#Mr. Ernest Sinclaire

[storyofmychoices]

Mr Sinclaire for the loveliest @princess-geek 💙

I know I'm late, but Happy Birthday, my dear friend! I hope you enjoy Ernest in this geometric style!

[Geometric Art Masterlist]

[missameliep]

Title: In a Little Book Shop - Part 1

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3k

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

A/N: English is not my native language; there's one swear word; the poetry in bold blue letters are from Pablo Neruda's Poema 14 from "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada"; and Hayley Parker is @rosesnink's OC and I'm borrowing her.

Noe, I hope I did Hayley justice. This is just a silly little idea I had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

The Brahms’ piece playing in the back of the store swells in crescendo to a loud forte, almost muffling the sharp sound of the ancient brass bell at the door.  

Like every other Tuesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock sharp, the deliveryman walked in. Head bobbing to the music playing into that gigantic white headset he never takes off, today he was carrying only one brown box that almost matched the shade of the company’s uniform.  

The man nodded to Ernest Sinclaire, who had been sprucing up the counter for the past forty minutes, despite it already looking neat when he started or the fact that less and less customers have stopped by these past weeks. Not to mention most of the people who did cross the threshold were solely interested in the shop’s AC. With the heatwave, people certainly have fled London, he keeps telling himself.  

But he could be wrong.  

Printed books might have gone out of fashion this season like some insist. 

The situation has been so critical, he’s been considering his friend Bart’s suggestion of turning part of the antique bookshop into a cafeteria. 

‘A book ‘slash’ coffee shop. It’s trending', the man often says. However, Ernest is less than thrilled with the idea of fiddling with the antique shelves his father dedicated so many hours and love to restore years ago. Except for the improvement in the acclimatization and the profusion of autobiographies, the shop looks exactly like it did at its inauguration day in 1816. The framed lithographs in the entrance testify of the superb work.  

Almost bouncing, the deliveryman quickly crossed the distance between them, not sparing a second glance around, which Ernest always considers a shame. Does he even realize this bookshop has outlived 7 kings and 2 queens? 

Putting down a box with the handmade bookmarks commissioned to the talented artist Annabelle Parssons, Ernest signed the electronic receipt and took the brown box from the deliveryman’s hand. After the usual polite but wordless interaction, the man left. He was alone again when. The only sounds on the store from the first notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnals and the pens pushed aside to reach the pair of scissors in the top drawer.  

Like always, he unpacked and carefully inspected the content of the box. Taking one by one, he examines the book covers, searching for any sign of damage. This time the box is filled to the brim with several copies of two cookbooks that trend whenever another season of the Great British Bake Off starts.  

Cookbooks and travel guides are the best-selling items. Despite his personal opinions, he won’t complain if they keep the businesses going. Occasionally a customer after them might accept one or two of his recommendations or be drawn by the siren’s call of one of the poetry books or new authors he strategically places around the store.  

It happened to that young Spanish writer whose thrilling debut fantasy trilogy became the hit of the store last Christmas. He’s not ashamed to admit he had his friend Bart rambling about the story whenever a new customer arrived nor the way he made use of the beautiful art of the cover. Some of the customers were instantly drawn to the fiery red head in the cover – he cannot blame them though, since he was mesmerized by the heroine’s beauty himself – but most of them returned merely days later to buy the other books. Which reminds him to write a note to himself to place an order for more copies of the author’s new trilogy. 

A fit of laughter from a small child outside draws his attention from the paper and he smiles. His gaze follows the kid and the middle-aged woman holding their hand until they disappear after passing the large side window. The store’s location in the corner of two busy streets is privileged and is a perfect spot for people watching.  

Across the street, a pair of young women, who look too young to be drinking, linger by the pub’s door, and a group of teenagers walk past the door but don’t look twice at the windows. They are probably going to the ice-cream parlour two stores down.   

Keeping himself busy, he takes the recently arrived box. While moving some books aside to give space to the new ones without messing the systematic alphabetical and subject order, a copy of The Tucci Cookbook slips from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thump. Kneeling to pick it up, a glimpse of someone outside catches his attention. An indistinct mass of blonde hair moves quickly, almost running. A second later, the bell rings sharply and hits the base producing a long higher pitched sound, like it does whenever someone opens the door with too much force. 

“For fuck’s sake!” The angry feminine voice startles him. There’s some mumbling while the door closes with a soft click.  

From where he is knelt, he only catches a glimpse of a pair of high heeled black leather boots, which is a rather unusual choice for a scorching day like this. The heels click sharply against the wooden tiles, while she moves around the store.  

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he speaks to make his presence acknowledged, while pulling himself up and returning the book to the appropriate place.  

Moving around the box, he finally comes face to face with the woman, who had just removed an ash blonde wig from her head and was trying to shove it inside a small studded leather backpack. 

The woman’s hair is dark and glued to the head with a mix of sweat and some kind of greasy product, and her makeup is heavy, covering her face almost like a mask. The long and thick fake eyelashes look like spider legs and it’s hard to even distinguish the colour of her eyes. Not that he is trying to, of course. It was a polite gaze. Not even a gaze; barely a glimpse that allowed him to acknowledge the bright enticing eyes. 

Dressed all in black – black tank top, black sequin leggings, black heeled boots –, she looks like one of the artists that perform in The Club at Margaret Street. Even her lips are painted in a shade of ripe plum, almost black. If she’s one of the famous ones and is trending on Spotify or whatever is cool this week, he definitely cannot tell. Or maybe she’s just another TikToker committed to the art of making the most entertaining videos according to Bart, who often shoves the mobile into his nose to show the next Amy Winehouse, and wants to revel on the AC. As long as she doesn’t mess with the books and at least buy a bookmark, he’s fine with it. 

The woman zips up the bag and shoots him an inquisitive look. 

“Cat ate your tongue?” she asks and there’s a lilt of laughter in her tone. His gaze meets hers, and she looks pleased with his reaction and not offended, even though he’s been silent for impolitely long. 

His first guess might be right. She’s probably famous and he’s pulling a William Thacker again. And her eyes are brown in this light.  

He straightens himself and clears his throat.  

“Welcome to Ledford Park Bookshop. How can I help you, miss?”  

“I’m buying a gift.” 

“Anything in mind?” 

“A book.” 

Her wide teasing smile almost makes him smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his usual bookseller unbothered expression that some might mistake by grumpiness, which is not. It’s professional and he’s learned from past mistakes: smiling freely encourages idle conversation. 

“I was thinking about poetry. Something sensual,” she speaks the last word with an accent. “Do you have anything?” 

“The Erotica section is in the back.” 

“Perfect!” she replies while looking over her shoulder at the window. There’s a hint of relief in her words and the sigh she let out, but perhaps he was mistaking it by the effects of the heat. 

Her heels click rhythmically following him to the back of the store, and he stops himself from glancing over his shoulders and let’s his mind picture the way her hips sashay instead. 

In a second, they’re surrounded by shelves dedicated to erotic poetry, art catalogues and a range of classic authors like Sappho and Ovid, to best-selling from the 20th century like Pablo Neruda.  

A smug grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as she looks around, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is the most frequent reaction to the extensive collection. Just one of the many treasures that pleases the regular customers, who keep coming back for more books, more enlightening conversations, more ideas for their own books.  

“Poetry is over there,” he points at the neatly arranged books on her right side.  

Looking over her shoulder, she asks, “Any Spanish authors?”  

Taking a deep breath to consider, his lungs are filled with her sexy and intoxicating perfume. It emanates from her body and hangs heavily in the air. His attention is caught by it like flies on spiderwebs. It takes all his willpower to remind himself of the question. To free himself from the web, he walks around her, trying to clear his mind, and his eyes settle on the section reserved to books written in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. 

“Are you familiar with Pablo Neruda?” 

“He’s Chilean,” she corrects him without missing a beat. 

“You are absolutely correct. Most people mean books written in Spanish, I simply assumed that’s what you meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she speaks bluntly, “I don’t walk around expecting recognition about my intellectual capacity or general culture. Especially not from men.” 

She slowly and deliberately walks in front of him, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a menacing but also hypnotizing glow to her eyes, almost catlike, what it’s probably enhanced by the eyeliner, but mostly because her eyes resemble those of big felines one would see in wildlife’s documentaries, it’s the same look when they are ready to jump an antelope. And her big defying eyes are definitely grey.  

With maybe hints of blue in this light.  

She turns around and deliberately sashays back to him. Smiling, she takes the book from his hand. Her mouth curls into a smile, wide and showing her a hint of her teeth, and it makes her look prettier. Pretty. She’s pretty. Not enough to tempt him, but pretty enough to have people composing sonnets about long legs and shapely lips. Not him. He’s not thinking at all about how desirable her lips look. 

Flipping through pages of the book, she starts reading one of the sonnets in perfect Spanish. But not any of them, she’s reading his favourite one.  

When she changes language, her voice is melodious in an unexpected way, it loses the edge, every word sounds like coated in honey.  

Entranced, Ernest cannot avert his gaze from her lips while she reads.

Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote.  Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. Hasta te creo dueña del universo.  Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues,  Avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos. 

Before he realises, he’s reciting the verses with her, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Tilting her face up, her eyes flick from the page to his face. Her gaze burns his skin. She looks straight at him. Perhaps she’s looking straight to something hidden inside his eyes.  

Her voice fades and he recites alone the last two verses. 

Quiero hacer contigo  Lo que la primavera hace com los cerezos. 

Her expression changes, lighting up almost as if a treasure had been unearthed in front of her eyes. 

“¡Guay! ¡Hablas Español!” she cries, and the next words flow quickly and excitedly from her lips, and he cannot follow them at all, except for a few of the nouns and pronouns. His knowledge of the language is practically non-existent: he poorly reads and can only speak a few sentences to save his life in case of a catastrophe. 

