#Francis Crease

[insidemyrottenbrain]

Henry gets jealous because you spend time with Richard

The risk of jealousy - TSH

Henry Marchbanks Winter x GN!Reader

Dearest anonymous, I hope you can forgive him and his denial of jealousy.

The sharp claw of jealousy finally scratches the untouchable Henry.

I’ve always been incredibly particular about whom I associate with. The people around me need to be worthy. Now, I am well aware that my choice of words may make me sound arrogant, so allow me to explain: I want them to have shared interests, to be able to hold late-night debates on esoteric topics, while giving me a sense of belonging and consequently not tiring me out socially. I do not ask for much, really. Alas, one cannot always get what one desires.

The little group of which I’m currently a part of is… pleasant. The twins regularly host dinners which are, of course, the birthplace of many fights and arguments regarding the most trivial subjects that usually end up with Henry winning. Francis unhesitatingly puts his aunt’s house at our disposal whenever desiderium naturae strikes us and amusingly complains about some disease or other the whole way there. I even consider some of Bunny’s jokes witty on the rare occasions when he stops being insufferable. Unfortunately, they all give me a shallow sense of belonging that only manages to make itself felt in transit moments. However, Henry is different. With him, I feel content reading in silence after a long day, waking up in the same bed, legs intertwined under the soft cotton sheets he insists on buying with Apolon tugging at our lazy eyelids or simply challenging one another’s knowledge on whatever topic interests us at a given moment. A continuous childlike rendez-vous.

I do not know why I have been so platonically attracted to Richard of late. When he first joined our Greek class, he did not strike me as someone who would manage to integrate his lowly self into our complexly layered group, or even more, someone who would enjoy my presence. He was and still is flawed and ordinary. However, this normality flowing through every habit, every movement, or expression is a strange refresh in an intangible web of meticulously tangled appearances and facades. Richard is not some ancient scholar buried in paradoxical ideals, Gods-praising rituals, and glorious beliefs, but a modern human. He is aware of the current world, unisolated, present, an active participant. Not only does he attend parties but he also drinks, kisses, and loves strangers. Though an exaggeration to the unknowing eye, he seems to me quite the Epicurean in a cult of Stoics (excluding Bunny).

Despite my writings above which one might foolishly mistake as praise on my part, I must now dive into Richard’s own tendency to fictitiousness. He throws, here and there, long, lavish fabrications (with the aid of which he becomes unconsciously arrogant) and slight inexactitudes he considers too small to pass unnoticed by the attentive ear. And according to my fate and against my trusted intuition, I found myself unable to stop listening whenever he started talking about his (fake) childhood in California filled with swimming pools and orange groves and dissolute, charming show-biz parents, teenage years with a new girlfriend every night, the newest dramas (if they truly do exist and are not yet other fictions) circling Hampden.

There is a quirk. I notice it now, when we’re all standing in the day room of Francis’, or rather his aunt’s, manor. Charles is playing the piano filling the room with gifts for ears, showing off as he always does, while Bunny comments on one rhythm or another, challenging him, fueling him further. Everything is normal, except for one detail that does not escape me. Henry grows more agitated with every single one of Richard’s grant histoires. Albeit, the so-called agitations are rather minuscule, but I pride myself in being able to distinguish them. A small frown, creasing his pale forehead just the right amount for it to disappear just as quickly and nonchalantly as it came, a constant rub of his hand against his limped leg, and a novel proneness to small physical gestures: touching knees, pressing shoulders, his hand on the small of my back or idly playing with my fingers. I settle on questioning him later since I know he will not show any truths of his mind in such large company. 

We share a room, since we stopped bothering to hide our relationship long ago from the others. Henry’s already in bed, his nose buried in a book, dressed in his pyjamas, his initials embroidered upon the left side of his chest; H.M.W. If I had been told years ago that I was to be sharing a bed or be in a relationship with the person I suffered the least, the one that I had to compete with in Julian’s classes, the one that knew how to push my buttons I would have died of agony. But now I’m content. I know of the infatuation rendering me blind. My life has become a continuous torture, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to live without him. Just like Zeus who vows to fulfil his promise with a single sacred nod of his head, so am I unable to change the basis of my passion. He is in all my plans. In all the joys the future holds. In the dead of night, in Julian’s lessons, in the summer by the lake, instead of my mind’s eye being fully focused on one specific task, it always switches without fail to him.

I lower myself onto the bed next to him. “You seemed troubled earlier, in the day room.” I ask casually an indirect question.

“You’ve been spending an awful time with Richard.” He responds swiftly, tonelessly, simply pointing out a fact. 

I consider my answer for a moment. “I suppose so.” I hum, just as my head hits the pillow. “Don’t you find him intriguing? He watches the news on television.”

“Intriguing?” He blurts out, closing his book and putting it on the bedside table. Clearly, I have his attention. He turns on his side to fully face me, his hair falling over his forehead and slightly over his glasses. “His intriguing part eludes me. You are wasting your time with him, listening to his rambles.” He says clearly irritated, not bothering to keep up his stoic facade. “I assure you, you would be much better spending your time wisely.”

I frown. This is unusual of him. “He is in our class, is he not? I cannot avoid him.”

“Of course not, that’s not what I am suggesting.” His eyebrows remain furrowed. “What I do mean is that he does not bring you any benefit.” He continues in a monotone. “Why must you listen to him with the same attention and interest as you listen to me?”

Ah, I see. Henry is jealous.

“Is this jealousy?” I ask attempting desperately to restrain the slight smile forming on my face. 

“You are mistaken.” He ‘corrects’ me sharply, raising his eyebrows.  “I am merely stating that I see no point in your interactions with Richard when you could gain much more from being in my presence.”

I raise a sceptical eyebrow. He acts as if I wouldn’t mourn his death in the same way Achilles mourned Patroclus’, with rage and violence.

Words are imperfect communication devices, so I pull him down by the back of his neck and press my lips against his in a pleasant normality. I feel him slightly relax against me, his hand resting on my neck.

“Henry,” I mumble as we part, forcefully stretching our souls apart. I remove his glasses and place them down next to us and his forehead naturally falls against mine “you know better than to have such doubts.”

“I do.” He mumbles back, not bothering to deny his feelings anymore. “However, it proves to be quite difficult to not have them when-” He stops considering his words. “When you plague me so. There is no day or night in which your existence takes mercy on me and does not destroy the little rationality I have left.” He lowers himself down on the bed next to me. “You inexplicably and absurdly manage to be and eradicate my sanity.” He sighs. “And it certainly does not help when you look at Richard with the same eyes you look at me.” Henry mutters.

My hand finds his and I chuckle. “I’d argue I look at him with entirely different eyes.” At my comment, Henry raises an amused eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ll stop seeing shadows where there are none.”

That is all he needs to defeat his insomnia in my arms once again and to fall prey to sleep’s vicious grasp his body indistinguishable from mine under the sheets, sharing one breath.

[bullet-prooflove]

86: Richie Jerimovich x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @lostinwonderland314 @fallout-girl219 @wabi-sabi1090 @morgthemagpie

Companion piece to:

One Night Stand (NSFW) - It was never meant to be more than a one night stand.

Old School - Richie and you prefer to do things old school.

Safe With You - Richie still has nightmares about how he found Michael.

Joy - The stabbing leads Richie to confront some of the doubts he has about himself.

All The Good Ones Are (NSFW) - Richie has never thought of himself as one of the good ones.

Happy Anniversary - Richie fucks up your first wedding anniversary.

Gift (NSFW) - Richie has always thought of you as a gift.

It’s set to be a busy weekend at The Bear, something Richie’s pleased to see as he studies the schedule in front of him. His finger runs down the list as he mentally catalogues the patrons, mentally arranging birthdays, surprises and all the other fun shit their patrons love. He’s halfway down Saturday’s guest list when a familiar name jumps out at him. His brow creases into a frown, his jaw clenching as he turns towards Sugar and says “We’re 86ing this jabroni.”

Sugar tilts her head as she studies the name before her gaze flickers up to meet Richie’s.

“That’s a two grand table.”

“And he’s a million dollar asshole.” Richie informs her as he hands back the book. “He’s out.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” Sugar responds, putting a hand on her hip. “It’s not like we’re rolling in money here, we can’t afford to 86 that amount of cash.”

