boys too from 1878.

As for adult men's nightshirts, here's first a 1891 ad with unfortunately quite poor illustration of a man's nightshirt, but if does show the popular style for men, turned down lapels. Here's another example of that style in form of an extant garment form 1900s.

By 1890s pyjamas - shirt and trouser combo - had become fashionable nightwear for men, though nightshirt were still used well into 20th century. Here's an add from 1901 showing both nightshirts and pyjamas. Pymajamas were also used as fashionable evening negligee and while in 1890s nightshirts were still usually white, pyjamas were not and often had a pattern.

Underwear and nightwear are types of clothing that rarely survive history, since they are usually not fancy so they are not preserved diligently and are worn close to skin therefore quite quickly are worn down. That's why ads (in periods when they started to become a thing) are great sources for those kinds of garments. The last add is from a catalogue for mail-order clothes. These are usually excellent sources for the basics, like underwear and nightwear, which were already sold as ready-made garments in stores and by mail-order businesses by 1890s. Internet archive has several digitized fashion catalogues from around the time you are looking for so I suggest looking through them if you want to find more specific examples. This was really the first that came across me that was close enough. Some libraries also have excellent digital collections of old ads, like the New York Public Library (from where the other above ads are from), so their collections are also worth going through.

Hope this helps and I hope this is not too late for your course project!

#historical fashion #fashion history #dress history #victorian fashion #history #answers #nightwear #primary sources #historical ads #historical men's fashion

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trivia-polls-daily · 4 months ago

Text

No cheating, please! Answer the trivia question to the best of your ability, then check below the cut! Please do not give away answers in comments or tags!

Answer below:

The Five Boroughs came into existence in 1898.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boroughs_of_New_York_City

#trivia #polls #trivia polls #history #new york #new york city #new york history #history poll

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klaineccfanficlibrary · 7 months ago

Note

do you know of any bridgerton type klaine reads? thank you in advance!!!

These are not Bridgerton AUs directly, but these are in the time period. I hope you enjoy. ~Lynne

Don’t You Want Me by Quixoticity

Blaine Anderson’s plans of a life spent performing were derailed in his senior year, and he had to compromise on everything he’d dreamed of - except love.

Kurt Hummel, haughty and aloof Broadway darling, was forced to come back to Ohio where there was nothing left for him but painful memories - until he noticed a pair of fine eyes.

(Pride & Prejudice inspired, but set in present day)

~~~~~

We Both Found What We Were Looking For by ittlebitz [PDF]

Wealthy bachelor Finn Hudson moves to the small town of Lima, accompanied by his sister, Quinn, and best friend, the arrogant Blaine Anderson. When Blaine first sees feisty Kurt Hummel, he is less than impressed. But after earning Kurt’s dislike, Blaine is mortified to discover that Kurt’s fine eyes are just one of his many charms.

