#also did i mention it’s still set in Victorian London

[evapillar]

Grading Sherry Thomas’s Lady Sherlock series on these:

1. ✅ Miss Charlotte Holmes dresses in garishly feminine gowns (except when she’s in disguise)

2. ✅ Holmes has what the reader will recognize as high-functioning autism, and doesn’t naturally express her emotions in a traditional way, but she is fundamentally deeply compassionate, especially towards people neglected by society. (This includes her elder sister Bernadine who “can’t look after herself” i.e. has nonverbal autism. Ensuring Bernadine is safe and thriving is consistently Charlotte’s top priority throughout the series, which makes for some cool subplots I haven’t seen elsewhere.)

3. ✅ Mrs. John Watson is essentially Holmes’s found-family mother and has her own set of impressive knowledge and skills from her time as an actress and courtesan that complement Holmes

4. ✅ Irene Alder is not in this series because the entire story is about women society considers less than respectable carving out lives for themselves

5. ❌ …okay, yeah, Moriarty is just absolutely everywhere

6. ✅ Holmes works with the police and has a friend on the force, but also lots of her cases are for people who the police would ignore. She also routinely lies to keep people out of jail. It’s actually a really nuanced portrayal

7. ✅ idk what to say, this just doesn’t happen

Behold the seven deadly sins of Sherlock Holmes adaptations:

Having Holmes constantly wear the notorious deerstalker cap

Making Holmes into a sociopathic big-brain asshole

Portraying Watson as a bumbling idiot

Holmes and Irene having a romance thing going on for some reason. It's either that or making her evil

The villain always being Moriarty

Copaganda

"Elementary, my dear Watson"

Lemme know if I missed anything!

[corvus-the-trickster]

So in (I think it's Henry's?) bio it says that he proposed to Evie in 1868 with some flowers (cute). And now that we know the og timeline is really short apparently - taking place early in the year over the course of two-ish months - when did you think Henry proposed and what did they do for the wedding? Did Henry's parents sail over from India to the U.K or did they sail to India and get married? Did Evie meet them beforehand or after they got engaged? (I like to think Jacob walked her down the aisle or whatever it is assassin weddings are like).

I'm assuming that the proposal happened before they got knighted based on their closeness and just their animations in the background before Freddy helps the queen out of the carriage and the fact it's victorian london (even if the assassins are taught outside of the usual social setting etc, evie was still raised by Ethan.)

I most definitely do not think Evie would have met Arbaaz or Praya before they got engaged considering the boat over would have taken like what 4 months minimum iirc.

Could not tell you about what i think their wedding is like as I don't really know some of the wedding customs of India (punjabi or kashmiri or even if there is a difference, not to mention the differences there's likely to be between islamic or hindi weddings) , and I do think it'd at least be a blended/fusion (???) wedding.

Edit: i also forgot to mention is that we do in fact see the proposal in game which i another reason why i think it happens at some point close to the main story

[pretensesoup]

Queer books, day 13/30

All right, ready to dive back into the seedy world of M/M romance novels after yesterday's unnecessarily heartfelt diversion?

This book is like...James Bond meets and shags a Jewish Oscar Wilde. Also there's some plot about blackmail. It's set in the middle of the belle époque, so right around 1900, at a time when many noble families suddenly realized that they weren't quite as wealthy as they once had been but were still saddled with large country houses, trendy London homes, big payrolls, etc. (This is also the plot of Downton Abbey.)

Anyway, one thing I enjoy about KJ Charles is that she writes Jewish characters into her stuff. The first one I came across, in Band Sinister, was only a side character, but...I had this sudden revelation that I didn't really ever see Jews represented in fiction that wasn't set around WWII. In the same way one could get the sense that there are no queer people before Stonewall except for Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde, it's weirdly easy to get the feeling that Jews only really existed from about 1929 to 1946. (And in the works of Michael Chabon and the film The Big Lebowski, which is the best film ever.)

Daniel da Silva is the Jewish character here--yes, he's Sephardic, which is both accurate for migration patterns (England got a bunch of Jews following the Spanish Inquisition) and unusual in itself, as Jews seem to be primarily northern European when portrayed in fiction. He's a poet and a spy, brilliant and mercurial, not much of a fighter but very good at what he does. He meets a guy named Captain Archie Curtis, who is a war vet who lost several fingers to a poorly manufactured gun. They solve a crime (and do sex--did I mention that? a lot of sex).

This is a sendup of Victorian/Edwardian novels like She by H. Rider Haggard--explicitly, Captain Curtis is like the nephew/adopted son of Sir Henry Curtis and his "friend"(?) Captain Good, who are characters in King Solomon's Mines. And it has a lot of tropes, if you are a trope-reading person. We get: big gay awakening, sex or death, arguably a kind of grumpy/sunshine thing, attack lesbians as background characters, and a whole last stand/never tell me the odds type of thing. Also, da Silva comes back in the Will Darling books as an older and wiser man, and I wish we'd gotten more of him.