“You said we each got a veto.” Richie reminds her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Francie Fak is yours and Peter Garbucci is mine.”

“You know what Francie Fak did to me.” She reminds him, her tone turning sharp, the way it always does when Francie’s name comes up. “What did this guy do to you?”

“Not to me.” Richie says, his palm rubbing over the back of his neck. “To Joy, he’s her ex-husband.”

“Oh.” Sugar says with understanding because the two of you have talked about your previous marriage, how soul destroying it was.

She can’t imagine what it was like being an afterthought to your husband, to be the thing that he forgets about until a dinner or a gala comes up and suddenly he needs to wheel you out for an appearance.

“You know the terrible shit he did to her.” Richie says quietly, his voice rough because he fucking hates that son of a bitch, that he made you feel anything less than the brilliant beautiful woman that you are. “The only way he eats here is over my dead body.”

“Agreed.” Sugar says as she scratches his name from the leatherbound appointment book and picks up the phone to cancel the booking.

When Richie comes home that evening he doesn’t tell you about Peter. He doesn’t want your ex-husband to infringe on the life the two of you have built together. You’re happy these days, a strong, confident woman with an infectious laugh and a smile that could light up the whole room.

He’s a little feral when he fucks you that night, his mouth ghosting over every inch of you as he chases your ecstasy with a persistence that borders on pathological. He spends hours building you up, making you climax against his mouth before he finally takes his pleasure.

“You’ve ruined me.” You tell him in the aftermath and he smiles against your lips because you really are the world to him and he’ll spend his entire life making sure you know it.

Love Richie? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[hwsforeignrelations]

A Fogged Up Plan

Summary: For three weeks, the Kingdom of Spades’ royals have been held captive in Diamond’s Fort Shellac. After one weevily meal too many, they hatch a plan to escape.

Made for @usuknetwork's USUKUSTwicePer zine: Cards, With Spades to Start. Read the full collection here (hehe I also designed the cover, please show everyone some love!!)

AO3 Link // Words: 3,812

Five moons before Queen Arthur Kirkland’s coronation, the isolated swamps of Southern Spades were inhabited by an insect known as PB Cup. 

Previously known but unstudied, a small population found itself in the hold of a cargo ship en route towards the Kingdom of Diamonds. 

Once docked, it is rumored that a seawoman unloading barrels and crates of imports carried the insects to her town on the outskirts of the port, where the red buzzers settled onto a Camellia sinensis farm. There, the small population decimated the crops. When customers purchased the expensive processed leaves in tea, it tasted of woody, bitter peanuts. 

Diamond’s PB Cup population quickly spiraled into millions and one of the kingdom’s primary exports, tea, crashed. 

With it, Diamond’s economic influence sank to match the impoverished Kingdom of Clubs. 

 Through no fault of his own, Queen Arthur inherited one of the world’s worst foreign affair conflicts in history as the Diamond government demanded compensation for their introduction of the bug to their crops, and Spades denied any responsibility for the lack of preparedness on the part of Diamond’s farming protection or economic infrastructure. 

Thus a war broke out between the two kingdoms. Luckily, the Queen of Diamonds, Francis Bonnefoy, and Queen Arthur Kirkland had fluttered in similar social circles on opposing navy forces, during earlier military careers, before Oracle selected them for positions of royalty.

Due to their previously-held relationship, the conflicting countries maintained (albeit strained) contact.

However, twenty years later, the strung out conflict saw no resolution in sight. Neither party would budge. In the last two decades, Diamonds had mostly recovered, converting and subsidizing previously small industries to make up greater lumps of their exports. 

Diamond GDP had mostly recovered, and the occasional skirmishes along the Spades-Diamond borders had lost their impact to both sides' citizens.

Mentions often paralleled this tone:

“Hey mom, Junior’s little league game’s canceled. Queen Arthur just announced Diamond shots fired near the field.”

“Gee, I’m in absolute shock. Let’s order a Continental basket for the other team. I know those sweet kids were looking forward to a Spadian roast but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Our government should really step off their high horse- it’s practically a soap opera! ‘You sent our kingdom into a depression!’, ‘No, your lack of planning sunk your economy!’ Honestly. Time for Gen. Jones to call it cuts… bring the phone while you're up, let’s reserve that basket before we forget.”

“Yes, ma.”

And so you see, neither kingdom withheld reservations to mock the ongoing conflict. So far in, it was nothing more than a contest of resolve between two too-proud kingdoms.

Bi-annual tea shortages, sport game cancellations, flight and ship delays, internal division among governments… but neither party appeared to be dismounting their positions, and as the conflict neared its twentieth anniversary Spades-Diamond tension surged.

Unbeknownst to regular citizens, the jack, queen, and king of Spades had disappeared from the castle three weeks prior. 

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Drop-drop-drop sounded a mysteriously originating source of water, droplets plopping onto a moist stone ground. 

The Jack of Spades, dressed in creased gold, purple, and blue fabrics cast his eyes towards his hands where he organized a cheap deck of playing cards. 

The action demonstrated disinterest to anyone unattuned to Yao’s discreet mannerisms, but the way his fingers twitched to swipe brown hair behind his ear was telling.

“...I beg your pardon?”

Drop-drop-drop.

Army General Alfred Jones raised thin eyebrows above round glasses in a look that read “everyone in this dungeon heard me loud and clear”, but continued in a patronizingly careful tone. 

“You need a command like brown bananas to banana bread, or day-old rice to fried rice. Something that suits your past-prime station, y’know?”

Drop.

Arthur Kirkland’s forehead actually twitched but his expression remained unaffected. “Well done, dear. I’ll be the first to admit, never in a million years would I imagine you capable of something so complicated as a simile”.

“Har har, Your Majesty,” Alfred reached across the cramped cell to knock his knuckles against the wrought iron bars.

Drop-drip.

“When I met you, 200-odd years ago, those magic bones would have no problemo melting, or-or slicing through these bars like butter.”

“-OH be silent for once, blathering-”

“And now look at you!” Alfred flung his hand in the general direction of his husband, himself  melted on the floor, head balanced on a rock. “A washed-up seadog, no good for nothing but a semi-ok fuck. What the hell happened to you, man? You used to bring dragons to their knees. Now some Diamond-fired metal’s too much? Y’all know their quality’s shit,” he yawned.

“Retirement might be on the horizon, sweetheart. But no offense.”

Drop-drip-drop. Drip. 

Yao didn’t even blink when hands lept for King Alfred’s throat.

“Gah-!” Vague choking escaped Alfred’s mouth while his oily hair tossed wildly and his cheeks went red from the loss of air.

Drop-drop-drip.

“Worthless excuse for a leader, I’d sew your thin lips shut before these stinking walls hear another lie from them. Seadog I am- and proud, too!” Arthur gave one last throttle before throwing Alfred aside in disgust. 

It could have been his breath, too. They hadn’t exactly been given a toothbrush. Three weeks into captivity and their last frigid bucket shower was over four days ago.

At least they had a toilet, even if it was awfully cold when you sat. Stars above, Alfred wanted out. 

Patience, Alfred reminded himself. That voice in his head sounded suspiciously like a certain magical queen, and the king ignored his own internal voice which insisted self-restraint would never be his specialty.

Drop-drop-drop. 

The queen had retreated to the opposite wall to collect his composure, Alfred’s own ragged breathing filling the chamber and he coughed, once, before resuming his idle splay on the floor.

 Arthur ascertained the damage choking his spouse had cost his nails. 

“As for the jab at my sexual performance, love, I think everyone in this room can deny that claim with absolute confidence. Isn’t that right, Edison?”

Drop-drop-drop.

“H-huh?” Their guard startled at his post, not expecting to be addressed by name. His feet kicked at the ground, “Um. I-I guess rumors do get around.” Arthur turned smugly towards the army general and received a playful scoff for his troubles.

The jack spoke up, unimpressed by the exchange, “Do be mindful of others nearby who may not be so invested in his co-workers’ thrilling sexual escapades, please and thank yo-”

“Chow time!” Interrupted another guard, sliding three portions of beige sludge through a small slit in the bars, accompanied by biscuit. 

All three groaned.

“C’mon! I get the prisoner thing, but is this,” the queen knocked his biscuit against the bars and three weevils fell out, “really necessary?” said Alfred.

The guards shrugged with indifference and Yao dipped the corner of his flour ball in their water, softening it enough to break off a piece and chew. He paused, fiddled the bite with his tongue, then pulled a long, curled hair out from his teeth.