“Sorry, I don’t. I only know some of Neruda’s poems by heart, and that’s one of them.” 

He lowers his gaze, shame burning his cheeks and warming him more than the heatwave had done so far. His fingers go to the collar of his white shirt, and pull at it, loosening it slightly. 

“For a moment, you could have fooled me.” Her words sound too flirty, almost daring.  

Is it a dare? Would she want me to pretend? 

Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners when she laughs. It’s impossible to look direct at her eyes, like one cannot look at an eclipse, risking burn their retinas. The intensity of her gaze probably does the same. His gaze wanders, then focus on the shelves, from one book spine to the next.   

“Why learning the poems if you don’t speak the language?” Her long fingers run through the spines of books, stopping his contemplation. “Trying to impress the ladies?” 

The silence stretches for a bit, giving him time to think; he stares at her, considering if she’d be truly interested in the truth. 

“My father worked with publishing,” he started, and his voice did not falter or waver as it would years ago; it’s easier to speak about him, almost comforting as if planting these memories like seeds, they’d bloom... “Every summer I’d work a few days a week at the office... When I was fourteen, he was working on a collection of Neruda’s poems and... well, that’s it.” 

“That's it? That's barely a story,” she laughed. “So, what happened? You memorised the poems to impress your father or something...?” 

He shook his head and delved into the memories of the suffocating summer surrounded by manuscripts and heated arguments about the imagery invoked by the cherry trees. “Father was a man easy to please. I never felt the urge to impress him. It always seemed that being myself was enough...” 

“Lucky you.” The hollow laugh that left her mouth startled him, but she recomposed herself. When she spoke again it wasn’t a question, but a statement, “Your father taught you about poetry.” 

“He taught me most things, including the tragedy of translators ignoring the profound differences between cultures and the meaning lost in translation when the works is rushed, and one chooses literality over intent... I was probably too young at the time to truly understand all he was trying to say... But I noticed in Spanish the poems sounded...” he paused, searching for a word. “More poetic somehow... Melodic in a different way... And then I memorised this one. And plenty of others –” 

“Which ones?” she cuts him off, and he’s about to answer – and Ernest suspects her feline eyes would compel him to answer questions until his throat was sore and his mind emptied of words – but the phone rang.  

With a sigh, he excuses himself. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate in calling me.” 

“I won’t.” The same expression from before returns, and so is the sharpness behind the words. 

He walks behind the counter to take the call, and he can no longer see the woman; for once, he’s not worried about shoplifting.  

The call takes longer than he wishes, and his patience almost runs out when the caller keeps inquiring about books’ covers that would match a specific shade of purple. The person doesn’t know the name of the author or genre, just that it's trending online.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose.

Any other day, this wouldn’t bother him, and he’d welcome the challenge, putting the phone down, he’d look around, like an archaeologist digging a site. But now he must go back to this one customer, because he needs to serve well. Nothing else. 

“Maybe you should stop by. We’re open until 20:00.” 

The person reluctantly thanks him and hangs up. 

Ernest’s eyes search the monitor underneath the counter. She’s moved to the shelves on the side of the store, next to the psychology section, closer to Jung. 

There’s a book close to her face, but her gaze is not on the pages. 

“Have you changed your mind about the gift?” he asks softly trying not to startle her or sound pretentious but fails.

Her shoulders tense and heave with an intake of breath, before she turns around to look at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Should I take the Neruda, or should I browse some more?” she asks breezily, one side of her mouth curled with a smirk, “I wonder if there’s something else more... suitable for my taste...” 

“By all means,” he replies politely, “Feel free to look and see if there’s anything else, you’d prefer.” 

“I definitely will.” She glides amongst the tall shelves closer to the window, then halts and looks at him over her shoulder. He was observing her, and his cheeks warm at being noticed.  

“Our bestselling books are over that table,” he says and returns to the task of organizing cook books but still observes her.   

Finally, her heels click as she comes to him.  

“I know what I want,” she says casually, and the book in her hand passes to his hand.  

Neruda.  

Her fingers graze his, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard the surprise. That’s the most human contact he’s had in several weeks, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Not anything else. His heart is racing because he’s shocked. This entire interaction has been incredibly odd. 

From the backpack, she takes a few notes to pay for the book. The money is placed in the counter, and so is the change. His attention is entirely focused on gift-wrapping the book, and not once he looks at her while doing it.  

When the package is passed to her hand, she thanks him, says goodbye and leaves.  

He never gets a name; but she lingers by the door and smiles pointedly at him before closing it. Surrounded by a cloud of her perfume, he wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of her. 

Thanks for reading!

[princess-geek]

Mr Sinclaire Icons

Made by the lovely @ladylamrian. Thank you so much 😘😘😘😘

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[sillyboards]

ernest sinclaire - desire and decorum - choices

[sapphoschoices]

Mr Sinclaire would do numbers on Tumblr, and I'm not joking he's literally so (unintentionally) funny

[ladydelilah]

To Help a Gentleman (Ernest Sinclaire x MC) [one shot]

❀ Word Count: 1141

 ❀ Summary: 

Following the betrayal and death of his wife, Ernest Sinclaire turns to the only comfort he knows. Alcohol. As his addiction gets out of hand, Lady Victoria of Edgewater comes to his rescue.

________________________________

Before we begin, I would like to preface that this is just a free-writing exercise. This is also the first Desire and Decorum fan-fiction I've ever written. I'm not entirely happy with the story since it wasn't mapped out in advance. I think I did pretty well for never having written a piece from this time period.  I don't have much writing experience. My grammar may be inadequate at times. Apologies for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy!

_____________________________

Ernest leaned his curl-adorned head against the large Oak tree that lived on the property neighboring his own. He made a distinct effort to kept his gray-blue irises exposed to the cool fall air. He tampered with the edges of the soft white pages of the book that the Earl had loaned him from his personal library. He wasn't able to concentrate on the book. He could hardly even make out the words on the page. Each block of text warped into a large black mass. "I was foolish to think that I could read in my state." He groaned to himself as he ran a clammy palm over his face.

He felt as though his fine clothes were fiery pythons pouncing on their prey. Beads of sweat ran down his pale forehead though the broad leaves of the Oak swayed above him. He casted the leather-bound book out of his hands before making quick work of untying his cotton cravat and releasing the fabric into the autumn breeze. He watched the white square waltz out of his line of sight. He took quick, shallow breaths as his vision blurred before he finally succumbed to the darkness of his mind.

ஓ๑♡๑ஓ

"Mr. Sinclaire?" Victoria muttered to no one in particular as she spotted the gentleman leaned against her favorite tree in the distance. She always sought refuge in the garden, particularly in the shade of the Oak tree that sat at the furthest corner of the Edgewater grounds. She had made a dashing escape from Countess Henrietta's brutal remarks, per usual. She would often swipe a book from the library or her father's study before retreating to her shady green sanctuary. Today was no exception. Today's book of the day was Pride and Prejudice. Pride and Prejudice had been many days' "book of the day". She had finished over half of the book before she took tea with the Dowager Countess.

As she further approached the familiar man, she noticed his often stern eyes were closed and his usually neat clothes were disheveled. She had never seen him like this. She was in shock to say the least. She knew something was wrong. She hiked up her long silk skirts as she ran to the side of Mr. Sinclaire.

"Mr. Sinclaire! Sir!" She cried as she frantically shook the gentleman's arm. The smell of scotch wafted towards her. She could feel the heat radiating through his several layers of clothes. A pit grew in her stomach as she continued to nudge the man.

ஓ๑♡๑ஓ

Ernest was awoken by a gentle knock at the door. The sound, although soft, struck him like a lead pipe to the cranium. The sunlight seeping through the thin curtains scalded his retinas even through his closed eyelids. The pain pried his eyes open, further exposing him to the morning rays. He noticed Lady Victoria peering at him coyly from behind the doorframe. She wore her usual soft smile, but this time it was laced with an emotion Ernest couldn't quite put his finger on.

"May I come in, sir?" She inquired when she noticed Ernest's newfound consciousness.

He silently nodded, trying his best to smile. 

As she approached him, he noticed the steaming mug in her hand.

"Ginger Lemon tea." She stated, placing the mug on the nightstand.

"It works wonders." She winked with a giggle.

Her laugh made the butterflies in Ernest's stomach escape from their cocoons.

"Thank you, my lady. It is much appreciated." He takes a sip of the warm beverage.

"Of course! Are you feeling alright? Do you need me to do anything for you?" 

"You've been a great help already." 

Lady Victoria stands up but before she can get very far, Ernest grabs her hand, gently reeling her back in.

"Lady Victoria, I must ask, is the book alright?"

"The book?" She said as she sits on the edge of the bed.

"Yes. The book I borrowed from your father. The Iliad. Is it in decent condition?" He asked with concern lacing his voice.

"Mr.Sinclaire, do not spare a second thought for the book. I'd suppose that book is the least of your troubles." Lady Edgewater answered with a grimace.

Ernest shoots the woman a confused glance.

"Why, sir, you can't be serious! You mustn't think it acceptable to pass out, inebriated in the garden of your neighbor!"

"No. I suppose you're correct. My apologies, my lady." His voice rattled with shame.

"I thank you, sir. Although, I am not so worried about properity as I am for your health and well-being. I understand loss can be hard. But you cannot let yourself be buried with the one you love."

His eyes start to burn and well with tears. He doesn't know if he is crying for the loss of his wife, the death of his wife, or the shame and embarrassment of Victoria's truthful words.

She wipes the tears from the man's face.