I read this book last summer during a period of about 54 hours when we didn't have electricity. I should have been saving the power in my phone, but instead I was reading this. Eventually, I took the kids to their grandmother's house (because it was July and 90 degrees, and SHE had power) and finished reading this in her air conditioned guest room. No regrets. 10/10, go read it.

[thewingedwolf]

We do agree then. Most of my timeline is filled with black women so that is what I'm most exposed to. My main gripe is that black women are always used as the rage bait in these shows. I'm truly tired of the racism and wish that new stories are created for us without the need to replace them for us to get representation. Sorry if I offended you for the 'black' comment.

sorry if i sounded suuuper annoyed lmao, i Am annoyed but at twitter not u aksksk. (also, was working children’s and there were just so many screaming kids today 😭). and that's definitely fair! i know The Interwebs in general is feeling very upset right now because of that romeo and juliet production that tom holland was in, because not only did they not really stand up for that poor actress, or turn off comments, they were just being sooo weird about her on social media. it's really nasty to just cast a black actress, especially one who is dark skinned, knowing she's going to get a shit storm of racism hurled at her and then not defend her and even actively make it worse by refusing to take basic precautions so she's not having people call her slurs in every damn post. and this show itself obviously also has a bad track record with that - not just with all the main black characters of color excluding agatha being light skinned and/or Mixed With White specifically (where's the blasian rep!!! where's the afrolatino rep!!!! why are mixed characters always mixed with white!!!!!!! also i love the sharma’s but not letting anthony and kate have their own fucking wedding OR a sex montage and then giving colin a bunch of annoying sex scenes is so!!!!!!) but also the way marina's storyline was handled was nauseating and pen never makes up to marina for doing something so egregiously awful, and on top of that poor ruby barker had a hard ass time on the set and on the internet. it sucked!!! i hope i didn't sound too mad lol, but my whole tl was either white women having a MELTDOWN over the show "ruining" michael (this is a paper thin character, there is nothing to ruin!!!) or other people (largely black women but also a lot of queer women in general) being like "sucks to suck anywayyyy hope francesca and michaela scissor on screen just to spite you personally" alkjdf and it hasn't even been 24 hours, i'm so over it 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

and yeah, that's something an author i like (i like her as a person, i don't love her romances haha) has mentioned - there are plenty of romances that are explicitly about black characters or indian characters or caribbean characters or jewish characters or whatever you fancy that take place in the regency/georgian/victorian era that could have been adapted but instead they went with julia quinn, who has explicitly talked about how she doesn't write characters of color because they ~don't get happy endings in this time period. and mind you, this is a woman who writes a duke living on every corner in london getting a love match!!! not to mention if they really just wanted to do some funky color blind/racebending, there are so many authors out there who have written longstanding romance series' with all white characters who are just better writers than julia!!! i mean, i have a lot of beef with tessa dare for what i feel is performative allyship (though i don't want to discount the way she has privately been a rock for a lot of authors of color, especially after the rwa blowup, she's still annoying to me tho haha), but she's just leaps and bounds better of a writer and also hasn't gone on record saying she would never write a black main character the way julia quinn has! it's unendingly annoying!!! courtney milan and diana quincy and beverly jenkins are right there!!!!

[badassbutterfly1987]

White London clothing redesign ideas

so I've mentioned I've been wanting to craft a more distinct visual look for White London clothing since I think that having a potentially wildly different history from the other worlds would have different cultural influences in values, food, clothing, etc. (Also I just have trouble with drawing Regency/Victorian style)

since some of the names have Swedish and Dutch influences (Holland having a Dutch sounding surname, Makt being Swedish for power), I decided to lean into that a little.

fun fact: we don't know how/why the author chose the names she did (could have been reflecting specific influences, could have been whatever sounded good) and they're kinda all over the place. So we have Nasi who has two potential meanings: in Hebrew it's a title meaning prince and in Indonesian it's a word for a rice dish.

if we lean into the latter, that opens up Southeast Asian influences like Indonesia and Thailand. Both have tropical climates and therefore less layered clothing, so anything there will need to be paired with a heavier layer to compensate for WL's cold weather. Indonesia also has heavy associations with intricate jewelry; makes for something White Londoners can use to trade favors or turn into amplifiers (also should incorporate bone jewelry, fits their vibe).

a lot of my recent art pieces have been inspired by Kdrama shows, especially those set in the Joseon era, so we can keep up with that. Womenswear of that period tends to be poofy and doesn't look all that practical for characters who always have to be prepared for a physical fight (might be wrong tho; could still work for Leta). The Mongolian deel has the right level of practical and aesthetically pleasing so that's on the list. (Also there are so many intricate and vibrant colors here).

it makes for a good starting point i think. now have to figure how the different styles can be melded together, which materials characters would have access too, which styles would appeal to which characters, how the class divisions affects styles, etc. then a consistent style and color scheme for each character, let's see how many months that takes lol.

[luvrodite]

well, your wish is my command - lets talk Aegon.