~~~~~

Gilded Cage by canarian

In the winter of 1895, Blaine Anderson, the son of a wealthy doctor, and Kurt Hummel, the son of a middle class mechanic, cross paths at a luxury hotel in the quiet seaside town of St. Augustine, Florida. With everyone and everything working to keep them apart, can they find a way to be together?

~~~~~

Glee & Glory by Miss_Carmilla

Mr. Kurt Hummel succeeded in playing matchmaker for his widowed father, and his stepbrother is soon to marry as well. Will Kurt find a love of his own in the resort town of Bath? Inspired by the works of Jane Austen. Set in early 19th century England

#klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #fic finder #historical!Klaine

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scribbleseas · 5 days ago

Text

in love & in war, drabble 4: the one where you sideline him

Warnings: none!

Author’s Note: sorry for the wait lol! i hope you like this one, it’s pretty long for a drabble, but it introduces some really fun circumstances for the future of this series :). Please let me know if you would like to join the taglist! It’s open to all, and from now on, I will be putting it on all of my fic updates, so if you’d like to stay in the loop, it’ll help you out!

Happy Reading! (And Happy Holidays & New Year!)

- Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

The Aintree Racecourse, Liverpool, 1895

Y/N Y/L/N

“Mama, please,” you begged, attempting to masquerade your growing apprehension with your publicity expression. You feared the closer you walked to the racecourse, the less you could hide your worry. “If there is something underway, I must know.”

After all, the 57th Annual Grand National Horse Racing Event was not one to trifle with. The tradition began in 1839, generations of your family present each year. You’ve attended alongside your mother and father since you were able to walk, but this year was the first time you arrived so late. The race was to start in a handful of minutes, and your family was just in the midst of finding your reserved seats.

As always, the Aintree Racecourse bustled with excitement, commoners populated the outside stands, journalists in their from their designated media platforms. Betting tents boasted long lines of hopefuls, upper and middle class individuals, judging by their apparel. Event staff guided you and your family to the noble viewing area, a terrace above the working class stands to shield aristocracy from the blazing sun, the scent of horse muck, and curious columnists.

“Darling, honestly. You must trust me and stop looking so vexed,” the Countess replied jubilantly, her arm intertwined with your father’s. She waved away your concern, too flippant for your comfort. You lingered behind them, Daphne’s arm in yours. You knew what your mother was like—she was a romantic. With something in store. Your father, the realist’s, grumpy mood only confirmed your theory. His deep, disgruntled sigh was far from lost on you.

“Do believe her, my Lady. Everything is perfectly well,” Daphne chimed in, though you distrusted her appeasing grin. Her expression seemed thin and strained, her blue eyes scanning around you and refusing to meet yours.

Still, as typical as the event seemed to be, you knew there was something disquieting in store. Your mother and Daphne had been behaving unusually all morning—from the moment the maid prepared you for the event, the entirety of breakfast, and the long carriage ride to the race course. Giggling, sharing long looks, whispering.

They hadn’t even let you view the contenders, the jockeys and their respective horses in advance of the race. Typically, you and your parents liked to make predictions based on the statistics provided by the racecourse’s invitations. You liked to make predictions based on the little science you knew about horse racing—the track conditions, the horse’s fitness and temperament, the weather.

Her refusal to show you the data meant there was some sort of surprise awaiting you—knowing that caused anxiety to gnaw at your stomach. It strained your cordial smile. This surprise could only be something related to the race, the identity of the jockeys or perhaps the horses?

How you detested surprises. At their essence, they were situations you were made to be unprepared for, and unpreparedness meant you could very well mortify yourself, the Y/l/n name, and the Richmond Earldom. And TransAtlantica. All in one fell swoop.

Your mother couldn’t seem to keep her gaze away from the racetrack for more than a few minutes, excitement in her eyes. She was waiting for someone, and judging by her disinterest in the rest of the nobility on the terrace, she was not awaiting Ciel Phantomhive. A worker at the event showed you to your reserved table and row of seats, lifting the place card that read Richmond and promptly departing. This part of the terrace boasted a flawless view of the racecourse and the labor class spectators.