Both guards had left for a smoke break. 

With stony resolve, Yao declared, “We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Fiunwwy!” said the king through his porridge. 

“Ditto,” Arthur scowled. “And, these meals aren’t so bad. Navy ships serve far worse.”

“Ugg. That doesn’t make you look good, Admiral.” Alfred took a small handful of his food and fed it to a cluster of shadows in the corner of their chamber.

Gotta keep his slimy friend nourished, Alfred smiled as the shadows accepted the grub.

Meal finished, Arthur tossed his tray through the bars and sat against the wall, joining Yao where the jack dealt out three piles of playing cards. His technique was quick and clean, and Arthur would never admit to admiring the show. 

Not even magic could put on that performance.

 Envy forced him to deign his husband with a response. “Do us all a favor and shut your trap.” 

Alfred clutched at imaginary pearls and Arthur smirked. “And finish your plate. Besides, army rations hardly pass as food, General Jones.”

Cramming the rest into his mouth with hardly a gag, Alfred discarded the plate and crawled towards the pair. He added an ass wiggle while Yao’s attention was elsewhere. The queen’s ears glowed red and he sneered at Alfred, disapproving of his husband dangling treats with no ability to give in the confined space.

Alfred laughed to himself. The queen was afflicted with an unfortunately high libido. Something which Alfred eagerly satisfied, even if his own needs paled in comparison. However…

Restricted to the meager dimensions of their cell with the observant jack… well, all jokes aside, the king looked with a mixture of trepidation and delight at the demolishment of his ass the moment they found a private space. 

They were lucky enough to acquire the deck of cards and spent their time playing every game under the sun- and some new. With Arthur’s unmet sexual needs and most forms of exercise impossible, stir-crazy was an insufficient descriptor for the kinetic energy burning through them. 

Cards helped starve off frustration, and offered an iota of normalcy.

Their favorite guard, Edison, returned from his break and all three royals exchanged glances. Alfred straightened up and humm-ed, “Did I ever tell y’all ‘bout that time Major Maisie single-handedly rallied the marines through Norbrandy?”

Yao and Arthur, having heard Alfred’s stories a million times, shook their heads. Alfred laid down a Four of Clubs and dove into his narrative, smiling behind his cards as Edison’s head tilted to hear their conversation better.

“Soulda heard from the boys direct-like. Said she flew in like a cannon. Fort Potomac was occupied by Hearts. Maisie rode in under the shield of fog, took one look at the opaque path ‘round the hill, and led her advance in the dead of night. Bombarded out of nowhere, King Kiku’s soldiers resisted heroically. But,” 

“Potomac was conquered by dawn, with only five Spadian casualties.” 

Arthur inspected his nails, ignoring the swell of power growing in his breast. “Impressive, I’m sure. What were the odds?”

As an ex-citizen of Spades (likely hired by Diamond forces for better wages than Spades’ less impressive salary), Edison’s vague admiration for his home-kingdom’s success fed the royals’ power. Having been away from the appraisal of most Spadian citizens for a month now, the ignorant guard was their only supplyant.

“Four Hearts soldiers to every one of ours.”

Alfred shivered in excitement when that number reached Edison’s ears and their unknowingly-benevolent guard emitted a burst of patriotism.

“Capital.” The queen spun a card onto the pile.

Yao delivered Arthur a sharp look. Sarcasm was fine, but not when a deaf person could hear it.

“500 points”, Yao announced in a tone which attempted neutrality but failed, tossing the last trick towards himself.

Arthur and Alfred groaned in unison, scratching one more check to the scoreboard on the stone wall. The box under “姚” had comically more checks than the “Al” and “K” beside it.

Alfred thought dreamily of their own castle’s gameroom, which displayed a point board of less comparatively devastating results. 

The king’s husband stared hard at their score board, then exchanged with Alfred a look he recognized as offense. Eyebrows drawn to etch little wrinkles above his nose and the tiniest sneer curling the right side of his mouth. 

The admiral’s tisk made Alfred break out into pearls of laughter and Yao allowed his own expression to revel in the satisfaction of besting his co-workers.

It was these shared moments which reminded Alfred of Oracle’s excellent match-making.

Drip.

Behind them, soldiers shuffled their shoes into the floor and small movements clinked metal armor. 

Probably jealous they weren’t in on the joke, heh.

Yao caught his eye, subtly jutted his chin towards their window. A few miles off an oncoming fog made itself known. Alfred nodded, canines flashing in his grin.

It was go time.

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That night, all men finished their trays of food, persevering through the mealy texture. 

Finally, after three weeks of drawing on Edison’s flaky Spadian patriotism, Yao, Arthur, and Alfred felt strong enough to fuel their escape. 

But that had been true for three nights now. There was something else they needed to ensure a successful breakout from Fort Shellac. They knew it was only a matter of time, in Diamond’s chilly forest climate, for moisture to collect in the air. All they had to do was intensify the natural way of things.

 In the ancient and clammy foundation of their prison, fog poured in through the bars and it only took slight encouragement from Arthur for a Féth fíada to emerge.

“Maisie’s a mage as well as a scientist, no?” asked Yao as the mist grew thicker.

Alfred nodded proudly, cupping something close to his chest so he wouldn’t lose it in his blindness. “Made her own fog machine and bribed some fairies to superpower it- resourceful as always.”

Their security was starting to notice the clouds curling at their metal feet and muttered in distress while their prisoners whispered and waited.

Moonlight cast its reflection on the fog, and as the minutes passed the damp room filled with blue hues.

Drop.

“H-hey!” Edison finally addressed them, kicking spastically at the vapor as though it could be intimidated by violence. He pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur, who played a game of Patience against the tilted wall, “You’ve something to do with this, necromancer?”

Drop-drop-drop.

The Queen of Spades didn’t respond, pulling an ace from the stockpile and whipping it at his captor. 

It bounced off Edison’s helmet.

“What on Earth?” The guards watched in horror as the fog swallowed up their legs and began on their chests. “Find the director,” one snapped. Edison didn’t waste a moment, keys clanging in his grip as he scrambled to the exit. 

His hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway while silence enveloped the prison. Yao could smell anxiety pouring from the invisible guards, the gentle clinking of their metal armor interrupting an otherwise soundless environment.

Suddenly the cast iron bars screamed, brute force bending and tearing through the metalwork. “Merde!” cursed a Diamond accent.

“That’s a lad,” complemented Arthur, patting his husband’s back while the King of Spades huffed another breath before finishing the job, ripping the door out of its hole with one last ear-splitting jerk. 

With inhuman speed Alfred was gone in the fog. Before the unfortunate Diamond soldiers realized, their prisoner smashed them apart so they couldn’t see the other. 

“Heh- happy to help.” Alfred smothered the unnamed guard’s mouth, delivering a fist into the armored abdomen. The force was enough to penetrate the protective metal and padded fabric and the body slumped instantly, held up by Alfred’s hand gripping his face. 

Yao stepped over the raw metal of their prison door and into the face of Alfred’s catch. The Jack of Spades reached into the guard’s fauld and produced a string, on which he pulled and produced a small sheet of inscribed metal. In complete blindness Yao skimmed his finger beds along the sheet, memorizing the meaning of the indents, before stepping back and handling it the the Queen, who confirmed his interpretation with a hum.

“Thank Oracle for y’all’s Diamindortic, couldn’t read it even if I could see an inch from my face,” Alfred said, dropping the unconscious body and listening with satisfaction as it crashed into the floor.

Dusting off his hands, the cluster of shadows from their cell made itself known against Alfred’s prosthetic leg, oozing up the complicated gears and bolts. It chirped.

“Butters would like some gravity, Arthur,” Alfred said, taking “Butters” from his thigh and flailing in the air before locating the queen’s outstretched hand.

Butters slid the languid journey onto Arthur’s palm and waited patiently for the kiss which Arthur pressed to its head. “Erg. Revulsion doesn’t scratch the surface of your pet’s chosen skin.”

“Yeah, I know. But the mucus keeps ‘im healthy!

A large silhouette, barely discernible in the air, expanded before the three Spadian royals. It stopped growing at around six feet tall and sneezed when Yao touched its nose, approximately the size of a bocce ball.

“What a fine boy,” the jack complimented Butters’ chosen form, petting what felt like an enormous panda.