I find myself thinking of Aegon often, especially in a modern setting and as an older man. Maybe in his early thirties. Maybe because so much of the Aegon we see in the series is what TGC did with him, but I can't help but think that in a modern setting, if he was given the chance and maybe the right push, he'd be able to sort himself out. I live in London and there's this block of renewed flats ( beautiful really old victorian architecture) in south Kensington that I always imagine Aegon living in with Sunfyre, when I walk past.

I'm not entirely sure he'd be able to have a job, but I do think he'd have a creative streak (he can, he's living off generational wealth anyway ahah). I think he'd be clean and in therapy but still a mess most days. But I think he'd be doing the work, or at least trying.

I think he'd be kind, unless he was in one of his dark moods - if he is, in fact, in one of those moods - he's going to try and hurt the people closest to him.

Surprisingly, he's a good cook when he wants to be, but he is messy as fuck and the cleaner that comes once a week hates him.

The day he falls in love, it's going to be dramatic - he either finds someone really patient and level headed or he's fucked, because he cannot date someone like him (that's just gasoline added to the fire). But I think when he finds that person, he's going to be all in and it's going to be a trip! - beautiful and very difficult at times, but worth it. I'm talking anything between impromptu roadtrips to weekends locked away in the flat without leaving the bedroom. And have i mentioned the sex? It's a known fact that the man has a libido the size of Alaska and knows exactly what he is doing.

Because Aegon does not know anything but extremes (even if he's in therapy), he's going to struggle in any healthy relationship in the beginning - but with time, and care and patience he will understand that people won't always leave him.

I always imagine him and sunfyre in the early morning or early evening light, when it's quiet and not too bright. I think he would be a person of transitional, liminal spaces and times if that make sense (like sunrise and sunset, autumn and spring). Oh and he smokes, because he is an addict and that is a part of his personality that will never go away.

I also think he'd have a cottage somewhere in the highlands by the sea, and he'd spend a long time there, especially in the summer when the sun only sets around 10 or 11pm. He'd bring his partner there and I see an old farm house kitchen with copper pans and a big hearth. that's where he is happiest or at least the calmest, up there with sunfyre, someone he loves and no obligations. The whole premiss of this cabin was for him to write his memoir but needless to say the first three chapters have sat untouched in the study for five years now - maybe one day, who knows?

Annnnd I've just spammed you with the Aegon that lives rent free inside my head for some reason xD. Hope this at least makes you smile. :)

Oh and he roasts his own coffee because he's a nob. ahah

siri play london boy by taylor swift !

u are an angel and this is a work of art!!! your modern aegon is literally just describing my type (red flags and all that) but also i feel so envious of him! the generational wealth and being able to live as he pleases. i took a literature class a few years back about the fin de siècle and i think he would thrive in the age of decadence.

but also! the cottage! the peace and isolation in one!! what a dream!! i can imagine him there before he has a lover, and how it changes so much after he brings them into his life

i love that you imagine him in the quiet spaces of time, i feel like i agree that he would exist in those moments 100%. just. quiet. and him.

[semper-legens]

13. The Silver Collar, by Antonia Hodgson

Owned?: No, library Page count: 312 My summary: Thomas Hawkins, after surviving a death sentence and the ire of all of London (it seemed), was looking forward to a quiet time of relaxation. But when a bothersome preacher darkens his door, he soon finds himself in a spot of trouble. What does the preacher want with his girlfriend Kitty? Who wants him dead? And when he finds the truth, how will he save himself and Kitty from a terrible fate? My rating: 4/5       My commentary:

Some books just sort of call to you. Like this one, as a point of fact. It was out on one of our displays in the library, and I kept casting it curious glances every time I was shelving or doing the item request and happened to wander by. A historical mystery set, not in the Victorian era as is so common, but in the 1720s? Featuring a rogue who is notorious for having escaped the gallows, and touching on the impact of slavery in Britain? My interest, as I am sure you have gathered, was piqued, and I decided I was going to read this one posthaste. And, reader, I was not disappointed.

However, one note - is there anything so disheartening as getting about 50-100 pages into a book you're enjoying only to realise that, not only is it not the first in a series, but is in fact the fourth? People who design book covers should put that information front and centre, I swear it. Nevertheless, it is to this book's credit that I was never lost without the context of the previous books. Events pertinent to this book were recapped in a brief, but informative manner that was still entertaining, and the status quo of the characters and their relationships was well laid out from the get-go. Which, if you're going to come into a book series at the fourth instalment, was pretty much the ideal. No complaints from me writing-wise on that front!

So what of the actual book itself? It was a good read! I'm always interested in historical fiction that doesn't centre the white aristocracy or middle-class, and although the protagonist, Thomas Hawkins, is a gentleman by birth, he doesn't really have any of the privileges associated with it. Kitty, his girlfriend, likewise comes from money but is basically living as a pauper. There is mention of gay characters from previous instalments, and a major supporting character is Jeremiah, a previously-enslaved black man who is searching for his daughter. Jeremiah is interesting - the traumas he has experienced meant that he spoke with a stammer, but when he tells his story in writing he is eloquent and passionate. He is dedicated to his daughter, to the point of calling out Thomas when it seems that Thomas is just using him for his own revenge, and not wanting to help Jeremiah on his own and for his ends. This idea of a man born into slavery who manages to free himself and carve out a life is incredibly compelling, even if it's ultimately not the point of the book.