“Daphne my dear, please find all of us some refreshments. This heat is simply intolerable,” she fanned herself, sharing another suspicious smile with the maid.

“Of course, my Lady,” Daphne curtsied to the both of you before starting off.

Your father, on the other hand, wasted no time in finding the other Earl amid the festivities. From across the way, you watched him shake hands with Lord Phantomhive and immediately steer him your way, their conversation inaudible as they approached you. Lord Phantomhive was dressed elegantly in a light beige suit. His olive green tie tucked into a white undershirt.

“Hello, Lady Y/l/n, Lady Y/n,” Lord Phantomhive greeted you and your mother, directing his bow to both of you. Before you could apologize for your family’s tardiness, he spoke again. “I am honored to spectate this fine engagement with your family. Thank you again for inviting me, Lady Y/n,” he landed a polite kiss on your knuckles, immediately releasing your hand.

At the very least, you could say you were interested in Lord Phantomhive. He entertained such stimulating conversation, curious to know more about your studies, your intellectual pursuits. No other nobleman your age would ever allow you to ramble on about the ingenious engineering that went into a ferris wheel or even match wits regarding classical literature by the likes of Sun Tzu and Machiavelli. Most of your suitors had only been interested in themselves. They’d ramble endlessly regarding their achievements, their family lines, their hobbies.

While that was all important, you craved a connection. A connection with respect, appreciation, care.

“Of course. I enjoyed our promenade at the piers.” In spite of your nerves, your own answering smile graced your lips. You found yourself telling the truth, as well. Lord Phantomhive showed a considerate side of himself during your promenade last week—he was understanding when you made a clumsy fool of yourself. Sure, he could be rather snide at times, but he’d shown glimmers of a gentleman, and you expected to see more. At least he provided you the decency of never bringing up that embarrassment again.

“As did I. I am pleased to hear you feel the same,” he replied, giving your hand a soft, affectionate squeeze before he released it. “Though I must admit that I am not as well versed in the world of horse racing as you are. I’ve heard that your family makes it a point to spectate each year’s Grand National. You must be quite the accomplished wagerer.”

You flushed, fully aware that polite society restricted a noblewoman's betting engagements to lower stakes card games. Noblemen primarily bet at horse races and rounds of pall mall. Instead, you learned the intricacies of a smart gamble and decent odds throughout your formative years. Your father allowed you to donate the winnings to a cause of your choice— last year’s winnings became seed money for developing medical equipment. You personally corresponded with Wilhelm Roentgen, the developer of a new form of electromagnetic radiation for body imaging.

”I am. Though regretfully, my mother seems quite intent on limiting those powers of mine this year,” you said, casting a long and derisive stare at the offending woman.

“Quite regretfully,” your father agreed. Your record more than spoke for itself.

Immediately launching to the defensive, the Countess’ eyes widened with false innocence. “Is it a crime to wish for my daughter’s focus to be on her engagements today as opposed to the race? Must you cast your unladylike predictions each and every year?” She asked, accepting a slim flute of imported wine from Daphne. Your father took a disapproving drink out of his, guiding your mother to sit with him.

“The race is starting in moments and I haven’t the slightest idea of any of the jockeys participating, the horses, the track conditions…” you complained, settling in your reserved seats with your parents to your right and Lord Phantomhive to your left.

“I appreciate your assistance, Lady Y/l/n,” Lord Phantomhive said diplomatically. He addressed you again, “How could I compete for your attention with such a riveting race?”

You watched the jockeys below, some adjusting their horse’s equipment, some already mounted and ambling about behind the starting line. Each competitor’s silks and riding breeches matched the color of their horse's tack, their names and numbers clearly labeled them for spectators as well.

“I only wanted to keep a certain special guest a surprise,” your mother explained, recapturing your attention. “The organizers here at Aintree asked him to make an appearance, now that he’s freshly arrived from the port of South Africa. His service in the Royal Army is finally complete. Look—the jockey in crimson is....”

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Adam Kingston.