Yao felt the round ears under his hands and the strength behind the bones of its face. The doublecoat swallowed his fingers when the jack adoringly brushed them under Alfred’s pet’s ears. Beneath Butters’ muzzle were thick canines, and from the animals’ stomping Yao sensed hoofs rather than paws.

“Excellent form, bao.”

Butters wiggled at the praise.

With reluctance Yao released Butters from his coddling and stepped back, allowing the king’s approach towards his service animal. 

Steps hurried down the staircase towards them, the sound bouncing off the walls like a stampede of metal-wearing bison. 

“Time to go,” Arthur said, dragging a sword off an unconscious guard and advancing towards the stairwell, blade tip forward-facing. Yao chose a barbed mace from his own casualty and wasted no time in singing it through the air.

Alfred cringed against Butters’ neck after mounting, listening with unwanted familiarity to the shrieks and groans of wounded men and women. He had blown off many faces in his long career, but avoided violence when he could. 

Right now they could not, and Alfred didn’t bother looking away when he held out two fingers and punctured a soldier through the neck as he and Butters rounded the last turn. 

Ignoring any pain emitting from the base of his amputated leg, Alfred ushered Butters onward, the overgrown puppy smashing a recovering enemy back into the stone as they ascended the stairs behind his queen and jack. 

Arthur’s weapon, guided under the experienced swordsmanship of a centuries-old navy admiral, sliced through Diamond flesh like butter. The queen was momentarily distracted by Yao’s comment and jammed the mental length through a ribcage up to the hilt. 

The soldier’s scream was cut off as blood pooled up her throat and over her teeth, and when yanking went nowhere Arthur pressed one foot against the woman’s side and pushed, orange blood spurting all over him as the body crashed, limp and lifeless. 

“Somehow,” panted Yao mid-run, “I didn’t expect so much blood.”

“We didn’t correctly anticipate enemy numbers,” Arthur nodded. “Either our previous estimations of Fort Shellac were off by hundreds, or Diamonds has since fortified its defense.”

“Fucking Francis,” Arthur grumbled to himself, sweat pouring down from his hairline and mixing with the Diamond blood on his cheek.

In Alfred’s marital opinion, his husband looked actually terrifying- and handsome as heck.

“You better not be,” Alfred laughed. In front of him, Yao groaned in a mix of exasperation and disgust.

“Spare me,” the jack pleaded.

Two pairs of feet and one set of hoofs ran along the fort’s main floor, evading who they could and decommissioning any who they couldn’t with little regard for the permanentness of the blow.

With poor Edison’s admiration for Spades to blame, amassed over weeks of captivity, the three royals utilized their inhumane strength without restraint, bulldozing through room after room, leaving behind a trail of massacred soldiers, heads and limbs and organs soaking the stone floor with orange and yellow blood. Like a line of sheets hung out to dry whipped up by a hurricane, screams tore and ripped themselves out from the throats of the wounded and dying. 

“And that’s why we don’t wear white to the wedding,” Alfred joked at a guard’s white armor soaked through with orange “wine”. General Jones maintained a light mood with breathless chatter and the queen and jack responded in kind.

Anyone watching might express disgust at their attitude, might expect more from such experienced political figures. 

The seasoned monarchs had no reason for suppressing resentment, for the trust broken and their own time wasted and negligent treatment, and did not benefit by acknowledging the graveness of their actions in the moment.

Kidnapping a suit’s royalty was a serious crime, war or no war. It would spell out a dreadful escalation back home. The Spadian monarchs were no wet-behind-the-ear politicians- they were representatives of an empire, with a responsibility to their kingdom above all else.

King Rajesh and Queen Francis would regret their decision, and the first part of Spades’ retribution began with the public condemnation which would befall Diamond royalty when the media caught wind of Fort Shellac’s heavy casualties.

Finally, Yao caught sight of sunlight streaming in through the squares of the portcullis. "सृष्टि डायमंड्स के साम्राज्य और इसे बनाए रखने वाले सभी लोगों को अच्छे अवसर प्रदान करे।, “ said the jack without much relish, quoting from the metal sheet’s engravings. 

Only four women stood guard and they jumped in surprise at the correct spell, frozen with disbelief as the gate lifted.

The moment they advanced, the three royals were gone. Beneath them Butters galloped past, encouraged by Arhur’s remaining strength. They rode mile after mile, thoroughly exhausted by their massive expense of magical energy in so short a time.

The Clock gave them inhumane tolerance, but it would never be enough to keep the strain off their bodies in a fight like that. 

Eventually, Butters’ pace petered until he came to a complete stop on a road.

Arthur and Alfred had passed out against the soft fur off Butters’ back, too exhausted to stay awake.

The weight of Yao’s eyelids threatened him with the same fate, but sleep wasn’t an option until they were with Spadian authorities. 

Thankfully, Spades and Diamonds shared a long boarder and Yao only had to encourage Butters for another hour before a Spadian soldier’s blue armor could be spotted up the road.

She saw them immediately and grabbed her sidearm as she walked up. “Identify yourselves,” she demanded.

Without the energy to even speak, Yao peeled Alfred’s head from between Butters’ ears and used his sleeve to wipe the grime and caked blood from his face.

She recognized her army general immediately, even beneath the thickly remaining dirt, and dropped her weapon to fall to attention.

“Y-your majesties! My deepest, sincerest apologies, I didn’t recognize-,” She stumbled over her words, clearly struggling to find the next course of action.

“It’s fine,” waved aside the jack, feeling himself losing against consciousness. The woman before him might be a fresh recruit but he could care less. The sparkling spade over her breast was all that mattered.

“Just lead him to the nearest lookout,” Yao pointed to Butters. “Don’t bother waking us up,” Yao said before he slumped like a deck of cards with his king and queen, dead to the world.

[milliesfishes]

you want more thoughts I have a million more thoughts abt this AND a draft abt this

You eventually circle back to the topic, Billy very very tightly and reluctantly agreeing for you to show him some things. He’s never felt stupider, having his girl sit in a chair beside him at the kitchen table, correcting him as he fumbled over words. He holds his creased forehead in his hand and grimaces at the ugly worms of ink on the page, and grunts when you correct his pronunciation of “Astounding.” The lesson just ends with another excuse to walk out, something about needing a quick smoke. This time you follow him out.

OHHHH FRANCI YOU HAVE A DRAFT ABOUT THIS I'M GOING TO DIE

You follow him out and he turns away from you, still embarrassed at the situation. And you put a hand on his shoulder, tell him that not knowing how to read doesn't make him stupid, it just means he never needed to know it before.

And he's still on edge, still humiliated over the fact that he can't read the letters you send him, the ones he knows are chock full of beautiful things only you would ever think to say to him. What you don't know is that this only furthers the idea in his head that he isn't good enough for you.

[novashelby]

Evie: The Younger Years-Chapter 4: Grace Who? Part II

Summary: Evie may have forgotten something important at 11:00 Pm. Tommy tries to bake and Grace is forced to save the day.

Warnings: Swearing? None

LINKS (You can also read this chapter below, though please consider leaving a kudos on Ao3):

Ao3

Wattpad

I hope you enjoy this funny little chapter. Remember that while I find likes so kind and sweet, reblogs and comments really help us authors out.

Evie had a tendency of forgetting things. Especially when they have sunk into the deep pit of her school bag. What once was a crisp, clean, and unwrinkled piece of paper, was turned into something illegible. So many creases and wrinkles, the ink was worn off. But Evie knew what it was…and Tommy was not going to like it. She was supposed to be in bed, nightgown on and hair pinned. She took her little fuzzy slippers and the paper, and shuffled her way to her daddy’s bedroom. The ticking clock on the wall said it was half past ten. Evie knew her father well enough to know that he wasn’t sleeping, certainly at such an ‘early’ time. But he was certainly sitting up, writing things down and recounting the mess in his head.

Evie listened first before knocking, but she never waited for him to answer. Sticking her head through the crack of the door, she whispered, “daddy.”

He’d been leaning over his tiny room desk, papers organized in neat piles. A pen was dangling from his lips. Off to the side, an ashtray, swirling with smoke. Under his breath, he mumbled, “that lasted a night.” He was referring to her being a big girl and wanting to sleep on her own. “C’mon, love,” he said, undoing the bed covers for her. “But I’m telling you, tomorrow night-what?” Evie shook her head and handed him a ball of…what is that a paper? He couldn’t make it out. “What is this?” he asked, already dreading. With his finger tips, he winced as he unfolded it. “Never mind what it is, what happened to it? Evelyn!”