That's not to say that our main protagonist isn't anything to write home about, either. Thomas is exactly my kind of historical male character - rogueish, dashing, criminal, but with a heart of gold and a burning passion to do what's right, even when it goes against the social mores of the time. What I liked about Thomas was that he had elements of the Genius Detective archetype - he's very quick and makes logical deductions based on cold-reading his clients - but he shows how he came to his conclusions or where he just bluffed or made a lucky guess, and sometimes he's wrong, with devastating consequences. It's a more realistic take on that trope and I'm glad to see it. He's also chugging that Respect Women juice, which for an 18th century fella is very good to see.What else? Kitty, Thomas' not-wife, is a reasonably strong character as she fights against her kidnapper, though at times she did fall too much into the distressed damsel archetype for my liking. The villain is deliciously evil. And the glimpses into Thomas' past adventures, far from putting me off, ended up galvanising me to request the three previous books from the library. So, uh, watch this space for those, I guess!

Next up, we're back to the world of the vampire, as Lestat takes the stage.

[tharizdun-03]

Deep Breath Reiew

By the time Deep Breath comes along, the audience is well-acquainted with regeneration. The Doctor has done it several times by now, not to mention River Song, The Master, etc. This isn't as huge as the first time it happened in the show when we went from Christopher Eccleston to David Tennant at the end of The Parting of the Ways. Back then, the show was still fresh out of its long hiatus, and the concept had to be properly re-introduced to the audience.

Neither does the series have as big shoes to fill now as The Eleventh Hour did, which had to prove that it could survive both without Russel T. Davies and David Tennant. Matt Smith's era had shown it could keep going, just as strong and thoughtful as before (if not more). So in contrast, Deep Breath is a much smoother, more logical transition. We can play around a bit more.

Deep Breath is an episode that doesn’t feel the need to reassure the audience that everything is going to be alright or that nothing has changed like Series 5 had to do. Instead, it revels in what’s new and different. Deep Breath does not match the tour de force and sheer charisma that The Eleventh Hour had, but exudes a sense of calm confidence instead.

At the same time, Deep Breath feels more disjointed and strung together compared to the much more cohesive and tightly structured The Eleventh Hour, but the former has several high points that I think surpass that of the latter. Both are different approaches, and we trade different things for each.

The Twelfth Doctor is portrayed with broad strokes, which isn't atypical for a regeneration story, but it feels particularly prominent here. The script still gives Capaldi’s Doctor a darker, somewhat more sinister edge -- something we haven't properly seen since Eccleston.

But Deep Breath is also careful to give Capaldi a wide range of material to work with, allowing the show to explore what aspects of the character click. There’s humor, banter, cynicism, and even a touch of flirting. The episode feels a bit like a tonal mess, but also like an experiment in finding the right tone, and it gives us a lot of taste for what's to come even if it daddles a bit too long everywhere for it.

Deep Breath doesn’t rush out of the gate, but it doesn’t need to. Instead, it gives itself the space to breathe, which is entirely appropriate given the title.

The main plot of the episode is engaging enough but stays more so in the background, and instead allows the character-driven drama to take center stage. Frankly, Deep Breath is probably the most restrained episode Moffat has written in a while. Moffat’s scripts tend to cover a lot in a short time, but Deep Breath is over half an hour longer than average, and yet much less happens here than most of his shorter episodes. I know for some the pacing is an issue, it bothered me the first time around, but by now I love this era and its characters so much it's just more time I get to spend with them.

Maybe it's ironic that Deep Breath feels less cohesive, and more like it's cobbled together from bits and pieces -- just like its main villain. Frankly, Deep Breath effectively makes The Girl in the Fireplace obsolete. All the elements that made that episode cool—the steampunk time-active droids, the spaceship powered by human remains, and the historical setting—are here, but without the creepy undertones of Reinette’s storyline. Plus, the witty banter, chaotic energy, and quotable lines are better written and more enjoyable this time around. I suppose only that beautiful fairy-tale tone is missing, but for the most part, the Capaldi era takes the best from the previous eras and just does it better.

Speaking of a previous era, The Paternoster Gang made a welcome return to support Clara and the Doctor after being vomited up by a giant T-Rex in Victorian London. Yup, that's a sentence.

The Paternoster Gang isn't one of Moffat's highlights, and that's probably why they never appear again after this. Strax is lovely though, even if much of the comedy from him relies on some troubling foreigner-related tropes. But Jenny and Vastra always felt a bit more fetishized than proper lesbian representation. People have pointed out too, for example, that Jenny and Vastra maintain the Master-Servant dynamic both publicly and privately. And Jenny and Vastra never shared an on-screen kiss during Matt Smith's era (even though Eleven got to kiss --sexually assault-- Jenny).