The next bloody Earl of Kingston. An Earl who hailed from a peerage spanning back to 1463 when King Edward VI ennobled a knight as a reward for valiance during the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross. Apparently, every man in the Kingston family served in the British military to honor their knightley roots.

Clearly, Ciel was not, in fact, competing with the race itself for Lady Y/n’s attention. He was competing with Lord Adam Kingston, the myth of a man whom Ciel was convinced, until this convenient moment, had no ties to the Richmond Earldom. And now, by the shock painted on Lady Y/n��s face and the excitement in her mother’s expression, there was indeed a concerning degree of relevance.

And all Ciel could do was exhale, his jaw clenching at the sight of Adam as he practiced on his canting horse. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wracking his mind for a transition. A means to change the subject from Adam to, well, virtually anything else.

How could he miss this? The Grand National never typically allowed for guest jockeys, and he should have factored in any potential obstacle. Potential, at that.

Adam far from an obstacle—biceps for brains at best, hailing from a line of unintellectual brutes. How could that compare to the Phantomhive’s servitude as the Queen’s Guard Dog? Her Majesty’s personal private investigators? It couldn’t.

The Y/l/n family, the custodians of the Richmond line, required a businessman. There was no assessing a bloody profit margin through brute force. It took class, prowess, skill that went beyond following a general’s orders and shooting straight.

“He recently received a Victoria Cross for his service to Her Majesty. Just as his father and grandfather did before him— she must adore that family,” Lady Y/l/n explained proudly, as if Adam were her own son. As if she wished for Adam to become her son-in-law, though of course, the Countess was socially aware enough not to explicitly say so. Not with Ciel present, at least.

Surely if Ciel could understand the intent behind her words, as did Y/n, who flushed. Her perceptive gaze trained on Adam. She twisted a ring on her finger, a circular yellow diamond surrounded by smaller white diamonds. They were cut into circles as well, resembling petals of a flower, a nod to the weather.

“That is lovely to hear,” the noblewoman answered absently, her smile small and appeasing. Not at all genuine, now that their exchange about Machiavelli revealed Y/n Y/l/n’s real smile to Ciel. Or at least, something closer to it. She cleared her throat, eyes flitting between her mother, the racecourse, and Ciel with uncertainty. “Though I doubt he will win today. Look at his horse—it’s quite large. He might overheat in this weather and slow down during the final few laps.”

The Countess merely sighed, returning her daughter’s smile. “You can take the wagering away from the lady, but never the lady from her wagering.”

Y/N Y/L/N

“Mama,” you complained again, releasing your ring to fan yourself. Lord Phantomhive had only been sitting with you for a few moments and your mother already managed to mortify you twice. First by shocking you with Lord Kingston, and now, insinuating that your intellect was unladylike. It was a miracle Lord Phantomhive didn’t stand up and walk away after all of these misgivings. You’d even fallen in front of him during your blood promenade last week! He even had to take the time to tend to your bloody leg of all things.

“All right, all right,” she surrendered, thankfully turning her attention to your father.

“I apologize for her,” you said, flattening the skirts of your light yellow gown.

“I only hope to learn from you if you’re such a master of wagering,” Lord Phantomhive replied lightly, both validating a skill you felt self conscious of and your overeager mother’s whims. “I’ve merely participated in the odd game of billiards and chess—never horse racing. If not the Earl of Kingston, who do you favor to win?”

“It’s hard to say without the full information,” you admitted, finally managing to tear your gaze away from Adam Kingston. You knew him—surely most of the aristocracy did—given his family line’s proximity to the Crown and overall significance to the noble class. As children, you spent time together, you were innocent playmates who were too little to understand the necessity of polite functions. You’d share toys and books wordlessly on the floor until you were old enough to accompany your parents during rounds of polite chatter. You had fleeting feelings as a young girl, but of course, what girl your age didn’t have a juvenile crush on Adam at some point?

There had been murmurings of an engagement between the two of you, but nothing had ever come of it. You heard of his achievements abroad—in fact, you dimly remembered hearing that he was an accomplished equestrian, now that he was in the front of your mind.