She offered a tiny little smile. “I forgot to give it to you last week. It’s from Sister Francis-”

“Evie, I can’t read the fuckin’ words, love!” he groaned, taking it to his desk, flattening it out and reading it under the oil lamp. “Bake sale…what, you want some money for it? You get sweets at home-”

“Daddy, no!” she said. “I have to make something. Sister Francis said our class is fundraising for the needy-”

Tommy was stumped. “The needy? We are the fuckin’ needy-oh my fuckin’ God, Evie, when do you need this by?” He could tell by her eyes that it was tomorrow. As in the next day. As in the day that was roughly an hour and a half away. “Evelyn!” He waved the paper in front of her, brow cocked, pointing with the cigarette wielding hand. “You are telling me, you need to bake something for tomorrow? And you’re only telling me this now? Evelyn! Where in the fucks’ name do you expect me to buy anything? Love, daddy can’t take stuff from his bloody fuckin’ arse-”

“Daddy!” she whined, pouting and folding her arms. “You’re yelling at me-”

“I’m stressed now!” He cut her off, falling to the bed and rubbing his forehead. “Alright, let’s go downstairs. Your aunt has to have some sugar and flour…hopefully butter-ah, fuckin’ ‘ell. Down to the kitchen, Evie.”

In the kitchen, they both opened every cupboard. Tommy scratched his head before grabbing the flour, butter, and sugar. “I think this goes in there, too,” he hummed, grabbing vanilla then molasses. “Something…we can make something, right?”

Side by side, they stood, scratching their heads. Evie looked up at him, “daddy, have you ever baked anything?”

He thought for a moment before saying, “no.”

“We’re fucked-”

“Evelyn!” he scolded before agreeing. “We’re fucked-where are you going?”

Evelyn was making her way to the stairs when she turned around and said, “you’re a lost cause. I’m waking Aunty Polly up-”

“No,” he said. “Come back here. We don’t wake her up unless it’s an emergency.”

“It is-”

Tommy raised his finger. “No, no this is not an emergency. Your negligence does not constitute an emergency, Evelyn.” She blinked for a moment before asking what that even meant. “There is a dictionary over there, love…I’ll be back.” He went up the stairs and walked in on his brother. “Do you know how to bake?” Arthur was laying on his back, eyes closed, mouth open as he snored. Tommy stared before kicking the wooden bed frame. Arthur startled awake, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“What the bloody fu-”

“Can you bake?”

“What!?”

Tommy sighed. “Do you know how to fuckin’ bake? Y’know…biscuits, cakes, sweets-”

“What has gotten into your fucking head?” Arthur asked. “I was sleeping, y’know?”

“Evelyn, once again, did not give me a crucial piece of paper. Tomorrow, she has to bring something to school for something bake sale for the needy-”

Arthur motioned around his room. “We are the fucking needy-”

“So, I’m asking, do you know how to bake?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” he agreed, nodding. “Let me just get up and put on my bakers hat-the fuck world you live in, Tom?! Do I look like I know how to fuckin’ bake?”

“Quite frankly, no, but I’m a bit desperate right now because if I don’t do this, that fucking bitch at the school is going to nag me…again.”

“Afraid of a nun?”

“No, not a nun,” he said, clearing his throat. “Mother Superior is-”

“You're afraid of a nun,” Arthur said, swinging his legs on the other side of the bed and grabbing his house coat. “How hard can baking be?”

Hard. Especially when no one measures or weighs a single ingredient. All three stood there, watching the oven. There was a tiny, tiny glass window to peek through, but nothing like the ovens of today. Covered in flour and sticky, they were afraid to open it. “We fucked up,” Arthur said.

Tommy agreed. “It’s fucking awful-”

“Fuck.”

Arthur and Tommy looked down at Evie, mouths agape. Tommy said, “Evelyn!” He sighed and opened the oven door, a poof of smoke engulfing them. “Ah, Jesus fuck!” he cursed, waving his arm. “How is it burnt and still bubbling!?” He threw the oven shut and had enough of it.

Arthur opened it a crack before turning to Tommy, “I don’t think the milk belonged in there…I think that is what’s bubbling-”

“That was your idea. I told you to fuck off with it and ya’ poured it in anyway-”

“Oi! You woke me up for my help. So, I helped!”

“You didn’t help-”

“Daddy!” Evelyn yelled. “Daddy! Yelling at Uncle Arthur isn’t going to help my situation. I’m going to wake Aunty Polly up-”

“No!” the two older men yelled.

Tommy grabbed her arm, “get your coat on. We’re taking a ride.”

Evie learned not to question those decisions and simply put her coat over her nightie. She hadn’t even bothered to put on her normal day shoes. She did ask once where they were going, and he answered with, “Evelyn, next time you get a paper.” There was a waver in his voice. Evie didn’t know it then, but Tommy was trying to cool his anger. He was upset with Evie, but if there was any person in his life he didn’t want to yell at, it would be Evie. “You don’t put it in your bag. You hear me?” He looked over at her. “It doesn’t go in your bag, it goes straight to my bloody fuckin’ desk!”

“But-”

“Evelyn Rose Shelby,” he warned. “No buts-”

“Butts!” she giggled, rolling around in the front seat. “You said butts-”

He gave up. “Evelyn, next time you hand me a paper late, I will not be doing this. Understand?”

“Uncle John has a big butt,” she said. “Uncle Arthur does not…but daddy, Finn is a fat butt-”

“Who the fuck am I talking to?” he cursed, continuing to drive. Her home was just a short drive away. A simple, humble flat. He liked it the few times he went for coffee. He parked on the street and told Evie to hurry on out. She tried to keep up with her tiny little legs as he walked up the cement stairs and knocked. Lucky for him, she was up.

Grace peeked through the white curtain on her window, and cursed to herself as she unlocked the door. “Thomas-”

“Do you know how to bake?” he asked, not extending a normal greeting. It was urgent. Grace cocked a brow and looked at him, covered in flour. Then Evie, who tried to hide behind her daddy. Evie wasn’t thrilled about this, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Grudgingly, she entered the home after her father, looking around with a pout on her face.

“Daddy,” she tried to protest. “The barmaid doesn’t know bake, that’s why she serves you whiskey-”

“Evelyn,” he hissed. “Be kind, eh?”

Grace chuckled to herself and offered, “whiskey?” Tommy shook his head, and asked for tea. Which was perhaps an odd thing for him. “And you?” Grace asked, smiling at the girl, who stubbornly didn’t answer, only looked at the wall. “Does she like milk?”

“Yes-”

“No!” She cut her daddy off. “I don’t like milk-”

“You have always drank milk. When did you decide you don’t like milk?”

Evie shrugged, wearing a big ‘ol fat pout. “Today. Big girls don’t drink milk.”

“What are you looking to bake?” Grace asked from the small kitchenette, looking through her cupboards and pulling out anything that seemed relevant to the task. “We can make shortbread-”

“Grace,” Tommy said, perhaps a bit too desperately. “Anything. It would be great, thank you.” She chuckled at his attire, and he, to her surprise, shyly wiped the flour off his nose. “I’ll use the loo.”

Evie watched how he navigated her house easily, glaring. Joining the woman in the kitchen, she grumbled. “He knows where the loo is-”

“I only have two doors, Evie,” she smiled, diverting the girl’s attention to the batter she started putting together. “If you wash your hands, you can mix in the butter, how about that?” Grace got a little step stool for Evie to stand on. She didn’t argue, as she liked to get her hands dirty in various different types of shit. Grace helped the girl balance on the painted wooden step stool, and guided her through the mixing process.

“I still don’t like you,” she said, as she felt around the melting butter.

Grace frowned, “well, that is a shame because to be honest, I’m quite fond of you.”

Evie paused, looking at the older woman. “You like me?”

Grace offered a warm smile and nodded. “And why wouldn’t I?”

“Cause I don’t like you,” she said, turning her attention back to the bowl. Tommy listened to the exchange, chuckling under his breath. He allowed the two to be, watching from the sofa. Evie could be so, so stubborn. Far too stubborn for her own good, and so wasn’t Grace. He put bets on which one would win this exchange.