I don't think Deep Breath fixes everything but I think it's the best attempt at it, and rightfully so since this is its last one. We have the phone call from Eleven at the end of the episode for a reason, we're still sort of transitioning from his era. These three are leftovers. But Deep Breath does at least address that Jenny and Vastra keep the Master-Servant dynamic going on, even in private, suggesting it's just kinky and therefore entirely consensual.

And they do get to kiss on camera. It would have been nice for them to kiss... just because they're lovers, not because Jenny needed air.

But there are a lot of moments between them throughout the episode that feels loving and sincere without just being kinky, and the kiss itself is presented as being pretty intimate rather than just practical. The bar is in hell, I suppose, but it is definitely progress and I'll take the victories I can get. It does feel like Moffat actively taking the criticisms he got during the Smith era to heart -- discarding what didn't work and refining what could be better.

Capaldi is great from the start, of course. He’s given plenty of the usual biting lines -- labeling Clara as “the one who asks questions” and an “egomaniac needy gameplayer,” and he even pulls a rather cruel move by pretending to abandon her. The "darkness" in Twelve is showcased through brief but striking moments of selfishness.

However, Capaldi is given a lot of other playful stuff too. The manic dialogue at the beginning is particularly well-crafted, with a sharp edge of insanity to it. His confusion over something as simple as a bedroom and the scene where he rages at the mirror has an unsettling, almost delirious quality to them.

It may not be "realistic," but it captures a genuine sense of disorientation, like the ramblings of someone trapped in a half-formed nightmare.

Oh, and the dinosaur, I liked that very much. It was portrayed as a victim, a tragic figure, misused and betrayed. Big animal rights and vegan vibes from Capaldi throughout his whole era (well I say big, but it's a line here and there which I overfocus on cause I'm vegan and my favorite Doctor being sympathetic means the world to me), but I overlook how it's present in his very first episode too.

Moffat’s script also puts Peter Capaldi’s age front and center, with Clara shocked that The Doctor regenerated into a much older man. Considering Clara scattered herself across the Doctor’s timeline in The Name of the Doctor, she probably should have expected this. Still, Deep Breath is more so making a point of addressing the decision to cast an “older” Doctor for the audience, and I quite frankly separate Clara in Series 7 and Clara with Capaldi as different characters.

Vastra’s veil takes on enormous significance in Deep Breath. The episode is filled with talk about faces -- faces being stolen, exchanged, worn, hidden, changed -- faces contemplated in mirrors.

This is an interesting implication that ties back to when we've see Vastra walking around in public, without wearing her veil and without attracting any attention. But, maybe those people do see the veil, even if we, the viewers, don’t. The veil is only visible to those who need to see it because they’re unprepared to confront their own prejudices. Moffat has a habit of treating the camera as a diegetic eye, after all. That would explain why Clara suddenly starts seeing Vastra’s veil when she struggles to accept the new Doctor. And that's also why the veil disappears when Clara gets her talking-to from Vastra.

Also, I should mention that The Clockwork Droids are a clever choice of villain for Capaldi’s first episode. They're not terribly interesting, but they work for Capaldi to bounce off and still tie into the episode’s larger themes of appearance and disguise.

There’s something deeply sad about the fact that the Doctor can’t clearly remember the events of The Girl in the Fireplace. It seemed like he truly loved Madame du Pompadour, but time erodes everything, even love. Eventually, the Doctor will live so long that these small, warm moments of humanity will be lost to history. The idea that the Doctor has lived long enough to forget a true love is the heartbreaking truth behind the jokes here.

Speaking of that scene, it opens with the Doctor offering the cyborg a drink because he has a “horrible feeling” that he’ll have to kill him. After an hour of seeing Capaldi’s humor, Capaldi is framed just as he should be -- as a fundamentally silly old man who can turn terrifying, rather than a terrifying force of nature who occasionally smiles.

But while this episode is meant to introduce us to Peter Capaldi’s Doctor, it's actually Jenna Coleman’s Clara who really steals the show in Deep Breath.

Clara evolves from a somewhat underdeveloped mystery girl into a fully realized equal to the Doctor in just a few scenes. I always conceptually liked the idea behind her story arc in Series 7. Setting up Clara to be resolved as a plot device, only to reveal that she's actually a character with nothing special about her. but who just happens to be able to help The Doctor in the finale. A deliberate misdirection.

Unfortunately, it spends so much time on this misdirect that we actually ignore a lot of her character to focus on what is the mystery about her that is then revealed to not be anything in particular. It's a bit like scolding us for looking too deep into it and for us ignoring her as a person, while the show itself spends more time on her mystery rather than her character. You can't have both. You can't scold us for ignoring her character when you depict her as just a jumble of traits and focus more on what her mystery could possibly be.