Lord Kingston studied in universities abroad before his five-year enlistment in the British Army. The last time you saw him physically, he stood at half his height. His face was clean of facial hair—stubble shadowed his jawline, from what you could see. His eyes were still the same light green, his red skull cap concealed most of his unruly blond hair. When you were children, other noble daughters around you squealed for him. There were plenty of tears when he departed for Germany—most from disappointed mothers and daughters hoping to secure an arranged marriage.

Your mother had certainly been among the disappointed, but at the time of his departure, all you could recall was the lessons in shares and stock holding your father was guiding you through.

“If I had to pick a favorite, I might choose—” you started to say, only for a familiar fanfare to interrupt you. Your guess would have been on Sharpshooter and his jockey in blue, Oliver Dean, but you supposed it didn’t matter. Your father clearly handled the betting for this race, given that your mother forcibly put you out of commission.

You pursed your lips, frustrated at your inability to finish your thought. This was why you liked to attend the Grand National early, but now you understood why your mother saw to your tardiness.

”Ladies and gentlemen, we at the Aintree Racecourse wish to thank you for attending our 67th Annual Grand National Horse Racing Event,” the announcer started, thanking the event’s donors and vendors. He introduced each jockey and their horse, mentioning their sponsors (if applicable) and their odds to win as they trotted to the starting line.

Before the announcer could introduce Lord Kingston, he had to wait for the public’s energy to calm. Everyone, from the clapping nobles on the terrace to the rowdy commoners cheering in the stands, showed warm sentiments for the former soldier. It seemed that each attendee, save for you, was aware of the last minute addition to the race.

“Now, if he hadn’t been standing right before me, I wouldn’t believe it myself, but today we have Lord Adam Kingston joining our skilled jockeys this auspicious afternoon! He rides for the Crimea and Indian Mutiny Veterans’ Association, a charitable group that aids our brave veterans in need! Do give the man and his 2:1 odds a gigantic round of applause, Aintree!” The announcer requested of the audience, gesturing for the impassioned spectators to afford the Earl a standing ovation. While most in the stands below you complied, most nobility around you simply clapped demurely.

It would be unwise to ignore 2:1 odds. Statistically, it meant that Lord Kingston had a 33.3% chance of winning among his competitors. He was one of the favorites to win— of course. Years of cultivating his skills as an equestrian, plus years in the military…you suspected his horse was the only factor leaving a shadow of a doubt. That being said, a jockey as skilled as him likely already considered his horse’s stamina.

Lord Phantomhive mumbled something under his breath, but you couldn’t quite catch it under the racecourse’s excitement and the volume of your own thoughts. He shifted in his seat, sparing a few gruff claps for Lord Kingston. His stormy, pensive, expression melted into passivity the moment he noticed your curious eyes on him.

“I still have another favorite to win,” you insisted, “Oliver Dean and Sharpshooter are 4:1—that is about a 20% likelihood. With only a 13% difference, I believe it is worth considering.” Sharpshooter was much thinner than Lord Kingston’s horse, a lighter color. To you, he seemed less likely to tire after the last few hurdles, though his younger age could cause difficulties with consistency.

“You reckon?” Lord Phantomhive raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching as the final horse stopped behind the starting line. The race contenders shot off the starting line to a grandiose fanfare and the screams from the stands. The sound of thundering hooves echoed alongside the bustling crowd, each horse moving in frenzied synchrony. They moved so fast that the jockeys couldn’t afford to sit properly on their mounts, instead standing in their stirrups and crouching. Their ride was more aerodynamic that way, you once read.

“Dean would be the more profitable bet. The higher return compensates for the lower probability, correct?” Lord Phantomhive prompted.

“What was that?” Oh—yes. That is correct,” you confirmed haphazardly. Would Lord Kingston prove you wrong? Who did your father choose for the Richmond family’s favorite to win? Was it your responsibility to greet Kingston? Win or lose?

As the odds estimated, Oliver Dean and Lord Kingston were neck in neck. Their horses galloped and jumped together, their riders remaining focused on the course ahead. The first to complete three laps around the racecourse would win—and whether the victor was Adam, an Earl already well-rested on his laurels, and Oliver Dean, a professional equestrian.

You took a drink out of your chilled wine, realizing that you had been digging your teeth into the inside of your lower lip. Finishing it off, you handed the empty class away. You sat forward in your seat, unable to look away or even breathe properly.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