"My father knows. I couldn't get you to bed by myself. Aside from him I will tell no one of the events that occurred today. I'm sure people are speculating about your whereabouts already. As far as anyone is concerned, you are in a business meeting with the earl. I, myself, have suffered many losses. I have taught myself to cope. Now I will teach you."

"Thank you, my lady!" He said eagerly.

He lets out a small cough. "Thank you." He said, correcting his enthusiasm.

"You best be on your way before the servants come in and get the wrong idea." She grins once again.

"Yes, thank you, Victoria." 

When he realized his mistake it was too late to correct it.

"Victoria, eh?" She scoffed.

"My apologies. I-"

"You think just because you're in my bed you can call me by my given name?" She jokes with fake alarm.

A bright blush spread on Mr. Sinclaire's cheeks, earning a hardy chuckle from the woman beside him.

"I'll be taking me leave." He scurried away, flustered.

________________________

[princess-geek]

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Mr. Sinclaire, my hero ❤️

[choicesficwriterscreations]

It's that time of year again! Thank you to the creators who have shared their Top 5 creations of 2023 according to Tumblr note count. The Creator's Pick Top 5 will be posted this weekend! Links to all fics can be found below the break.

@aallotarenunelma ✒️

So This is Love (BOLAS) - Aerin Valleros x M!elf!MC

Distant Light (BOLAS) - Tyril Starfury x F!elf!MC

Indigo Night (ID) - Cassius Harlow x NB!MC, NB!OC

Répondez, s'il vous plaît! 3 (ILS/ID) - Various Pairings

Sophomore Secret (ILITW) - Dan Pierce x F!MC, M!OC

@angelasscribbles ✒️

A Fervid Fixation (TRR) Ⓜ️ - Drake Walker x MC

In Your Room (TRR) Ⓜ️- Drake Walker x Leo Rys

The Dark Kingdom (TRR) Ⓜ️ - Various Pairings

Dark Elf (TRR) Ⓜ️- Various Pairings

Heir Apparent (TRR) Ⓜ️- Drake Walker x MC, Liam Rys

@baldwinboy5ive 🎨

Blades Coffee Shop AU (BOLAS) - Aerin Valleros x MC

I Will Drag Him Back (BOLAS) - Tyril Starfury & Aerin Valleros

The Spray Bottle (BOLAS) - Imtura, Mal, Aerin

Aerin Instagram (BOLAS) - Aerin Valleros

The Prison Visit (BOLAS) - Aerin Valleros x MC

@cariantha ✒️

Accidental Valentine (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

If Only I Could (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Code Yellow (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

A Kiss on the Hand (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Daddy Distress (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

@inlocusmads ✒️

Intro To Negotiation Science (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

A Strange & Sudden Companionship (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

Cross Your Hearts & Set it Ablaze (COP) - Trystan Thorn x F!MC

Partner (Disambiguation) (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

New York, June 2014 (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

@jerzwriter ✒️

A Different Fate, Part 1 (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

What Happened in Vegas, Part 4 (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Abundance (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

The Perfect Gift (OH) - Tobias Carrick x F!MC

Take Me Out (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

@ladylamrian ✒️

Welcome to the World of Night (NB) - Nightbound MC

Bound by Fate (NB) - Nik Ryder x F!MC

A Meeting in Wyoming (NB) - Nik Ryder x F!MC

Wedding Proposal (NB) - Nik Ryder x F!MC

OC Headcanons (NB)

@liaromancewriter ✒️

Every Day (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Summer Romance (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Beautiful Stranger (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Sleeping Beauty (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Something to Talk About (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

@noesapphic ✒️

The Other Woman (D&D) - Roselyn Sinclaire, Ernest Sinclaire, Duke Richards

A Glimpse of Us (TRR/TRM) - Liam Rys & MC, Fabian Rys & MC

Barcelona | Prince Hamid (D&D) - Prince Hamid x MC

Worthy (TRR) Hana Lee x MC

The Cursed Heiress, Ch. 17 (D&D) - Mr. Sinclaire x F!OC

@peonierose ✒️

Losing Game - Part 1 (OH) - Bryce Lahela x F!OC

Nightbound AU vs. Hänsel & Gretel, Part 3 (NB) - OCs

Nightbound AU vs. Hänsel & Gretel, Part 2 (NB) - Nik Rider, F!MC, OCs

Once, Part 2 (TNA/OH) - Sam Dalton x F!MC

Hau’oli la Heleui (OH) - Bryce Lahela, F!OC, Keiki Lahela

@storyofmychoices ✒️

Go On, Feel It! (BOLAS) - Mal Volari x F!MC

Our Future Doctor (OH) - Bryce Lahela x F!OC

No Kissing! (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

Dance With Me (OH) - Bryce Lahela x F!MC

A Theif in the Gardens (BOLAS) - Mal Volari x F!MC

@tessa-liam ✒️

Memories (TRR) - Liam Rys x F!OC

The Sacrifice (TRR) - Liam Rys x F!OC

Regrets (TRR) - Liam Rys x F!OC

Old Habits Die Hard (TRR) - Liam Rys x F!OC

Turning the Page, Prologue (TRR) - Liam Rys x F!OC

@trappedinfanfiction ✒️

Brunette (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Crossroads (OH) Ⓜ️ - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

A New Neighbor (COP) - Trystan Thorne x F!MC

Midnight Talks (OH) - F!MC, Sienna Trinh

What's in a Name? (COP) - Trystan Thorne

@zealouscanonindeer ✒️

Together (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Company (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Locked In (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

20 Questions (OH) - Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

Long Overdue (OH) Ⓜ️- Ethan Ramsey x F!MC

[kinda-iconic]

Our Last Hope

Author's Notes: And so it is here, the next instalment of Amelia and Ernest's story. I cannot begin to tell you how long I have been working on this - so much so that I have had to split it into two parts! I have loved writing this so much, even though I have broken my own heart once or twice. I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x MC (Amelia)

Word Count: Over 3'500

Tagging: @princess-geek

Additional Tag list (due to past interest): @bloodboundismylife, @i-put-the-sin-in-sinclaire, @nala-raines

Song inspiration: Thank You (youtube.com) From the 'Queen Charlotte' Soundtrack

TICK.

TICK.

TICK.

Luke makes his way along the darkened corridor, a beam of silvery moonlight illuminating his path. He walks in silence, the sudden chiming of the grandfather clock causing him to startle. He takes a moment to recover, rolling out his shoulders before continuing, only to stop in front of an all-too-familiar door. He softly raps on the wood, pressing his ear against the door as if listening for movement.

But he hears nothing.

He looks down, frowning as his gaze befalls a slither of light underneath the frame. He knocks once more, this time accompanying his efforts with the verbal announcement of his presence.

“I know that you are in there, Ernest,” he waits for a response, but he is met with crickets; after a moment, he speaks again, his hand gently grasping the doorknob, “I am coming in.”

He justles the handle, just for a familiar voice to call back to him from the other side.

“There is no need. I am fine.”

Luke shakes his head, a soft smile escaping him, “I am afraid that I cannot accept that until I see you with my own eyes.”

When he receives no answer, Luke enters the room, quickly spotting Ernest, who sits quietly in his armchair, a glass of scotch nestled between his fingertips. He appears dishevelled, his hair unkempt, dark circles making their home under his eyes. He lifts the glass to his lips, downing its contents.

“You have seen me now,” Ernest retorts, exhaling harshly; he reaches for the decanter, his eyes focusing on the auburn liquid as it swirls around its encasement, “are you satisfied?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Ernest scoffs, shaking his head in drunken amusement.

“We cannot help but be concerned, Er-“

“It’s Mr Sinclaire to you,” Ernest counters, “my given name is not one that I allow to be spoken that freely.”

“Other than by Amelia, you mean.”

“Amelia is my wife,” he refills his glass, taking a grateful sip; the liquor burns its way down his throat, causing him to grimace, “that certainly is stronger than I remember.”

“Is that not what you were drinking before?”

“I have finished that bottle already,’ he lifts his glass in the air, gesturing to the empty chair beside him with a tilt of his glass, “drink?”

“If it means that I can watch over you for a little while.”

Ernest doesn’t answer; instead, he rises from his perch, pondering over to his liquor cabinet. He retrieves a fresh glass from within, his fingers fumbling over the rim as he tries to better his grip. Luke frowns, walking over with an offer of assistance.

“Let me help you with that…”

He reaches forward, but is stopped by Ernest, who raises a hand in dismissal.

“I am capable of collecting a glass, Mr Harper.”

He places the vessel down, filling it near enough to the brim. Luke winces, the sound being swiftly rebuked by the quip of Ernest’s brow.

“Have I displeased you in some way?”

“N-no, I just…” Luke lifts the glass to his nose momentarily; he takes a swig, clearing his throat soon after, his eyes enlarging as he watches Ernest finish yet another glass, “maybe you should slow down a little bit.”

“I would say that I am going at a fairly reasonable pace.”

“I meant with the drinking, Sir.”

“I drink as I see fit.”

A comfortable silence passes between the pair for a moment, neither daring to so much as utter a single word. It is only after a couple of minutes that Luke speaks, his expression growing sombre as he studies the broken man before him.

“Normally, you would not hesitate to ask someone to join you in this endeavour.”

“Well, I…I guess I just wanted to be on my lonesome for a little while.”

Ernest walks back over to his chair, slumping back into the leather.

“Is there anything that you need?” Luke enquires, “I can get one of the maids to make you something to-“

“You could get me another scotch,” he looks down at his empty glass, his brows knitting together in a frown, “I…seem to be out.”

“Have mine. Or at least…half of it.”

He retrieves Ernest’s glass, dividing the untouched liquor equally. He places the glass on the end table before meandering over to the fireplace, holding his dainty glass in his outstretched palm. After a moment, Luke tilts his head towards the spirit, his expression unreadable.