“You can take a piece of the batter, if you’d like.” Grace picked a piece off and popped it in her mouth. “Mmmmm!” She moaned, doing a dance. “It’s so good…don’t you want some? Hm?”

Evie and Grace had a mini stare off before Evie took a piece and at it, “it’s okay-”

“Evelyn,” Tommy warned.

Sighing. “It’s good.” When Grace turned, Evie took another piece and quickly shoved it in her mouth. It was good.

“We just have to let it chill for a little while and then we can bake it,” she said, looking at the time. It was slightly past midnight. Evie had to get up at six, and everyone knew how she got when she got no sleep. The uncontrollable laughing and then the massive grumpiness. Grace nudged her. “Go to the bedroom, Evie. You can go to sleep.”

Evie looked at her daddy for confirmation and he nodded. The girl was exhausted. From what? He didn’t know. “I’ll tuck her in and then grab her school uniform…cause once she’s asleep, forget it.” Grace gently grabbed his arm.

“Let me…let me try to do it?” Tommy sighed, but motioned for her to go ahead. Grace gave the girl a moment to settle in before knocking at the wooden door frame. Evie looked up without saying anything. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your house,” she said.

“You’re right, but it’s your space right now,” Grace explained, walking in and sitting at the edge of the bed. Uncomfortably, Evie moved herself under the warm blankets, bringing them up to her face. Respecting her space, Grace didn’t take over the tucking in. Instead waiting for everything to calm, to say, “I know you hate me-”

“I don’t hate you,” Evie said. “I don’t hate anybody-”

“You don’t hate me?” Grace asked, raising her brow.

“No,” Evie said, mumbling.

“I’ll take that for a win, then,” she smiled, standing. “And perhaps, tomorrow, you won’t even dislike me.”

“I don’t dislike you,” she said. “I just don’t like you with my daddy-”

“Hmm, well,” Grace said. “Well, admittedly, I’m a little jealous of you, too-”

This got Evie’s attention. “Oh?”

Grace chuckled to herself knowing that she’d win this conversation. “Well, sure, because your daddy loves you more than anything and anyone in this world. Maybe I wish I had someone to love me like he loves you…Actually, he’s quite upset that he didn’t get to tuck you in tonight-”

“He can tuck me in!” she said fast, kicking off her blankets.

Grace winked. “Then I’ll send him right in and I will finish the biscuits. Okay?” In the hallway as she passed Tommy, she grinned. “I think I may have won the Evie game, but she wants you now.” She went to finish her walk to the kitchen when she paused, turning. “Were you listening the whole time?” Tommy swallowed, itching the bridge of his nose. “You were! You thought I couldn’t do it-”

“No! No, Grace, no,” he said. “That’s stupid-”

Grace widened her mouth, smiling, pointing her finger. “You have attachment issues! You’re mad you didn’t tuck her in-”

“She’s not a little girl, Grace,” he protested. “Simply curious,” he mumbled, inching closer to the door. “I’ll go check on her.” Grace shook her head. He really did love that little girl more than anything.

During the night, Grace finished the cookies, and while Tommy slept with Evie in the bedroom, she hunkered down on the sofa. Early in the morning, quietly, Tommy left to pick up her uniform. When he came back, the girl was already bathed, fed, and ready to go. Tommy eyed Evie, whose hair was neatly braided for the first time ever, and then to Grace who was wrapping the biscuits. “Do you want more milk, Evie?” The little girl, politely, said no…politely. Tommy was left out.

“I got the uniform,” he said, holding a pile of clothing in the air. “Evie, come get dressed…look at your hair? What? You didn’t want daddy to comb it?” He was joking, of course. Right? Completely. That little hurt in his voice was fake. Not an ounce of it was real. Evie slid from the chair and rushed over for the uniform, putting it on.

“Grace does it nice, daddy, see?” She showed him the neat braids.

“Oh, yeah, huh, look at that. Come on, you’re going to be late!” He rushed the girl out of the door, and nodded to Grace. “Thank you, Grace, I owe you, really…I do. Thank you.” 

[astrum-aetherium]

fucking henry but you're so loud he has to muffle you (bonus points if he's already angry at your brattiness)

the most enticing part about this is that he would become sooo annoyed. let's say it's super late in the night and otherwise completely silent in the apartment, and he does have neighbors he has to watch out for at times out of the sheer want to avoid unnecessary confrontation. or... same setting, but at francis' country estate — maybe you've had just a little bit too much to drink and cannot hold yourself back at all, thus unleashing it all. yelps and cries and moans, full volume. he would grow so vexed.

at first, he would even slow down and keep a more gradual pace thinking it would solve things, but the intimacy of the rhythm would have you just as loud all the same. with time, however, his expression would scrunch up further and further — he would be utterly displeased. here, i'll apply the aforementioned added bonus: let's assume you had been acting entirely disobedient and reckless all day, possibly spurned on by alcohol, and he's already agitated as all hell with your behavior. on top of all that, now that you're being far too loud to ever be appropriate, his stoic patience comes to a rampant stagger. in short: he loses it.

initially, he has you flipped on your stomach with your back arched, driving your hips into his. annoyed with your transcendent volume, he would lean forward and grab hold of your fluttering throat, spitting quite sternly, "would you keep quiet?!" then, he would add, "we're not alone, for god's sake." you, in turn, would only grin and continue without a whit of consideration, thus only challenging his boundaries further. in response, his fingers would tighten around your hips, practically digging into your skin and piercing you to the bone. soon enough, however, he would unclasp one of them and harshly spank you with it. leaning in once more, he'd repeat, "god, can't you just shut your mouth?"

because you, evidently, wouldn't, he would spank you some more, until he would have no other choice left but to nudge your head into the bedsheets so as to muffle you with an angered that's it. it'd help, and he would have the composure to keep going in on you harder, so that you'd cry into the gentle, expensive silk. he would tear you back upward for air every now and again by your hair, quite roughly, and you would only responsively moan out of pleasure at that. because you'd been so disobedient, he would edge you profusely — luring you over to the very premise of your orgasm but then immediately ceasing all movement and stilling inside you, hot and pounding. your expectant fluttering around him would have him breathing heavily, and yet he would be too focused on punishing you rather than granting the two of you the release you're seeking.

in a different position — any, honestly — he would keep his palm clasped over your mouth or even stuff it shut with his fingers, which you would brattily close your teeth in on. that, obviously, would only get you fucked harder and propelled further away from your orgasm. in spire of that, you would, of course, get to come that night — but not without being overstimulated to hell and back, with tears creased in your eyes and henry's anger spelled out all over your body in blooming little bruises where his grip had dug into you at its profoundest.

[hellframe]

Francis Abernathy: fake pince-nez

I was wondering where Francis ‘borrowed’ this accessory, so let there be some observations.

First of all, there’s a sassy definition of a typical dandy by Paul de Saint-Victor (La Presse, 21 August 1859):

'Black Prince of Elegance, the demigod of boredom who looked at the world with an eye as glassy as his pince-nez, suffering because his disarranged cravat had a crease, like ancient Sybarite who suffered because his rose was crushed.'

Then I thought that red hair combined with pince-nez reminds of Ezra Pound, known for his dandyish style and some other unpleasant things.

[Considering that Henry Winter could be read as a projection of T. S. Eliot, I think it's logical to compare Francis to Eliot's friend Pound, who edited The Waste Land, btw.]

Pince-nez also wore Mark Twain, another elegant redhead. Speaking of Twain, he left a description of one notable encounter in his Autobiography (vol. 2, 1924):

'Last night I was at a large dinner party at Norman Hapgood's palace uptown, and a very long and very slender gentleman was introduced to me — a gentleman with a fine, alert, and intellectual face, with a becoming gold pince-nez on his nose and clothed in an evening costume which was perfect from the broad spread of immaculate bosom to the rosetted slippers on his feet. His gait, his bows, and his intonations were those of an English gentleman, and I took him for an earl.'

Dapper-looking, tall, thin young gentleman in pince-nez, giving an impression of English aristocracy at uptown dinner parties. Doesn’t it sound like Francis?

Another possible source is 'The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez', one of Sherlock Holmes short stories. This pince-nez belongs to a refined and well-dressed lady, who committed an accidental murder, and then committed a suicide.