This outing was getting away from him. He could see it in Y/n’s body language, leaning away from him and towards the balcony in front, her fidgeting hands finally still on her lap. The race—or its unlikely addition—completely captured her attention.

Acquiring TransAtlantica is not an option; it is an inevitability, Ciel reminded himself, his eyebrow furrowing harder by the passing second. His mouth felt dry, parched and begging for a sip of the wine Y/n nursed. He should have accepted one from their maid, but he’d politely declined out of interest in staying as sharp as possible in case the event turned dire.

Now, Ciel wished he’d accepted the drink. If not for the cold on his tongue, for the sweet sympathy of the alcohol. He needed it to smooth out the gathering headache in his temples, caused by a combination of Adam Kingston, the scent of horse muck, the loud and obnoxious presence of the working class, and now, maintaining Y/n’s attention without appearing demanding.

Say something to her, Ciel. Anything. It would be inappropriate to compliment her now, inappropriate to ask about her other interests…unhelpful to ask her about Adam….

Hidden in his crossed arms, the Earl’s hands clenched into fists. He imagined one making painful contact with the side of Adam’s head, knocking him clean out for so much as daring to impede his mission. Ciel had an objective to see through: a wedding band on the heiress’ finger, and a company to head and combine with his existing one. A new Earldom to chief. And this man had the audacity to insert himself into Ciel’s intricate plans like a gust of wind to a house of cards.

The jockeys completed their first round and Adam’s lead was beginning to increase, slowly but certainly.

“For such a large horse, Cozbi seems to be holding his own,” Ciel commented, stealing a look at Y/n. She shook her head, watching Oliver’s slender horse lose ground to Adam and Cozbi. The action caused her long earrings—the yellow diamonds matched the one on her finger—to move. Strands of her hair fell out of its braided bun, causing the diamond flower hair clips in it to come slightly loose.

Out of all of her clothing ensembles, this floral number was the most color and sparkle he’d seen Lady Y/n dawn.

“He is an Andalusian, I think,” Y/n replied, gasping as Sharpshooter and Oliver rushed closer to Adam and Cozbi. “They are known for their stamina. Former battle horses, but…” she mumbled, not finishing the thought. Ciel couldn’t conceal his dry laugh; of course Lady Y/n knew of the benefits and drawbacks of specific racehorse breeds.

The jockeys made it halfway through the second lap side by side, leaving the rest of the competition paces behind them. It was clear that the winner would be determined from the two leaders, and Ciel couldn’t imagine how he could manage Adam winning. Y/n’s mother seemed eager to introduce the two—eager to sabotage his chances to woo her daughter, even if unknowingly. He had to surmise how well Y/n knew Adam, but mentioning the other Earl when he’d just managed to change the subject would only hurt his cause.

“Ah! See? Just as I thought!” Lady Y/n exclaimed, jumping to her feet as Sharpshooter inched before Cozbi. She was referring to her earlier summation: the smaller, younger horse would persist longer than a larger, older horse. “Sharpshooter is a Mustang, they are quite fast and enduring. Perhaps, perhaps… oh no, no, no! Come Sharpshooter, hurry!” Y/n’s palms jumped to the flushed apples of her cheeks, dragging down. Her hands fell back to her sides, each gesture causing her fan to jump. Noble ladies such as she held lithe fans to both keep cool and in more secretive moments, convey messages. During outings such as this, they kept their dans gently tied to their wrists with ribbon.

As quickly as Oliver and Sharpshooter gained their lead, they lost it within the thick back to back hurdles dominating part of the track. While Sharpshooter was smaller and lighter, he was significantly less experienced and sturdy than Cozbi. Where Cozbi lacked in agility, his expertise and relationship with Adam clearly made up for it. The leading horses came thundering over the starting line for a second time, marking the end of the second lap.

One final lap to go.

How could Ciel’s luck be this absurd? Honestly!

“After two attempts at the hurdles, Sharpshooter may have the right of it then,” Ciel suggested, watching as the noblewoman’s competitive spirit seemed to take the better of her. She hardly spared him a look, leaving his comment unaddressed.

“Absolutely not! No! This is unacceptable!” She cried out, jumping up from her chair with enough force to push it back. It was as if the horse’s misgivings were a personal affront to her, her gloved hands tightly holding onto the railing in front of the Richmonds’ reserved row of seats. In standing, Y/n joined most of the spectators in the audience—including that of the aristocracy. Reluctantly, Ciel rose as well, deciding that watching the race progress and Y/n take more interest in it than him were equally frustrating sights to take in.