“I know it is not much,” he admits, carefully pondering the appropriateness of his following admission, “but I thought that it would be best not to supply you with more should the Doctor need to discuss anything with you.”

Ernest collects his offering, bowing his head in quiet appreciation.

“Is that something that you have decided upon yourself, or did the others influence that decision?”

When he is met with no immediate reply, he shakes his head, a despondent sigh escaping his lips.

“The amount I drink is no concern of yours, nor should it have ever been a talking point for your gossip.”

“Forgive me, Sir,” Luke appears hesitant, aware as to the severity of Ernest’s emotional state, “but we had no choice but to discuss it.”

“My,” Ernest retorts, his response almost sarcastic, “has the rumour mill already run dry?”

He downs the contents of his glass without pause, heading back over to the decanter; his brows furrow in concentration as he fixes himself another drink. He takes a swig, only turning to face Luke once his second glass is almost fully depleted.

“I am sorry that you have drawn the short straw tonight, Mr Harper,” his tone is hollow, “I am not exactly what one would call ‘pleasant’ company right now.”

Luke frowns, “that is not true in the slightest.”

“You were previously close to referring to me as a drunkard.”

“We are worried about you,” Luke takes another step towards to his counterpart, yet choosing to remain at a respectable distance, “if ever you would like anyone to step in and look after the child or sit at Amelia’s bedside-“

“I have no desire for either,” he stops himself short, giving in to his frustration, “I will take care of my family. They are my responsibility.” Ernest takes one last sip of his drink, the glass shaking slightly in his grasp as he forcefully slams it onto the table, “I’ll be damned if anyone else shoulders that.”

“You need rest, Ernest,” Luke approaches cautiously, placing a comforting hand on Ernest’s arm, “you have not slept since Amelia delivered, neither have you been eating properly.” He replaces the lid on the decanter, holding it by its neck before moving it elsewhere, “I can go and ask Briar or one of the kitchen maids if they could prepare-“

“I will eat when my wife is well and not a moment before.”

“What if Amelia doesn’t get better?”

The two men regard one another before Ernest looks away, casting his gaze out the window and to the ground below.

“I do not wish to talk about that.”

“But that is exactly why it needs to be spoken about,” Luke counteracts, “we have all spoken to the Doctor. We know the prognosis-“

“He had no right to discuss Amelia’s condition with any of you,” his exclamation is one of anger, his words laced with emotion and unwarranted venom, “the only one that has any right to know what is going on is me; nobody else.”

“So her brother doesn’t have any right to know how critical her condition is? Her family deserve to-“

“They are not the ones that will feel the impact of her absence the most.”

“No,” Luke’s face falls, his voice taking a sombre tone, “they’re not.”

Ernest retires to his chair, his fingertips gently grasping onto the hem of its material.

“How are you doing? I-I know that is a daft question, but…”

“I honestly cannot recall the last time that someone asked how I was,” Ernest murmurs, “that is not to say that people have not bothered with me, but rather…at least not verbally.”

Luke smiles sadly; Ernest takes his silence as an opportunity to continue.

“Amelia has never been one for fuss,” he smiles sadly as his mind begins to reminisce, “all of this…” he gestures softly with his hand, “all the doting and constant upheaval…it is the last thing that she would have wanted.”

“We do this because we care about her,” Luke interjects, “Amelia is one of us; she is, for better words, the glue that holds us all together.”

“That would be a beautiful sentiment if my wife was not lying unconscious in her death bed.”

“Ernest…”

He stands once more, his unsteady feet subconsciously carrying him over to the window, paying the drop of his name no mind. He remains stood in silence for a moment, his eyes fixated on the curtains before he speaks softly, his voice quiet and sombre, as if his hopefulness has diminished entirely.

“My wife…she is going to die. I cannot and will not sugar-coat it.”

“There is still hope that-“

“Hope?!” Ernest scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, “if that is what you truly believe, then maybe you really are just like the rest.”

There is a short hesitation before Luke stands, brushing away the creases in his jacket.

“I will let that comment pass given the circumstance.”

Ernest remains quiet, his gaze set on the horizon as the sun begins to set once more. Knowing that there is nothing else that he can say to lift Ernest’s spirits, Luke collects his satchel from the ground, eyeing the insignia that has been skilfully carved into the leather.

“You may have given up, My Lord…but I have not,” he pauses momentarily, shouldering the bag, “I promised her father that I would watch over her, and that is what I intend to do.”

He makes his way over to the door, but he is stopped in his path by the sudden intrusion of Miss Sutton, her mouth hanging agape in surprise.

“Forgive me for the interruption…”

“Not at all, M’Lady,” Luke bows his head in acknowledgment before looking over at Ernest, his face aglow with disappointment, “I have nothing more to say.”

He leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. As if sensing that he is still not alone, Ernest turns to Teresa, taking yet another sip of the liquor, “to what do I owe the pleasure, Viscountess?”

“The Doctor would like a word. He believes that Amelia might wake soon.”

“Has anything changed since I saw her last?”

“She is less clammy…and a little bit of colour has returned to her cheeks,” Teresa smiles warmly, “Percival is at her bedside with Harry and Briar.”

“I told Nanny Weskit to take him upstairs to bed.”

“He wanted to see his Mama,” she frowns, her brows furrowing slightly, “is that not a good enough reason for him to stay up past his bedtime?”

“Amelia is not his mother.”

“And you are not his father,” Teresa retorts, “but he treats you as such.”

Ernest falls silent, contemplating her words. She folds her arms across her chest, waiting for a response, but receives none. After a few minutes, she sighs in defeat, looking to the floor as she collects her bearings.

“Look…I understand that you are hurting…” she takes a cautious step forward, “but punishing yourself and taking out your frustrations on others…it is not helping, Ernest.”

He turns at the sound of his name, having not expected its use.

“I cannot begin to fathom what you are going through…but pushing us all away when you need us the most? It is not going to help you. It is not what Amelia would want.”

“I…understand.”

“Then let us in,” she walks over to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm, “allow us to help you. We can watch over Amelia…take care of the children-“

“That is my responsibility.”

“This is not something that you should have to shoulder on your own. We are here to support you.”

He smiles sadly, “I highly doubt that our mother-in-law would agree with that.”

“Henrietta refuses to agree with anything unless it directly benefits her,” she returns his smile, “I know that as much as anyone.”

“I am sorry that you have to endure her temperament so frequently.”

She shakes her head dismissively, “both yourself and Amelia have been subjected to much more than I, believe me.” She beams with pride, interlacing her arm with his own, “and with regards to Henrietta, I must insist that you remember that we are both interlinked. Neither you nor I need to face the brunt of her crassness alone.”

“How is that?”

“We married into this family,” her smile brightens as she looks down at her wedding ring, seemingly becoming lost in a memory, “we may not agree with how our mother-in-law chooses to present herself, but we endure her and everything that she throws our way out of the love and respect we have for her children.”

She exhales softly, giving his arm a comforting squeeze.

“Now, how about you and I join Harry for dinner. I dare not leave him alone with his mother and her meddlesome nature too long.”

“Henrietta is here?”

“Mmmm,” she nods, her lips pressing together in a thin line, “she arrived shortly after the dinner bell was rung.”

“I did not expect her to visit, especially not when Amelia is gravely ill.”

“I am afraid that I do not believe her visit to be for Amelia’s sake but rather her own.”

“She probably wants to witness Amelia herself, seeing as she so desperately clings to the idea that Edgewater rightfully belongs to the Viscount.”

Teresa frowns, casting her gaze downward, “I do wish that you would refrain from discussing Amelia like that, but I…I will not question your grievance.”

“Where is she now?”

“In the dining room, I believe.”

“Then I shall need you to deliver my apologies to the Viscount, for I do not wish to see her face at this given time.” He pauses, “nor will I sit for a meal whilst my beloved is unwell.”

“At least escort me down there,” her words befall that of a plea, “that way you are not left to stew in your own thoughts any longer than you have to be.”

Ernest hesitates, the notion causing him to bristle…but eventually, he nods.

“I…alright.”

The pair begin to walk down the hall towards the dining room, Teresa trying to engage Ernest in gregarious conversation, but as they turn the corner, a frosty voice calls out to them from ahead. Teresa stops almost immediately, her eyes met by an icy blue glare.

“I see that you have taken it upon yourself to entertain your wiles, Miss Sutton.”

“I was simply checking on Mr Sinclaire, Mother,” her last word spoken hastily with a hint of frustration, “it is his family that we are here to see.”

“Keeping company with your sister’s husband alone?” She tuts slightly, “whatever will the servants think?”

“I should hope that they would appreciate my compassion for the Countess’ husband and her children whilst she is ill.”

Henrietta huffs in annoyance, having not expecting Teresa’s witty retort.

“Careful now, Miss Sutton,” she smiles smugly, her words harsh and condescending, “the last thing you want is to be labelled as his dalliance.”

“To even suggest the notion-“

Henrietta chuckles to herself, swiftly changing the target of her bemusement as Ernest stutters, his cheeks reddening with anger.    

“Why are you getting so defensive over a baseless accusation?” She feigns surprise, a gasp of shock escaping her lips, “unless…unless there is some truth to it…”

“I have not and will never entertain the company of another woman. I am faithful to my wife!”

“But is she faithful to you, my Lord?”

Ernest inhales sharply, his eyes widening as his anger begins to boil over. After a moment of silence, he calls out to a member of his household as the lady passes him by.

“Forgive me for troubling you, Cecelia, but I am afraid that I am in need of a favour most urgently.”

The young woman bows her head in acknowledgement, “of course, Sir. What is it that you require?”

“Have a note sent to the Marlcaster estate. Tell them that my darling Mother-in-Law requires a carriage to escort her home at the earliest convenience.”