Eventually, when I was reading a review on Baudelaire’s last oeuvre, among his notes about Belgium I discovered a curious fact: Baudelaire complained that Belgians sold pince-nez with plain glass as a fashion accessory.

So I put my nose into that piece of prejudiced decadent writing:

'The pince-nez, with its cord, perched on the nose. A multitude of vitreous eyes, even among the officers. An optician told me that the majority of pince-nez that sells are clear glass. Thus this national pince-nez craze is nothing more than a pathetic effort to appear elegant and yet one more sign of the spirit of imitation and conformity.'

Late Fragments: Flares, My Heart Laid Bare, Prose Poems, Belgium Disrobed, trans. by Richard Sieburth (p. 301)

Francis bought his phony pince-nez in Belgium. That's it.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Viktor Zaretsky. Glowing Sky. 1988

* * * *

The Trees Delete Themselves Inside a Fog-Sphere

BY FRANCIS PONGE

TRANSLATED BY KAREN VOLKMAN

In the fog which surrounds the trees, the leaves are stripped—leaves defaced already by slow oxidation, deadened by the sap's out-seeping for flowers' and fruits' gain, since the harsh heats of August made of them a less.

In the bark, vertical furrows crease and slit where dampness drains to the earth's base, indifferent to the living citizens of the trunk.

Flowers scattered, fruit conferred. Since youth, this relinquishing of breathing attributes and body parts has become for the trees a standard practice.

[abugeatbugworld]

Five times Dot made Flik laugh and one time she made him cry

1.

"Why do you and Atta hang out so much?"

A smile played along Flik's lips. He glanced over at the small princess sitting beside him on the bank of a puddle, her feet swinging back and forth over the water below them like tiny pendulums. Her eyes were concealed by the sunglasses he'd made for her out of berry stems and translucent flower petals.

Instead of answering Dot's question, Flik asked one in return. "Why do you think we hang out so much?"

"I dunno," she replied with a shrug. Sunlight bounced off her glasses and into Flik's eyes, making him squint. "She's pretty boring, if you ask me. What do you even do when you're together for all that time?"

Flik was glad for the tinted lenses that kept her from seeing the pink in his cheeks. "Oh...we find things to do. You'll understand someday."

Dot wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Flik loved the way this made her freckles fold into the creases of her skin, like they were playing a game of hide-and-seek.

"Come on, there's no one in your class you're interested in?" he prodded, giving the princess a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "No boys you like spending time with?"

Dot reached up and lowered the sunglasses to the tip of her nose. It took everything in Flik not to burst out laughing at the incredulous look she was giving him.

"The only boys I like are Miss Francis and Dim," she said, her matter-of-fact tone daring him to argue. "The rest of them are dummies."

Flik gasped and put his hand over his heart. "I'm offended!"

A mischievous dimple appeared at the corner of Dot's mouth. She pushed her sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose, then turned to gaze out over the water.

"You're not a boy. You're Flik."

[likeorpheus]

Francis doesn’t know when the weariness starts to creep up on them. Maybe it’s the overwhelming din of the Anaheim Packing District—the hum of conversation blending with the faint strains of holiday music, clinking glasses, and the shuffle of footsteps. Or maybe it’s the cloying scent of holiday candles wafting from one of the shops, an overbearing medley of cinnamon, pine, and something sickly sweet. The smell turns their stomach, and they press a hand to it, trying to breathe through the nausea.

The dizziness hits when they try to take a step. Their vision tilts for a moment, a strange, disorienting sway, and they grip the edge of a nearby counter for balance. Their fingers clutch the cold metal, and they close their eyes against the sudden vertigo. Lizzie’s voice cuts through the haze, steady and sharp.

@essentiamortis asked: “You’re sleep deprived and you haven’t been eating. Why do you think you’re feeling dizzy?”

They glance at her, the world still tilting slightly at the edges. Lizzie looks every inch the composed figure she always does. There’s concern in her dark eyes, though, a faint crease between her brows that belies her otherwise cool demeanor. Francis tries to laugh it off, but it’s weak, and Lizzie doesn’t budge.

“It’s nothing,” they mutter, though even they don’t sound convinced. “Just... tired.” They try to wave her off, but the effort costs them—another wave of dizziness washes over them, and their grip on the counter tightens.

“Maybe too much to drink ? Is that possible? ” As an alcoholic, probably not.

[derelictheretic]

Can I pleeeease see some Joseph staring at Dean like a creep. again 💕

Yes right away, one self indulgent Jo being himself and Dean being done with his shit wip coming right up 🫡 (This is is set at St. Francis, during one of Dean's many long stays with Jacob, he's too tired and hungry to care about Jo rn)

Joseph's eyes locked with Dean's as he sat down and he felt any of the words he'd been mulling over in his head trickle away like water down a stream. It was dark but Joseph could make out various cuts and bruises on the deputy's face and arms, his eyes tracing over the cut on the bridge of his nose and blood dried on his temple. He shakes his head gently and sighs, Dean frowns. Neither of them say a word.

In the dark Dean's brown eyes were like dark pools of molten syrup, an endless void staring back at him with only flickers of those dangerous embers rearing their heads. There was also a distinct fear shimmering within their depths, usually hidden so well by that raging inferno ignited by the sunlight shining in them. Joseph couldn't quite determime where that fear originated or what it was for but it was unmistakable, especially as Dean pressed his back against the bars of the cage and stared him down similar to how a caged tiger would stare down its captors.

He wasn't scared of Joseph, he'd made that clear since they first met; no Dean Sinclaire wasn't scared of men or wolves—his fear went deeper. And if Joseph could only follow down that winding path obscured by vines and thorns perhaps this whole process could move forward quicker. Dean wouldn't be in a cage, he'd be where Joseph had wanted him all along.

But the honey covered chocolate eyes gave up no key to see more than those glimpses, the crease in his brow and downturn of his lips gave no indication of anything other than that grinding furnace that never seemed to quell.

"Are you gonna stare at me all night or do you have another tragic story to regale to me?" Dean cuts through the burning silence as he pulls his knees closer to his chest, further closing himself off from him.

Joseph blinked. Then he smiled.

[asparklethatisblue]

fitzier thoughts (on anon because i'm shy): james is, ironically, not a pretty sleeper. more than once francis has woken to a mouthful of hair or a knee digging into his ribs where james has sprawled out like a starfish beside him, or had the privilege of witnessing him before he's risen and made himself presentable to the world; hair disheveled and mussed, all folded and crumpled at awkwarded angles, snoring softly into the crook of his own arm or francis' side. james is utterly mortified (but secretly rather touched, though he'd never admit it) by how fondly francis regards him like this, and francis is endlessly amused by this unpolished side of james that only those closest to his heart get to see.

oh gosh yes absolutely. James has an entire routine to make himself look handsome (hair curlers, pomade, perfume, powders if he is tired). You don’t look so well put together and tidy without putting in a lot of effort. He definitely would make sure Francis wouldn’t see him in such a state early on, especially if they don’t like each other much yet. Both because James can’t be seen as a mess in front of his First, and because he needs to look attractive if he wants to keep Francis in his bed. But then Francis looks at him all lovingly while James is sleepy with pillow creases on his cheek and maybe he drooled a little from smushing his face into Francis’ chest in his sleep… and yeah, it’s worth being seen like this

[psyduc]

the terror hockey au

it's the way.... i've been thinking about this.......... also shoutout to the fic white carnations because they did this before me BUT. RAMBLINGS UNDER THE CUT

there is no organization here we are sharing our thoughts like they are coming out of a faucet with a broken knob

blanky was a goalie and a really good one too- and one who wasn't afraid to push back or start shit, you know? played until he was 40 when a terrible knee injury forced him into retirement. he still visits the rink to say hi to francis- and even though his doctor says he can't be back on the ice, he still goes out there on occasion to help thomas hartnell practice <3

francis was the alternate and then captain for... The Terrors (it has to be The Terrors right. it just has to be). helped them get two stanley cups, had a notoriously disastrous final season. like "got really drunk, started a huge fight on the ice, even fought the refs" sort of disastrous that cut his career short. after getting sober, he put the work in and was able to get a job as manager. well, co-manager

fitzjames is the other manager. he has never managed a sports team in his life and when he starts, knows very little about hockey (he confuses icing for offsiding. francis can't stand him)

graham is the captain. he is great. everyone loves graham. even people on other teams respect the guy. has a nasty history with getting concussed on the ice though, so whenever he gets hit, it's a very tense moment for everyone and his team is not happy about it

collins, morfin, manson, heather, and pilkington are defensemen

irving, peglar, hodgson and armitage are right and left wingers

tozer and little are centers. tozer is also alternate captain, and there's talk of making little an alternate too, but he gets queasy at the thought

we're ignoring that this is not a full roster for a team okay we are playing fast and loose here

jopson is the equipment manager and he runs that shit so tight. he only allows gibson to help with the skates and even then, he's keeping a close eye on him

hickey was an ahl player that got suspended for playing real dirty. somehow, he has talked himself into a job with The Terrors. he's only the water boy for now, but he has big plans

chambers and young are two ahl players that came up for a couple of games before being sent back down for training