The situation was truly unacceptable, Ciel agreed. Only, that was for reasons beyond the bloody race.

Still, the Earl had to appreciate the genuine tenacity on the young woman’s face, the emotional investment she put into a silly race. He was rather accustomed to the vacant smile she would aim at the world, himself included. She seemed hard pressed for spontaneity, but liveliness and intrigue seemed to come so naturally to her—a student of diverse hobbies. Ciel never would have guessed that such a privileged young woman would take the time to educate herself so thoroughly. Especially within matters as niche as horse racing…though he supposed she had to. To the Richmond line, this was no silly race—it determined their winnings and therefore, the funding they could provide for a starting cause.

Ciel felt his charity to London was policing the Underworld, serving Her Majesty. And yet, Lord Richmond and TransAtlantica seemed entirely committed to spreading wealth. It was perplexing.

He sighed as Biceps for Brains took the lead, cursing his ineffectual butler for screwing with him.

Y/N Y/L/N

Sweat rolled down your neck as you watched on. At some point, you grabbed your mother’s hand, squeezing it as you bounced on the soles of your heels. You were dimly aware of Lord Phantomhive next to you, clapping but significantly quieter than your rowdy jumping.

Cozbi and Lord Kingston claimed a commanding lead entering the final stretch, the elder horse’s experience and sheer strength enough to defeat Sharpshooter’s size and speed. No wonder Andalusians were used in battle—it seemed Cozbi was unyielding.

As the Earl of Kingston and his horse passed the starting line for the final time, another fanfare erupted from the pit alongside a nearly defeating round of applause. Immediately after, Oliver and Sharpshooter followed, succeeded by the rest of the jockeys. The dust kicked up the horse’s galloping hooves floated around the track and the stands—the terrace was high enough for the air to remain clear around you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have the winner of the 67th Grand National: Lord Adam Kingston and his valiant steed, Cozbi!” The announcer yelled, fixing a dramatic flair to his words. “Thank you to all of our participants, and I thank you lot for being such a dynamic crowd here in Aintree!”

From the track, you watched Lord Kingston pull off his cap, trotting on Cozbi so as to let the horse slowly wind down from the race. He waved to the crowd in the stands, cap in his gesturing hand. His forehead shone with sweat, slightly reddened from the sun. The same light reflected in his pale green eyes, particularly as he looked up to the nobles’ terrace. Searching the lines of waving nobility, his face lifted in recognition to some, but his scouring had yet to cease. He pulled Cozbi to a slow stop, only for an attendant to wave him forward to dismount and accept his trophy on the announcer’s platform.

“I knew Adam would pull through it,” your mother gushed, releasing your hand. “Adam has always been a talented rider, ever since he was a boy. He would participate in those junior league races. Those were quite adorable.”

“It was a fine race,” your father commented wryly, pushing up his glasses. He finished off his drink, handing off the empty glass to an attendant. Like you, he must have betted on Oliver and Sharpshooter. After all, he taught you nearly everything you knew about playing the odds at horse races—you had the same rationale. You both hated to lose.

“I agree,” Lord Phantomhive said noncommittally, tone flat. He uncrossed his arms to accept a flute of champagne from a server. “He was a soldier before this. Surely he is accustomed to riding in much more fraught conditions than a simple race.”

“It begs the question of bias,” your father concurred, only for your mother to send him a sharp look.

Lord Kingston stepped off of Cozbi to join the announcer on his elevated stage, a small wooden platform where the host had spectated from. Oliver and the jockey who won third place followed him, accepting their smaller trophies, the latter made of silver, the former made of bronze. Kingston cradled his treasure in his arms, red silk shirt clinging to his figure, the gold detailing along his long sleeves and the middle of his torso caught the light. His tight trousers were cream colored, sculpting his legs all the same.

“Our sincerest congratulations, my Lord,” the announcer said. He also clipped a small gold metal to the jockey’s shirt, putting the accessory over his heart.