“But that is not-“

He holds up his hand, the gesture seeming to silence her immediately.

“Tell him that his mother has grown tired and wishes to rest in the comfort of her guest bed.”

“That is a LIE!” Henrietta snipes, turning swiftly with a scowl to face the maid, “I am not some old crone that takes naps in the daylight or needs assistance to complete the smallest of tasks. I am the mother of a Viscount! I DEMAND to be treated as such, even by YOU, Mr Sinclaire.” She smirks coyly, “you are forgetting your station, Sir.”

“And you seem to have forgotten whose home you currently reside.”

He regards Cecelia once more, his expression shifting to one of warmth, “I have changed my mind. Please forget everything that I told you to write down.”

“Do you…not request a carriage, My Lord?”

“On the contrary,” he looks down at his wrists as he speaks, reaching to adjust the cuffs of his shirt, “I do still require a carriage, though I am afraid that the wait is too long for my taste.” He lifts his gaze once more, fixing it on Henrietta, “ask Mr Harris if he would be so kind as to escort her ladyship back to her residence instead. Tell him that I shall pay him triple for his service.”

“And the note?”

“Kindly inform Edmund that his mother is no longer welcome at the Edgewater estate, for neither myself nor my staff are able to entertain her inexcusable and downright insulting presence any longer.”

“H-how dare you-“

“I am not finished,” he interjects, retrieving a pouch of coins from his pocket; he passes it over to Cecelia, his eyes still fixed on Henrietta, “this is a gesture of goodwill, see to it that Mr Marlcaster receives it. Maybe he might be able to purchase himself some earplugs to drown out her irritating voice.”

“Would you please just stop with that incessant whining,” he replies coldly, “my wife is on her death bed, and rather than be by her side I am stood here with you. Do you still not see why I am insulted by your mere presence at this hour?”

To Teresa’s surprise, Henrietta quietens. A young stable-hand approaches, tipping his head in acknowledgement.

“My Lord.”

“See to it that the lady finds her way to a carriage and out of my sight.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

Ernest responds with a curt nod; he spares her no second glance, instead turning on his heel and making his way back along the corridor in the opposite direction, disappearing as Henrietta is removed from the house. Teresa follows along after him, her footsteps hurried.

“Sir, you are going the wrong way!”

“My apologies, Miss Sutton.” He continues on, quickening his pace as he heads towards the stairwell, “but I must bid you goodnight.”

“What about escorting me to dinner?”

“I have spent so long dwelling on what may come to pass that I have forgotten to focus on the present,” he regards Teresa over his shoulder, “I am sorry, Miss Sutton. I know that I agreed to accompany you, but my priority must be my wife and child.”

Before she can get a word out, Ernest disappears up the stairs, completely blanking those that he passes on his way. Dejected, Teresa turns back in the direction to which she came, only to bump into Mr Harper.

“Where has he gone now?”

“Upstairs,” she sighs softly, looking at the flowers that decorate the railings, “he has gone to be with her.”

“Without dinner?”

“He will not eat, Mr Harper. He will not eat or drink…I fear that he is unwell.”

“He is concerned for Amelia’s welfare. We all are.”

“And what if he decides to journey down the wrong path? I worry for him.”

“As do I,” Luke smiles sadly, “but he is tending to Amelia. He will not leave her side.”

“He should be resting."

“I agree,” he tips his head, “but it is also a good thing.”

“How? I am afraid that I do not follow."

 “If he is with Amelia, then we know where to find him.”

“And if he starts to spiral?”

“Then we will be there to catch him,” Luke’s gaze travels to the landing above, his smile softening as he notes the opening and closing of Amelia’s chamber door, “I made a promise…and I intend to keep it.”

[storyofmychoices]

SpreadJoy #723: spreading positivity with quotes and @playchoices characters.

Quote in edit by Dhiman

[fleshybones]

classic list of Disney originals in chronological order starting in the 40s/50s ending 2023

Snow White & Little Briar Rose & The Frog Prince & Rapunzel by Brothers Grimm 

The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi 

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Dumbo the Flying Elephant by Helen Aberson & Harold Pearl Bambi, a Life in the Woods by Felix Salten Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer 

Peter & the Wolf by Sergei Prokofiev Little Bear Bongo by Sinclair Lewis 

Jack and the Beanstalk by Benjamin Tabart Johnny Appleseed, Little Toot by Hardie Gramatky Trees by Joyce Kilmer & Pecos Bill 

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving 

Cinderella & Sleeping Beauty by Charles Perrault 

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll 

Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie Joe Grant’s Pet English Springer Spaniel Lady, Happy Dan, The Cynical Dog, Lady & the Tramp: The Story of Two Dogs by Ward Greene 

The Sleeping Beauty by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky The 101 Dalmatians by Dodie Smith 

The Sword in the Stone by T.H. White 

The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling 

The Secret Origin of the Aristocats by Tom McGowan & Tom Rowe The Legend of Robinhood **

Winnie the Pooh book series by A.A. Milne 

The Rescuers book series by Margery Sharp The Fox and the Hound by Daniel P. Mannix 

The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander 

Basil of Baker Street series by Eve Titus 

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens 

The Little Mermaid & The Steadfast Tin Soldier & The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen 

Beauty and the Beast by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont 

Aladdin and the Magic Lamp from 1001 Nights Hamlet by William Shakespeare 

The Lives of Pocahontas and John Smith **

Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo 

The Greek myth of Heracles **

Ballad of Mulan by Guo Maoqian 

Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs Noah’s Ark inter Alia Kingdom of the Sun by Roger Allers & Matthew Jacobs 

Inca mythology ** 

The Legend of Atlantis ** Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson Inuit cultures ** Sweating Bullets by Mike Gabriel  

Henny Penny ** 

A Day with Wilbur Robinson by William Joyce •

American Dog by Chris Sanders 

The Frog Princess by E.D. Baker 

Scandinavian & Sámi cultures ** 

Big Hero 6 by Man of Action 

Buddy cop films ** Polynesian cultures & Hawaiian mythof Māui** Southeast Asian cultures & mythology ** Colombian culture ** 

Saludos Amigos 

The Three Caballeros Make Mine Music Melody Time 

The Adventures of Ichabod & Mr. Toad 

The Black Cauldron 

The Great Mouse Detective 

Fantasia & Fantasia 2000 

Atlantis : The Lost Empire 

Treasure Planet 

Brother Bear 

Home on the Range Meet the Robinsons 

Bolt 

Zootopia 

Moana  

Raya and the Last Dragon  

Encanto  

Strange World Nov. 23 2022 

Wish Nov. 22, 2023

[alj4890]

Escaping for a Moment

(Ernest Sinclaire x MC*Catherine Mills) in a Choices Desire and Decorum drabble

Thirty Kisses in Thirty Days Challenge with the prompt: forbidden lovers sharing a kiss in the shadows

Not quite sure who to tag for this one since it has been so long since I last wrote a drabble for this pair. Plus in cleaning out my drafts folder I lost my permatag list 🤦🏻‍♀️Tagging some who won't be too angry at me for doing so, LOL! @hopelessromantic1352 @twinkleallnight @tessa-liam @choicesficwriterscreations @krsnlove

Masterlist

"Enjoying yourself, my dear?"

Lady Catherine Mills stiffened at the sound of her fiancé's voice.

There was nothing that made her skin crawl quite like Tristan Richard's oily tone.

A scathing insult sat on the tip of her tongue to give the odious man the set down he so rightly deserved. One glance at her grandmother's stern demeanor instead had her forcing a smile.

"I am. Thank you, your grace."

The Duke of Karlington leered at her. He purposely moved closer and placed her hand within the bend of his arm. He enjoyed watching her suffer being trapped with him.

The Dowager Countess beamed at the pair. She was pleased beyond measure that her natural granddaughter had managed to capture such a prized suitor. There wasn't a young lady here who had done so well in such little time.

Nor with such a questionable background.

"You should dance and show her off, your grace." She prodded.

"What a marvelous notion." Tristan remarked.

He placed his hand over Catherine's, smiling all the more with her trying to avoid his touch.

"Shall we show them how it's done, my lady?"

Catherine knew she must say yes. It galled her to have to spend a single moment in this man's presence much less dance with him. The thought of his hands upon her body made her wish to find a chamber pot to wretch in.

If only she was allowed to marry the one man whom she so deeply loved. Mr. Ernest Sinclair was so many things to Catherine. He'd been her savior, her friend, and finally the one who stirred her soul like no other.

Why had they tarried so long that night before sharing the joyful news of their engagement? If they'd only found her grandmother sooner, Catherine would be eagerly taking a turn on the dance floor with her fiancé, Mr. Sinclair, instead of the fiend pretending to be a gentleman at her side.

Life seemed determined to be unfair for the young lady. Not only was she denied her true love, she also was denied even a glimpse of him. For reasons she assumed were because she was promised to another, Mr. Sinclair had yet to make an appearance this evening.

If it were not for Ms. Parsons and Prince Hamid being there to bolster her spirits, Catherine would most likely have dissolved into tears. Her heart ached for Ernest. She was near the point of throwing decorum out the window and running off to Gretna Green with him.

She no longer cared if her beloved father had intended to leave Edgewater to her instead of her stepbrother. Mr. Marlcaster wasn't a bad sort. Catherine could see that he truly had a kind heart when not under the thumb of his mother.

If her dear Briar believed he was all that was good in this world, then Catherine couldn't doubt it. Her friend had a way of seeing one's true nature. Mr. Marlcaster might fumble the finances and such, but he would be a good steward to the people of Edgewater.

She knew if she was to run away with Ernest, scandal would be forever associated with her name. Did it matter though? Her questionable birth already tainted her reputation, though she had no control over those circumstances. At least the new gossip would be something she could happily live with.