But Deep Breath immediately gives her more to work with and she now feels like a fully developed character, no longer bogged down by her empty mystery arc. Specific mention needs to go to Coleman, whose acting is a hundred times better when paired with Capaldi. A strong lead that enhances everybody else means the world. And as much as I love Matt Smith, he didn't have that leadership quality to bring to the set, and one good performance can completely change the meaning of a text. Coleman achieved it here and will only continue to soar much higher.

The result is a stellar scene for Clara, where she resists the cyborg’s interrogation and turns it back on him. She’s presented with a beautiful nuance, seamlessly blending fear with badassery as she extracts the information she needs. It's the series subtly regenerating Clara, without changing the actress.

Reminder that this gorgeous scene of hers only exists because The Doctor seems to have abandoned Clara, only for it to turn out to be an elaborate ruse. I think this is enough to dismiss the notion that Capaldi’s Doctor would actually push the cyborg off. Plus, The Day of the Doctor pretty firmly showed the rims of The Doctor's moral ambiguity.

I also like that Clara got to push back when Vastra assumes she only traveled with the Doctor because he looked like a young, attractive man. It's a great character moment for Clara and also pushes back against the assumption that the young women in the audience only watch Doctor Who for the cute guys.

I also like that The Doctor even implies that he’s the one who mistook Clara for a girlfriend. He doesn't shame her for her feelings towards his previous incarnation and acknowledges that he encouraged those feelings -- that it wasn't Clara who was confused about the nature of their relationship.

Deep Breath just works because everyone involved is so good at what they do. Jenna Coleman and the Paternoster Gang work great. The veil scene is quietly and subtly used to reboot Clara’s character now that she has room to breathe, away from the weight of her mystery arc, giving Coleman some gorgeous material to work with.

Peter Capaldi is not just the Twelfth Doctor -- he is the definitive one. But unlike Eccleston or Smith, it still takes a while for him to fully emerge, but that’s all part of the plan.

Ultimately, while The Eleventh Hour holds together more coherently, the best moments in Deep Breath surpass those in Matt Smith’s debut. The phone call with Eleven, and the lovely music as Clara accepts her new Doctor, make me cry every time. And during this era, this will be far from the last time this happens.

[beeseverywhen]

Off the top of my head I know quite a bit about household life in the past few hundred years cause I've always loved the history of everyday people and spent quite a lot of my childhood in local museums which all have a lot of victorian household objects and the like but I thought it would be fun to add some sources for anyone that might be wondering about the above so here are some ad's from the late 19th century (S.H is set in the 1880s/90s)

As you can see, the victorians had just about as many types as soap avaliable to buy, as we do, if they could afford it. And they felt pretty strongly about it, the advertisements were everywhere. In the 19th century there was a real drive to reduce disease in cities so somewhere like London would have had many bath houses and people would have been encouraged to use all this soap. A reasonably high class boarding house in London in the late 19th century? Would definitely have been buying in to the soap craze.

By that time, laundry equipment for those that did do it at home was becoming mass produced. Mangles and dollys made washing a lot less labour intensive and quicker. Electric and gas irons would have been avaliable, though I do think it's very likely that the laundry in a boarding house like the one shown in SH would have been sent away to a laundry.

It was considered a show of wealth to have enough underclothes that you werent having to launder that often so it definitely wasn't a daily task.

I also found this page which gives a great overview and explains a lot of the things mentioned by above posters (making your own soap, bluing and explains why they aren't so relevant to stories set in victorian England (things were different in England than other countries, victorians were very snobbish about soap and looked down on older methods still used elsewhere (tw for mention of victorian attitudes to other countries which were generally imperialist and racist))

And here, is a link that discusses a book from a scholar detailing the history of English laundresses from 1850-1930. Its very interesting! But less of an easy read (tw for formal, academic writing)

lmao god, english upper class people... I was reading Mathilda, and there's all these monologues about the protagonist going insane from loneliness and not knowing how to act when she finally strikes up a friendship again; she has retired to a cottage in the woods and is essentially in hiding. All this time we're given the impression that she is utterly alone in that cottage. Much woe about the completeness of her loneliness. and then.

what do you mean your servant ...? in your cottage in the woods where you were so utterly alone? that one?

[medeaied]

THE MERCY CHILDREN: A COMPREHENSIVE POST. i do mention the children in lillian's connections and bio - but given their centrality to the plot that meg and i have created, i figure it's only fair to write about the children themselves. this post contains mentions of miscarriages, post-partum depression, emotional neglect, emotional abuse and adultery. please bear that in mind while reading!