“What do you think of the race, my Lady?” Lord Phantomhive asked you, but you merely hummed, stalling your reply out of curiosity for Lord Kingston. Who was he hoping to spot? A sick, hopeful feeling kept your attention lingering on him. It had been years since you properly saw him, after all. You were childhood acquaintances, he knew that your family attended this event annually. The Kingstons had even accompanied you a number of times.

“Thank you so much,” Lord Kingston answered with a laugh. “I owe it all to Cozbi, honestly. He did all the hard work—I only showed up in hopes to get someone’s attention.” His smile was toothy and eager.

Now you were confident Lord Kingston had been searching to lock eyes with you. His aimed enthusiasm caused several others in the stands and in the press to turn towards you, the source. When you returned the Earl’s wave, he sunk into a respectful bow, trophy still in hand. He held it for a long moment, allowing cameras to catch his reverence.

Your breath quickened at the revelation, but the sinking feeling in your stomach told you that there were about to be dozens of eyes on you, encouraging you to collect yourself. You couldn’t show your anxiety, even if it was clear that Ciel Phantomhive had clearly joined you on this outing for courtship purposes. You had to stand tall and keep your chin up—no matter how much you wanted to sink away.

“Surprise, darling,” your mother giggled unhelpfully, touching your arm.

You painted on your future-Countess-of-Richmond grin, waving back with significantly more enthusiasm than you felt. A startled blush heated your face up.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Shortly Afterwards

Ciel lacked the proper words to convey his rage, struggling to breathe through his tight chest. His jaw strained from how tightly he clenched it. After managing a terse, at best, goodbye to Lady Y/n and her parents, he promptly left the racecourse. His initial plan was to attempt to secure an invitation back to the Y/l/n estate for a supervised tea, but clearly, that was out of the question now. Instead, he trudged away from the racecourse, and summoned his demon butler. The second his carriage stopped in view, Sebastian stepped out to open the door for Ciel.

“Finny, spare no time. I want to be back to the estate as soon as possible,” Ciel snapped at the gardener—his responsibilities newly expanded to unofficial coachman when Sebastian had other matters to tend to.

“Yes, sir!” Finny replied, saluting Ciel and immediately tightening his grip on the reins.

“What seems to be the issue, my Lord?” Sebastian asked obsequiously, opening the carriage door for Ciel. The demon’s untroubled face only compounded Ciel’s rage, causing him to slap the useless supernatural being across the face. Although he utilized all of his strength, the demon merely looked at him, unaffected. He. Knew. The. Issue. Perfectly. Well.

“Adam Kingston won the race, and you did absolutely nothing to stop it. He confessed that he was here to impress Y/n, and you did nothing to stop it.” Ciel seethed, stepping inside the carriage. “That is the problem here.”

“I received no specific order denoting such an intervention, I apologize, sir,” Sebastian answered, closing and locking the door. He sat on the opposite side of the carriage. “You know I merely follow your instructions—a mere pawn in your games.”

“I want him dead,” Ciel exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. He rubbed his temples, relieved to be rid of the polite mask he wore for the Y/l/n family.

He had to collect his thoughts and restrategize, consider each new factor this event had brought to his attention. Clearly, the Kingston line knew the Richmonds line well enough for Lady Y/l/n to recall Adam in his youth—so much so that she made it a point to attend his bloody junior league races. Now, Ciel had to convince the family that he was the better option over an old family friend. That would take more than logic and objectivity: his greatest strengths. It would require emotion, passion. A near-flawless expression of love. A feeling so foreign to Ciel that it may as well not exist.

“I must question if that is the most sensible solution to the issue he is presenting,” the demon actually had the audacity to chuckle, as if the thought of killing a man for making his courtship public was amusing. Or better yet, that his master’s bloodlust was sensitive enough to apply for such a shallow reason.

“And why should I continue to take advice from you? You couldn’t even warn me about the man appearing today in a timely manner.”

“Are you insinuating you have met your match, sir?”

“Of course not,” Ciel rolled his eyes. “Well? What are you waiting for, Sebastian? I want to know everything there is to know about Adam Kingston, and his ties to Y/n Y/l/n. And find out what the bloody journalists are writing about. I cannot have this handled the wrong way.”

“Absolutely, my Lord. I will have it ready before you return to the estate for supper.”

With that, the demon was gone.

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