"Lady Catherine?" Tristan hissed. "Are you not paying attention?"

Catherine jerked her head away from the feeling of his breath on her ear.

The Dowager laughed at the notion.

"She is most likely lost in thought over the notion of marrying you, your grace."

Tristan's smile was one most ladies deemed charming.

Catherine found little to like in it.

"Is that true, my dear? Are you thinking about our wedding?" His voice lowered for her ears alone. "Or is your baseborn nature concentrating on our wedding night?"

Catherine jerked her hand from his. Trembling with suppressed rage, she pleaded for them to excuse her.

Blinded by angry tears, she wound her way through the crush of guests in search of an escape. Since the retiring room was filled with giggling ladies, she next hoped to find a quiet corner outside to try and calm down.

She shook her head when Prince Hamid asked if she needed him. After tripping her way to a side door, Catherine slipped outside and rushed deep into the shadows.

Her exit was halted by a pair of strong arms wrapping around her.

"Catherine?" Mr. Sinclair said softly to try and shush her cries.

"Ernest!" She twirled in his arms, her hands cupping his face as her lips immediately sought his.

Ernest deepened the kiss, holding her even closer within his embrace.

Catherine broke away to catch her breath. "I thought you were not coming."

"I could not stay away." He caressed her cheek. "I do not care what anyone thinks. I refuse to stand by and see you married to such a man as Duke Richards."

Though she couldn't see him well, his voice made her heart sing with his next words.

"You were created for me, Catherine. You are to be no one's wife but mine."

She sighed into the heat of his next kiss. Her hands moved along his broad shoulders, glorying in the fact that he was truly here and still wanted her for his own.

"My love," she breathed as his lips brushed kisses down her neck, "I want nothing more than to be Mrs. Sinclair."

"And so you shall." He fervently promised. "We will find a way out of your betrothal. The Duke of Karlington will not lay another finger on you."

The mention of her fiancé's name forced Catherine to reluctantly pull away.

"I should return before my grandmother sends the duke for me."

"I'll escort you back." Ernest pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before releasing her.

She took his arm, leaning closer than appropriate. She needed a few more moments near him if she was to endure the rest of the ball.

Once inside, notes were played to signal that the Allemande was about to begin.

"Would you do me the honor, my lady?" Mr. Sinclair asked in that proud proper tone of his.

Catherine looked up at him. Her eyes traced his handsome features in the nearby candlelight. Her first genuine smile of the night appeared upon her slightly kiss swollen lips. She could continue to play the part of a respectable noble as long as he was near.

"Thank you, Mr. Sinclair." She said with a polite tilt of her head. "I would love to."

As he took her in his arms to dance, Catherine felt both her hope and courage return.

She would find a way to freedom and celebrate it with the man at her side.

[sapphoschoices]

Sooo disturbing to be referring to Mr Sinclaire as "Ernest" like that's not who he issss stop it it's so jarring

Totally in contrast to how I feel about Edmund Marlcaster and Harry, like why does Edmund keep calling him "Viscount Harry" like thats your brother, why not just call his by his name? And after a certain point, it just feels weird for MC to call him "Mr Marlcaster " even if you actually befriend him (I haven't had the strength to not befriend him yet...). Like he's your brother in almost every sense of the word, you cried over your father's death together, I don't know if it's more historically accurate or something, maybe it is (this is not my area of knowledge) but it just feels so ingenuine and it feels odd, i do not like it

[dcbbw]

Dawn’s Early Light

My Dearest @tessa-liam:

Surprise … I’m your #choicessecretpal22!

Before we get into unwrapping your present (which comes with a gift receipt for returns if you don’t like it), I’d like to take a few moments to say THANK YOU for being such a supportive member of the fandom, whether you are creating content (linking your Masterlist for those who don’t know) or enthusiastically supporting others who do via reblogs and insightful commentary.

When I got your wish list, I was sorely tempted to go with the obvious choice given we are both King Liam stans, but I considered: You get Liam content (from me, at least) all year round. You know what isn’t as prevalent? Desire & Decorum content.

So, I gift you my rewrite of the iconic duel between Ernest Sinclaire and Duke Richards. I sincerely hope you (and any who read this story) enjoy it. FYI, I used the default name, Clara Mills.

Thank you so much @choicesfandomappreciation for hosting such a wonderful event!

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. I proofed it really well, but it’s me, and I am not the best at wrapping gifts. MS Editor rates the story as 99% error-free.

Rating is M for Mature

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Song inspo: A Bitter Song, Butterfly Boucher

Word count: 3,356

Content warning: gun violence, slightly nsfw

Dawn, The Castle Ruin

The early morning held a chill; it dusted the cracked earth with a light frost and turned breath into puffs of white. A man and woman emerged from the shadows of the abandoned castle ruin, hands tightly clasped together as they walked across the desolate field. The quiet was broken by their shoes crunching over sparse, white-tipped blades of grass, and her hitching breath as she held back tears.

The man’s gait slowed, and she peered up at him through tear-tangled lashes. His bluish-gray eyes smiled down at her, though his expression remained somber.

“Clara, my love …whatever happens today … I am in completely and utterly in love with you. For eternity.”

His palm cupped her cheek before his fingers combed through her thick dark tresses that flowed from beneath her bonnet. A bittersweet smile curved his mouth before slowly fading; he worried his lower lip before letting out a deep sigh.

“My will … everything goes to you. Ledford Park, assets, heirlooms, all of it. Mr. Harper has the official document in the event things do not go as planned.”

Clara pulled him closer, deeply inhaling his scent as her cheek lay upon his chest. “Ernest, don’t speak like that!” She pulled away, staring into his eyes beseechingly. “I can’t live in a world that doesn’t have you in it,” she sobbed.

Ernest Sinclaire pulled his lover closer to his body, his strong arms embracing her tightly. “I pray to the Lord above you won’t have to.”

The pair stayed that way for a few moments, pulling away only when they heard the thundering of horse hooves draw closer.

“Why is there such a goofy smile on your face, Mr. Sinclaire?” Clara Mills teased as she made herself as comfortable as possible upon a large boulder just outside the ruined castle.

Ernest Sinclaire sat on the ground with his long legs stretched out before him, staring dreamily into Clara’s face. A bemused grin split his lips. “’Mr. Sinclaire?’ Why so formal, m’lady? And if it isn’t apparent, I am in love with you. Foolishly so, it seems.”

Clara laughed, the peals almost musical. “It’s quite apparent. Hopefully my feelings for you are as transparent.”

Before Ernest could reply, a gravelly voice interrupted their conversation.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this lovely?” Duke Richards sneered, a scowl marring his facial features. “I come searching for my fiancée, and she’s both enthralled and entangled with another!”

Clara’s eyes were mere slits and her mouth a thin line against her now hardened expression. “I am NOT your fiancée! I am HIS! I had already accepted Mr. Sinclaire’ s proposal before this farce you insist upon parading before the public!”

“Your own grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Edgewater, arranged this union between us,” Duke Richards snarled as sunlight glinted the silver threading his dark brown hair. “It is official, and there is nothing you can do to break it, you ungrateful harlot!”

Clara fell silent. While she had been finding love, Lady Grandmother had been seeking advantageous unions for her only granddaughter. Despite her numerous connections, the best Dominique Foredale could do was Duke Richards, the worst of the lot.

Ernest Sinclaire leapt to his feet. “THAT is quite enough, Your Grace,” he bellowed. “You shan’t tarnish the reputation of the Lady of Edgewater in such a manner!”

The Duke looked at Mr. Sinclaire in amused surprise. “Her reputation is already sullied! I am doing her a favor even agreeing to marry and lift her station in life. I am two generations removed from royalty! You are merely gentry, and she? She is a commoner wench who stumbled into some form of nobility!”

His Grace’s gaze fell upon Clara. “Get UP and come along, fiancée! Don’t make me ask again!” he snapped peevishly.

Ernest stepped protectively in front of Clara, his arms hanging at his sides; his hands curled into fists. “Let us settle this once and for all, Your Grace. I challenge you to a duel. Pistols at dawn for the honor and hand of Lady Clara. The winner has her for as long the Lord allows the union to last. The first to fall walks away with no more connection or communication with her.”

“ERNEST!” Clara screamed at hearing the words.

Duke Richards’ eyes darted between the two, a shrewd expression on his face while his index finger stroked his chin. “And you’ll walk away, out of her life. Forever?”

Ernest’s eyes hardened. “The loser will.”

The Duke shrugged. “Same difference.” He looked around. “Where do you propose we have this … duel?”

“Here. At dawn,” Mr. Sinclaire replied.

“I’ll see you at dawn.” The Duke tugged at his waistcoat, preparing to take his leave. His eyes fell upon Clara. “I’ll see you at dinner. Don’t be late,” he warned.

As the noble stalked off into the woods that led back to Edgewater, Ernest Sinclaire’ s face paled as he fell to the ground, lightly thumping his forehead against the rock his beloved sat on.

“I’ve just challenged the Duke to a duel,” he murmured disbelievingly.

“And it won’t be a fair fight,” Clara muttered as her fingers combed through his chestnut-colored hair.

The gathering met in the clearing, divided into two groups: Duke Tristan Richards and his second, Sir Gideon Payne on one side; Ernest, Clara, and their friends on the other.

The Duke and Sir Gideon whispered amongst themselves, the second occasionally patting his jacket pocket. Despite the nip in the air, neither man wore an outer coat.

Miss Annabelle Parsons huddled with Clara, hugging the younger woman close to her side. The Lady of Hazelvale’s expression was stoic as her eyes flitted about, observing everyone.