ELIZABETH EUGENIA MERCY ( b. january 1824; 22 in 1846 ). elizabeth is the eldest daughter of lillian and archie - and technically their only child when counting the paternity of the younger three ( unknown to archie ). having been born after five consecutive miscarriages, lillian had expected to feel overjoyed to finally be a mother - but unfortunately ended up with extremely heavy post-partum depression; and was unable to bond with elizabeth; something that was only worsened by lillian leaving her in the care of nannies to return to social clubs, gambling dens, parties and music performances when elizabeth was only six months. lillian has never truly attempted to bond with elizabeth, and to this day, is very disconnected from her eldest daughter. elizabeth was characterized as a "difficult" child. both archie and lillian were absent ( lillian by choice; and archie was often at work or dealing with her younger, needier siblings ); and learned to become self reliant and self soothing at a young age. when that proved ineffective, she would often act out in an attempt to garner some attention ( mostly negative ) from her parents; often stealing things from her siblings ( or johanna ), stealing small sweets from shops, verbally acting out, and bullying her younger siblings. while this behaviour mellowed out as elizabeth became a teenager, she has strained relationships with her siblings as a result.

elizabeth's relationship with lillian is as equally complicated. lillian views elizabeth as the source of her ageing ( something she is not ready to accept ); and worries that having children 'robbed' her of her youth and beauty. from a young age, elizabeth was ignored by lillian - and if not ignored, pitted against her sister victoria; or compared to her brothers, who lillian has a... better relationship with. in addition, lillian often picked apart elizabeth's looks and dress the older she got; nitpicking every spot on elizabeth's face as a teenager, remarking on weight gain and loss; et cetera. as such, elizabeth's self esteem and self image is quite low; and she craves her mother's unobtainable approval in addition to resenting johanna for receiving that affection from lillian.

currently, elizabeth is engaged to the young earl of wiltshire, richard butler - the are set to marry in spring of 1846.

VICTORIA LILY MERCY ( b. march 1826; 20 in 1846 ). victoria is lillian's second child and youngest daughter; and is the eldest out of her and edward's children ( unknown to archie; known to edward ). lillian did not anticipate falling pregnant so soon after elizabeth - especially given that she had also just made a triumphant to london's social circles, and found the sudden stop to her social life ( as pregnancy was taboo in victorian england ) stifling. again, lillian suffered from [post]partum depression during and after the pregnancy; and while lillian named victoria after herself, she still felt no connection to her daughter, and did not attempt to foster any connection afterwards, deciding that there must be a 'defect' with both elizabeth and victoria. while lillian did not make an attempt to bond with victoria, archie did; and out of all four of the children, victoria is his favourite. victoria was a bright and inquisitive child; always asking questions and interested in her father's work ( and she was never far behind archie, either ). the peacemaker of the family, victoria was often pitted against elizabeth by their mother - who used victoria as a 'model' daughter despite always finding some flaw in victoria's mannerisms, hobbies, and skills. while victoria's relationship with elizabeth is strained because of this, she is closer with her youngest brother, christopher - and the two are often in cahoots with each other. the easiest of the mercy sisters, victoria was johanna's chosen playmate - and grew up alongside her despite being a couple years older than her - though given turpin's wishes/plans, victoria never became a companion to johanna, and johanna did not become a companion to victoria as they matured.

as for victoria's relationship with lillian, victoria has been constantly ridiculed and very rarely praised by her mother since she was a child - like her elder sister, she has low self worth and is extremely critical of herself, and often doubts her achievements and goals. in addition, much like elizabeth, victoria also faced ridicule for any flaws in her appearance; with lillian comparing victoria to herself often and in a negative light; for in lillian's eyes, victoria ( and by extension, elizabeth ) will never live up to her, their mother. lillian claims that archie has spoiled victoria and made her to meek and self-critical, archie claims she is too harsh on the girl - victoria does not know who to believe; but she does wish that her mother was kinder to her, and will spend years attempting to win lillian's approval as well.

currently, she is being courted by the eldest son of the marquess of exeter, theodore courtenay.

ALEXANDER ELIAS WILLIAM MERCY ( b. november 1827; 19 in 1846 ). alexander is lillian's third child and eldest son; and is the second of her and edward's children ( again, unknown to archie and WELL known to edward ). alexander is lillian's golden child; and easily her favourite. while upset that she was once again pregnant when she did not want to be - there was one marked difference: lillian did not suffer from post-partum depression during her pregnancy and after birth. lillian was able to easily bond with her infant son; solidifying her belief that there was something wrong with her daughters that prevented her from bonding with them in infancy. while still an active socialite, lillian was present for alexander's developmental milestones, took an extremely large interest and role in his upbringing, and oversaw and managed his early education.

given his proximity to lillian, alexander was spoilt as a child; and denied nothing ( much to archie's exasperation ); he was often prone to temper tantrums when staff and his father would refuse him, worsened by lillian who was no better - and would either berate staff until they gave in, or throw a tantrum herself until archie relented. in addition, alexander was prone to tattling and snitching on his elder sisters to lillian whenever he caught them doing anything that might be perceived as 'incorrect'. this fostered competitiveness between alexander and his sisters; as alexander was constantly rewarded with affection and praise - he, in lillian's eyes, could do no wrong; even if he defied her wishes.

now, alexander is still spoilt - and archie firmly believes that the boy is a waste. having never been denied anything and handed what he desired from his mother, alexander does not enjoy being told no ( and his sisters wonder if he even understands the word ); and after finishing school as a child, has begun to study philology ( the study of languages ) at oxford. while alexander is intelligent, he is lazy - and can often be found partying or hungover; though he is the perfect gentleman ( usually ) in his mother's presence. archie, however, has threatened to cut alexander off from the family funds if he does not shape up; and intends to force him into the british navy as a way to ensure he does. this plan, currently, is unknown to alexander - who is in the beginning stages of planning his 'continental' trip to view the cities and wonders of europe with his fellow classmates - though it will become a glorified party trip if he has anything to say about it.