The Terror's mascot is a Newfoundland dog named Neptune. it's always a good day when Francis brings his actual dog of the same name into the arena

dundy and bridgens are the rink side reporters/announcers

hodgson has a history of lower body injuries. like he's always out for a good chunk of the season, but he's such a good player (and good for morale, even if he goes on and on about his newest niche hobby) that they keep him around

almost all of collins and morfin's teeth are fake- they lost their real ones after several puck related incidents. collins has permanent implants, morfin takes his out for the games

tartnell is their goalie and is not afraid to whack people with his stick if they get too close to the crease

The Terrors have not made it past the first round of playoffs in 20 something years. something terrible always ends up happening- last year, little took a nasty hit and broke his wrist and collarbone. the year before, heather had a concussion that kept him out all season. it's always something

i don't have a way to end this. i just. i can see it, you know, these men on the ice crashing into each other and finding and making each other bleed and wow it's just like the show except no cannibalism or colonialism. probably still some lead poisoning though, maybe that's why they keep losing

[prydainroyals]

Francis shifted in his seat with a furrowing brow, creased in thought. His gaze questioned Thomas silently even before he finally spoke:

“Has there been an incident?” he asked. 

Thomas shook his head, his slight smile returning; and at that reassurance, Francis seemed to relax.

“I’ll be glad to give it, but... where did this come from? I’d like to know.”

Thomas’ gaze drifted toward one of the small, reinforced windows--pathetic things, but nonetheless welcome little portals. Even though all they opened up to was the white death of the icy landscape outside.

“The First Lieutenant-- the Prince--” Thomas corrected himself, “--he’s a right good lad, a fine head on his shoulders and an actual brain inside it. But we’re almost at spring, the end of his tenure here. He seems distracted, and I think he intends to put in a request to stay. Word is, His Majesty is of a mind to let him.”

- - -

[EARLY SUMMER THE PREVIOUS YEAR]

[THE PAINTED HALL, OLD ROYAL NAVAL COLLEGE, LUNDENBURGH, PRYDAIN]

The Painted Hall-- Called the ‘Sistine Chapel’ of Prydain and site of weddings and ceremonial dinners and grand events and even art exhibits--it was a grand edifice, a monument to the glory of the Royal Navy, simultaneously a labor of love and an expression of decadent imperialistic self-revelry.

It sat quietly now, empty of any patrons of the museum within its vaults and the other wings of the College. The sun shone brightly through the high windows, casting beams of unrelenting bright gold through the air only for the light to spill upon the gleaming, polished floor.

The weighty hush that so often hung over sensible and stern places--like churches and libraries--was broken only by the footsteps of a man and the clink-clink-clink of the medals and orders so ceremoniously pinned to his chest.

The footsteps ceased, as the man had found the person for whom he’d been searching.

The man, the father, stood straight and firm, the very image of the expectations that rested so heavily on his shoulders.

“... Father,” greeted the son.

This silly boy, this foolish lad, had ducked away from the afterparty of a ceremony conducted in his honor once he’d socialized ‘enough,’ when he had had enough, when he had desperately desired solitude and wished to drown himself in the splendor and memory of a place far older than he.

The father stopped short--distant, like always.

“I thought I’d find you sulking here,” said His Royal Majesty, King George X.

His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur, answered with only silence.

- - -

PREV | BEGINNING | NEXT

- - -

[a-rogue-god]

I was inspired by my moot.... this goes out to you pal thumbs up

fucking... d day knight / reader fic,,,,,,, hurt and comfort bayybeeeee. its short.....

Rapping on the door, you lean your head against it, trying to make out any noise that could come from the other side.

"Frank? You in there?" You ask, concerned.

"Go away, doll," he answers, voice dripping with barely contained sobs, which at once broke your heart, never expecting his voice to be like that. He was Frank Sinatra, always cool and suave. To hear him like that... It was upsetting.

"You want me to go away?"

"Yes... please..."

Humming as you lean away from the door, you thought for a second, not wanting to leave him in such a state. Gripping the handle of the door, you open it.

Inside in the dark, against the far wall, sprawled miserably with his back leaning against it, is your beloved Frank. In his one hand is a bottle of half emptied whiskey, clutched desperately by his leg.

Wincing at the light from the hall, Frank looks away from you, eyes screwed shut in pain. Even in the dark you could tell he was crying, streams of water painted down his cheeks.

"Oh... Francis," you whisper, coming over to him.

"No-" he protests weakly when you gently take the bottle of liquor away from him, his hand reaching back for it, but you remove it too fast for him to catch.

"Look at you," voice full of sadness as you look over his sorry state, his immaculate suit creased and worn, bow-tie undone.

He looks up at you with pain filled eyes, the once glowing blue dimmed from the tears. Something had clearly upset him... This is the first time you ever saw him like this, it was rare. Frank remained silent for a while, simply looking at you, freely crying.

"Are you o-"

"No." he cut you off, wiping his eyes and sniffling. "No, I'm not okay."

Frank's words cut deep. "Oh God, Frank," you sighed, pulling him in for a hug, pressing sweet kisses to his temple. He merely collapsed in your arms, weakly letting you hold him. "What happened?"

"I-" he trailed off, voice breaking. This was such a pathetic state to be found in, he felt absolutely awful and he was distraught to be found like this, by you of all people.

"Its okay if you don't want to tell me." you responded, just holding him, wanting to be there for him. Pushing Frank to doing something he didn't want to do never worked out in anyone's favor. "I'm here for you. Always."

He remained silent, letting out a heavy breath, shuddering all over. No he didn't want to tell you. Not yet at least. The relationship with you was fresh and he didn't want to tell you about his superhero status... Not yet... And he definitely didn't want to tell you about... Him just yet. Frank would wait and you could definitely wait.

"Thank you," he simply replied, burying his face into your shoulder. "I love you."

"I love you too, Frank."

[gogmstuff]

Pre-crinoline Victorian dresses (from top to bottom) -

1837 Maria Louise Alexandrine von Preußen geb. Prinzessin von Sachsen-Weimar-Eisenach by Carl Joseph Begas (Klassik Stiftung Weimar, specific location ?). From Wikimedia 1311X1542.

ca. 1840 Lady Flora Hastings possibly by Edward Finden after E. Hawkins;  portrait from the book Hastings of Hastings. From Wikimedia, attributions from British Museum Web site 2275X2263.

1840 Junge Dame bei der Toilette by Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller (Wien Museum or Museen der Stadt Wien, specific location ? - Wien, Austria). From Wikimedia 1632X2048.

1842 Marquise Louis-Frédéric Foucher de Circé, née Marie-Marguerite Burthe by Amaury Duval (Musée Sainte-Croix - Poitiers, Vienne, Nouvelle-Aquitaine, France). From Wikimedia; fixed spots, creases, & flaws w Pshop 743X1000.

Marie Karoline Austria Teschen by Robert Theer (auctioned by Christie's) From the lost gallery's photostream on flickr; fixed spots w Pshop 1884X2312.

Unknown woman by Sergey Zaryanko (Tyumen Regional Museum of Fine Arts - Tyumen, Tyumen Oblast, Russia). From theebonswan.blogspot.com/2018/12/portrait-of-unknown-woman-1840s-sergey.html?view=magazine 781X999.

Probably Lady Adelaide Emelina Caroline Vane by Sir Francis Grant (auctioned by Christie's). From their Web site 1196X1574.

1842 Maria Anna of Bavaria, Queen of Saxony by Joseph Karl Stieler (location ?) From the lost gallery; fixed spots & flaws w Pshop 1459X1951.