Briar Daly, Clara’s best friend and lady’s maid, wrapped a woolen shawl about Clara’s shoulders as she strained to hear what the Duke and Sir Gideon were discussing. The constant plumes of white emitting from their lips suggested it was urgent; the lowness of their voices confirmed it was clandestine.

Prince Hamid, the ambassador for the Ottoman Empire, glared at the Duke, not bothering to hide his disdain for the noble.

Luke Harper, Ernest’s second, was in conversation with the country squire, uncertainty washing over his features as he examined the pistol cradled in his palm.

“The Duke shall be dead in the morning!” Briar Daly declared in a decidedly cheerful voice which was at odds with her words.

The friends were seated in the study at Ledford Park, discussing the impending duel.  After minutes of thunderstruck silence upon hearing of Mr. Sinclaire’s challenge, the visitors had erupted in bouts of jesting and laughter and mocking His Grace, Clara included.

Ernest Sinclaire looked at them, the pit of his stomach turning sour as his anger and frustration mounted. But his tone was measured when he spoke.

“I’m certain that this joviality is an effort to relieve the … heaviness we must all be feeling at what awaits me in the morning, but we mustn’t lose sight of who we’re dealing with. This is a man who rapes unsuspecting women and demands thank-yous from them for sharing his noble seed with them. A man whose wealth was built upon unscrupulous deals. A man whose very word cannot ever be trusted.”

His friends watched Ernest Sinclaire with somber eyes and sober expressions, the merriment of a few moments ago now gone. He met their gazes and gave a rueful shake of his head.

“This is without doubt the most foolish thing I have ever done, but now I know what true love is and I refuse to let it slip away. Or be taken away.”

Clara rose from the settee, quickly making her way to Ernest’s side. She rose on tiptoes to place a sweet, lingering kiss on his cheek. “I’m not worth a duel.”

“You’re worth everything,” Ernest replied.

“Well, what do we need to do?” Miss Parsons asked briskly as her palms smoothed the skirt of her dress.

“I need a second. Mr. Harper, I would be honored to have you by my side.”

“Are you quite sure of that, Mr. Sinclaire?” Prince Hamid asked. “The rules state that your second must be your societal equal.” The Prince looked quickly at Luke Harper. “No offense, Mr. Harper.”

Luke nodded. “None taken, Your Highness. I thank you … all of you … for seeing me as a person, not a colored person.”

Ernest had risen from his chair and was using a key to open a glass cupboard that lined the back wall. “I see you as a man, Mr. Harper. As for societal equals, I’m Mr. Sinclaire, he’s Mr. Harper. We have the same title.”

“I am humbled by your invitation, Mr. Sinclaire, but I served in the Navy, not the militia.”

“A pistol is a pistol, Luke.” Ernest removed a firearm from the cabinet’s shelves. “Just aim and fire. Let’s practice, shall we?”

“Come along, come along,” Duke Richards grumbled as he infiltrated the band of comrades. “I’m ready to have breakfast with my fiancée.”

“Pride cometh before a fall, Your Grace,” Briar snapped as she stepped in front of Clara.

The Duke unceremoniously pushed the maid out of his way. “This isn’t my first time taking a woman from Sinclaire. Although I’ve never had to get up so early to do so. And one.more.word, and you will be unemployed.”

Briar bit her tongue at the noble’s words. She knew the Duke was referring to Roselyn Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair’s former wife.

Mrs. Ernest Sinclaire was a social climbing gold digger who had never loved her husband, marrying the young squire for access to his small fortune; for reasons known only to her, she indulged in a year-long affair with Duke Richards.

Roselyn became pregnant with the Duke’s child and Mr. Sinclaire threw her out into the street; she soon returned when the nobleman refused to even acknowledge her existence. The Sinclaires continued to live together in Ledford Park but led separate lives.

Mr. Sinclaire never told his wife’s family or friends of her indiscretion to spare her reputation, the only thing she had left.

Roselyn died in childbirth, and her son given to her brother to raise.

Duke Richards’ eyes lingered over Clara’s countenance, studying her as one would a storefront display. His gray eyes were the color of storm clouds as he took in her hair flowing freely about her shoulders instead of modestly pulled back and braided.

His lips thinned when he noticed the intimate bruises along the column of her throat. His hands tightened into fists when Clara defiantly turned her head to the side, giving the Duke a glimpse of the markings against her neck.

The Lady gave him a haughty look before speaking so low, only the Duke could hear. “Regardless the outcome, you will NEVER have me in any way! I belong to Mr. Sinclaire and he, to me.”

Duke Richards thrust his face into hers; there was less than an inch of space between them. He bared yellow-stained teeth in a wolfish grin. When he spoke, his breath was foul. Clara’s nose wrinkled at the stench.

“You rutting bitch, I couldn’t care less what the hell your commoner ass does with that noble wanna-be once I get hold of Edgewater,” he taunted.

“You will CERTAINLY NOT ever be in possession of Edgewater!” Clara seethed.

“The Dowager Countess has practically promised it to me and has agreed to draw up papers to that effect. Don’t believe me? Ask her yourself after I win this duel.”

Clara’s blood ran even colder. Ernest MUST win!

He pulled back, straightening the lapels of his red jacket. “I suggest you learn now how to treat me with the respect my position warrants. It could save a life and make yours more … pleasant.”

Duke Richards turned at feeling a hand cup his elbow; it was Sir Gideon. “Your Grace, it’s time.”

Ernest Sinclaire made his way to Clara’s side, his brow furrowed in concern and ire. “Are you in distress, my darling? My attempts to reach you were …thwarted.” His eyes slid to Gideon Payne who was now in discussion with Luke Harper.

Clara’s eyes began to water as they searched Ernest’s face, committing his every feature to memory. “Ernest …”

Mr. Sinclaire’s head bent, and his lips pressed against hers, quickly and fiercely. “I’ll never forget last night,” he vowed as his eyes held hers. “I’ll never forget you.”

Clara pressed her palm to his cheek, relishing in the warmth of his flesh despite the temperature. “Godspeed, my love.”

Thin fingers of moonlight slithered through the cracks in the castle roof; Clara focused her gaze on the silvery-white light sparkling against the broken stained-glass window as Ernest’s full lips kissed a searing trail from her throat to her breasts.

His tongue wetly licked the puckered pink of one of her nipples, while his fingertips pulled and gently pinched the other. His skin, tanned in the daylight, was pale in the shadowy darkness.

But warm. So warm.

The pair had left Ledford Park just before sunset to clear their heads as best they could. It was unspoken that they would return to the ruin; it had become a sanctuary for them. A space where there were no worries, no problems.

Just them and their love.

Tonight, their sanctuary was becoming hallowed ground.

Ernest was at her center now; his large palms pressed against the silk of her thighs, pushing them apart. There was a low moan as his lips wrapped around her clitoris, and he suckled eagerly. Clara’s eyes closed as she felt a slickness cover her folds; the scent of arousal filled her nostrils. She didn’t know if it was hers or his.

Or both.

His name fell from her lips as his tongue slid in and out of her entry; her hands fell into his hair when his fingers walked along her wet walls. She groaned when his manhood entered her tightness. His movements were slow and deliberate at first, but quickly sped up as she accommodated his length and girth.

“Open your eyes, darling,” he commanded.

Clara obeyed, keeping her gaze trained on his.

They screamed their orgasms to the heavens above.

Afterwards, when the silence was broken by Ernest’s snores and the sound of his heartbeat in her ear, Clara prayed that she and Ernest would have forever together.

However that may come about.

The two men faced each other with very different expressions. Duke Richards’ was smug, Ernest Sinclaire’s was stone-faced.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Luke Harper asked.

The Duke and Squire nodded in unison.

“Sir Gideon shall count up to 10; for each tally, you will both take a pace in opposite directions. At the final count, you will face each other and draw weapons. Do you understand?”

The men nodded again.

For the first time since their arrival, the group was silent.

Briar bent her head in prayer.

Clara clutched Miss Parson’s hand tightly, her eyes glued to Ernest Sinclaire’s form.

Prince Hamid stood next to Luke Harper, hands behind his back, his dark blue eyes inscrutable as he watched the exchange.  

The seconds handed the principals their weapons. Ernest frowned slightly as he hefted the pistol; it didn’t feel … right. A frisson of fear licked at the inside of his belly, but he shrugged it off.

His weapon of choice was a sword, not a gun.

“ONE!” Sir Gideon shouted.

The sky began to streak with orange and yellow; the first of the sunrise rose over the abandoned castle as the count continued. Ernest felt his heart rate increase with every measured step. He had to win. It wasn’t that he minded death; he didn’t. It was all the circle of life. But to leave Clara at the mercy of the jackal mere steps behind him?

Unacceptable.  

“TEN!” Sir Gideon announced.

Ernest spun on his heel, weapon drawn. Ten paces away, Duke Richards mimicked his stance. His index finger curled around the trigger, but nothing happened. He pulled again but the firing pin was jammed.

What the hell?

The shot that rang out across the clearing was a thunderclap upon the still air.

Every movement following seemed to happen in slow motion:

The looks of surprise and pain that washed over the Squire’s face.

The gun falling from his hand, landing in a patch of damp grass three feet away.

The bloom of blood against his white shirt as he fell backwards.

The flopping of his thick brown hair against his forehead as he landed heavily against the earth.

Clara, Luke, and Annabelle Parsons rushed to Mr. Sinclaire’s side, determining the placement of the wound. Without thought, Clara hooked her hands together, frantically pressing her palms against the flow of blood. It was warm and pulsing against her skin; her hands were soon coated with it.

Dear God, there’s so much blood!

Duke Richard’s sauntered over, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “Well, that was quicker than even I anticipated.” His eyes were slate stones when his gaze settled on Clara. “Let’s go, darling,” he ordered.

Clara paid him no attention, her eyes focused on Ernest’s face. His skin was as white as a sheet, and perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. All while his blood ran thin rivers over brown dirt.

Hallowed ground.

“Not so fast, Your Grace!” Luke interrupted as he rose. “You still have to face me!”

Duke Richards looked confused. “Why? You want to join him?”

“The rules require it, Your Grace!” Annabelle Parsons shouted in anger and fear.

Prince Hamid walked slowly towards Luke, examining the fallen pistol in his hand. “Mr. Harper, this isn’t Mr. Sinclaire’s gun.”

The Duke and his second snapped their eyes to the Prince.

“You LIAR!” the noble snarled.

Luke snatched the gun, giving it a cursory once-over. “And YOU are a cheater, Duke Richards! There is no inscription on this weapon; Mr. Sinclaire’s gun had an inscription on the barrel.” Luke continued his examination. “There are no bullets in the chamber, and the firing pin is missing.”

His eyes settled on Sir Gideon. “This is NOT the gun I exchanged with you during the inspection.”

The Duke’s face flushed red. “Oh, come now! Mr. Sinclaire and I had a gentlemen’s agreement! Of COURSE that’s the gun you gave Gideon! HOW could he have switched weapons with you RIGHT THERE?”  

Snatches of the conversation reached Clara’s ears, but she was too busy trying to staunch the flow of blood. If only she had a cloth …

She was roused from her mission by Prince Hamid. He knelt beside her, his cape folded in his hands. “Here, let me, Lady Clara,” he offered in a gentle voice.

She nodded quickly, changing positions so Ernest’s head could lay in her lap. She smiled tearfully into his face. “Stay with us, love. Please stay.”

Ernest Sinclaire’s face was distorted with pain and slick with sweat. “Clara … I’m so sorry.” His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to maintain consciousness.

Luke Harper and Prince Hamid were still arguing with the Duke and Sir Gideon. “YOU HAVE TO FACE ME!” Mr. Harper shouted.

“For what? With what? You don’t even have a pistol!” Sir Gideon replied snidely.

Duke Richards stepped away, making a beeline to Clara. Gideon could handle Luke Harper. “You have two minutes to say goodbye!”

“I’m not going ANYWHERE with YOU!”

The Duke ignored her, his gaze now on Ernest Sinclaire. Even the nobleman had to admit the Squire was in dire shape. Ernest’s eyes opened; upon seeing his nemesis, he croaked out, “Go to hell.”

“Seems you’ll beat me there. Do save me a seat, won’t you?”

Clara’s attention was caught by the figure headed their way, pistol in hand. Her eyes widened in fright. “Ernest,” she whimpered.

Mr. Sinclaire’s gaze shifted, and his eyes widened slightly.

The Duke turned, irritated at the interruption.

A shadow fell over the trio as a second shot rang out.

As the sun rose majestically against a cloudless blue sky, Ernest Sinclaire’s eyes closed.

Clara screamed as blood from the gunshot slowly spread across the white shirt.

Tagging:  @jared2612 @ao719  @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020  @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet  @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @phoenixrising0308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @foreverethereal123 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @jovialyouthmusic @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @queenrileyrose @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame  @queenmiarys  @choicesficwriterscreations @burnsoslow

[ladylamrian-archive]

Mr. Sinclaire writing his will ⚜️✍️🏼

Ernest, my love... I won't let you die 😭😭😭😭 Oh, Mr. Sinclaire... A will?! He loves me so much

[nightsidewrestling]

D.U.D.E Bios: Byron Winter

The Politician Husband of Geia Byron Lucifarian (2020)

The husband of Geia, Byron. He's a politician and about as stereotypically sketchy and sneaky as you would expect from an American politician.

"Money moves mountains."

Name

Full Legal Name: Byron Wilbur Winter

First Name: Byron

Meaning: From a surname that was originally from a place name meaning 'Place of the cow sheds' in Old English.

Pronunciation: BIE-ren

Origin: English

Middle Name: Wilbur

Meaning: From an English surname that was originally derived from the nickname 'Wildbor' meaning 'Wild boar' in Middle English.

Pronunciation: WIL-ber

Origin: English

Surname: Winter

Meaning: From Old English 'Winter' or Old High German 'Wintar' meaning 'Winter'.

Pronunciation: WIN-tar

Origin: English, German, Swedish

Alias: None

Reason: None

Nicknames: Ron, Will

Titles: Mr

Characteristics

Age: 53

Gender: Male. He/Him Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: May 23 1967

Symbols: None

Sexuality: Straight

Religion: Catholic

Native Language: English

Spoken Languages: English, Spanish, Russian

Relationship Status: Married

Astrological Sign: Gemini

Theme Song (Ringtone on Geia's Phone): 'Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money)' - Pet Shop Boys

Voice Actor: Chevy Chase

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Spokane, Washington, USA

Current Location: Spokane, Washington, USA

Hometown: Spokane, Washington, USA

Appearance

Height: 6'0" / 182 cm

Weight: 180 lbs / 81 kg

Eye Colour: Brown

Hair Colour: Ginger (Slowly Going White)

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: Hairy

Facial Hair: Clean Shaven

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) None

Piercings: None

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: N/A

Enemies: N/A

Friends: Xenophon Lum, Rudolf Volkov

Colleagues: N/A

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Nathan Winter

Mentor: Rudyard Winter

Significant Other: Pelageya Winter (33, 2nd Wife, Née Volkov)

Previous Partners: Caprice Winter (R.I.P, 1st Wife, Née Thorne)

Parents: Rudyard Winter (73, Father), Doris Winter (74, Mother, Née Triggs)

Parents-In-Law: Rudolf Volkov (53, Father-In-Law), Diana Volkov (54, Mother-In-Law, Née Shvets)

Siblings: Agatha Quincy (50, Sister, Née Winter), Russel Winter (47, Brother), Dana Norton (44, Sister, Née Winter), Osbert Winter (41, Brother), Rochelle Knight (38, Sister, Née Winter), Isaac Winter (35, Brother), Spring Hopper (32, Sister, Née Winter), Graham Winter (29, Brother), Alice Winter (26, Sister), Truman Winter (23, Brother), Helen Winter (20, Sister)

Siblings-In-Law: Arthur Quincy (51, Agatha's Husband), Sorrel Winter (48, Russel's Wife, Née Everly), Stephen Norton (45, Dana's Husband), Edith Winter (42, Osbert's Wife, Née Butler), Lysander Knight (39, Rochelle's Husband), Lois Winter (36, Isaac's Wife, Née Yoxall), Anthony Hopper (33, Spring's Husband)

Ardalion Volkov (30, Pelageya's Brother), Sabina Volkov (31, Ardalion's Wife, Née Melnik), Matrona Volkov (27, Pelageya's Sister), Yaroslav Volkov (24, Pelageya's Brother), Klavdia Volkov (21, Pelageya's Sister), Wassily Volkov (18, Pelageya's Brother), Oxana Volkov (15, Pelageya's Sister)

Nieces & Nephews: Feliks Volkov (10, Nephew), Nadine Vipond (30, Niece, Née Quincy), Joseph Vipond (31, Nadine’s Husband), Ambrose Quincy (27, Nephew), Shirley Quincy (24, Niece), Bronte Quincy (21, Nephew), Emerald Quincy (18, Niece), Robert Quincy (15, Nephew), Tanya Quincy (12, Niece), Oscar Quincy (9, Nephew), Clara Quincy (6, Niece), Harold Quincy (3, Nephew), Emily Winter (27, Niece), Louis Winter (24, Nephew), Laura Winter (21, Niece), Ernest Winter (18, Nephew), Sinclair Winter (15, Niece), Alfred Winter (12, Nephew), Allison Winter (9, Niece), Charles Winter (6, Nephew), Octavia Winter (3, Niece), Ian Norton (24, Nephew), Shirlee Norton (21, Niece), Neil Norton (18, Nephew), Terry Norton (15, Niece), Henry Norton (12, Nephew), Amy Norton (9, Niece), Homer Norton (6, Nephew), Ardath Norton (3, Niece), Marcus Winter (21, Nephew), Louisa Winter (18, Niece), Ivan Winter (15, Nephew), Lydia Winter (12, Niece), Upton Winter (9, Nephew), Toni Winter (6, Niece), Aldous Winter (3, Nephew), Margaret Knight (18, Niece), Albert Knight (15, Nephew), Ethel Knight (12, Niece), Raymond Knight (9, Nephew), Ione Knight (6, Niece), Paul Knight (3, Nephew), Pearl Winter (15, Niece), Peter Winter (12, Nephew), Ayn Winter (9, Niece), Philip Winter (6, Nephew), Meredith Winter (3, Niece), Jacob Hopper (12, Nephew), Irish Hopper (9, Niece), Jonathan Hopper (6, Nephew), Mary Hopper (3, Niece)

Children: Nathan Winter (33, Son), Zinnia Turner (30, Daughter, Née Winter), Laurence Winter (27, Son), Xanthia Winter (24, Daughter), Joseph Winter (21, Son), Venetia Winter (18, Daughter), Isaiah Winter (15, Son), Uliana Winter (12, Daughter), Emil Winter (9, Son)

Children-In-Law: Genesis Winter (34, Nathan's Wife, Née Rivers), Patrick Turner (31, Zinnia's Husband)

Grandkids: Quincy Winter (13, Grandson), Hadley Winter (10, Granddaughter), Bethany Turner (10, Granddaughter)

Great Grandkids: None

Wrestling

Billed From: N/A

Trainer: N/A

Managers: N/A

Wrestlers Managed: N/A

Debut: N/A

Debut Match: N/A

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: N/A

Stables: N/A

Teams: N/A

Regular Moves: N/A

Finishers: N/A

Refers To Fans As: N/A

Extras

Trivia: Nothing of Note