CHRISTOPHER ARCHIBALD MERCY ( b. june 1829; 17 in 1846 ). christopher is the second son and youngest child; and is the last of her and edward's children ( unknown to archie; known to edward ). like the three children lillian had before him, she did not plan to have him nor did she wish to be pregnant again; finding the state of pregnancy very difficult for her to navigate. even so, the pregnancy went well enough; and she found the birth no harder than any other. and much like alexander, was able to bond with christopher as an infant; and took great pride in ensuring his education and upbringing were the best that money could buy.

given lillian's ability to bond with christopher - and that he is her youngest child - christopher is the baby of the family; and receives the most amount of attention and affection from lillian, much to the upset of his elder brother, who was used to having lillian's attention and praise to himself. the brothers did not and continue to not get along; having vastly different personalities and aspirations. christopher, much like his sister victoria, was a quiet child who turned into a quiet adult; studious and eager to please. archie, having failed with alexander, also made sure to stay present with christopher; providing a much more stable foundation for christopher to grow up upon than his brother. christopher enjoyed closeness with both of his parents; and upon turning fifteen, he declared that he wished to follow in archie's footsteps and attend oxford law; going on to become a lawyer and eventually a judge like his father.

christopher was always the meeker out of the two mercy brothers - something that was not lost on lillian; who found it difficult to control alexander. when archie offered to mentor christopher, lillian took the opportunity to go behind her husband's back to christopher's biological father; who had much better connections and a larger network ( due to his own unscrupulous morals ), asking him to mentor christopher, as it was the least he could do for his son ( and it is to be noted that this is the only time she has addressed any of the children as his; first and foremost, all of lillian's children are hers. ) edward agreed - and since he turned fifteen, christopher has been mentored by edward in preparation to enter oxford, and promised a place in court if he passes the barr.

christopher, however, does not enjoy his time spent with edward. archie is a man who follows the letter and spirit of the law - serving with honour and fairness. christopher finds edward lacking in all departments, and has attempted to be distanced from this mentorship to no avail. lillian, noting that her youngest is the easiest son to control, also believes that christopher is entitled to his biological father's estate; and has plans to match-make christopher to edward's ward, johanna barker - plans that remain unknown to all three of them.

[ineffable-gallimaufry]

okay okay lemme just explain this real quick because oh my dark gaia i have so much to say about the aerated bread company

okay to start it off, the aerated bread company was originally a bakery chain in london known for a special method of making bread with machines that skipped the fermentation process used by most bread makers at the time by putting carbon dioxide into the process and producing carbonic acid gas.

this very element of the aerated bread company was widely debated as some people saw the way the bread was now kneaded by machinery and made quickly with carbon dioxide as a step into the future and some saw it as an abandoning of the traditional ways of bread making.

john dauglish, the inventor of the method and founder of the company, received an patent for the method in 1856, received a silver medal from the royal society of the arts, and had his methods highly recommended by many physicians and sanitarians at the time, even using the method in hospitals due to the cleanliness of the machine bread. the process was also cheaper and made it so the company could sell it at lower prices than other london bakeries. it was so well received that even americans were fascinated by the dauglish bread making process. while it is no longer used today, the process lasted for a century or so before being replaced by the chorleywood bread process which is now still in use today.

not everyone was a fan however. many classic bakers saw the innovation as a blasphemy to the way bread was supposed to be done. they believed that fermentation was the only way to make bread and that by taking that and hand kneading out of the process, the aerated bread company was doing a disservice to the art as a whole. traditional bread makers, in order to combat the cheapness of the aerated bread company's bread, marketed their usage of gin in their traditional bread as it was thought to have medical benefits at the time due to the juniper berries fermented to make it. despite this however, the aerated bread company continued to be popular with rapidly rising stocks and continued demand with bakery after bakery opening in the area

however, bread wasn't the only thing made by the aerated bread company as you may have figured out from this short mention. in 1864 they opened their tearoom in fenchurch street railroad station and the chain only grew from there. many things were offered in addition to tea as you can see from the menu above. at the aerated bread company's peak in 1923 they had 250 tea shops in london, other towns in england, and even sydney, australia!

just like the bread-making process that gave the aerated bread company it's name however, the tea shops had quite a bit of controversy. one of the biggest things going for them was the stores involvement in the women's right movement (making this particular choice of tearoom interesting at a time when mina is currently being disregarded by the men in her life) the tearooms were one of the first public places in victorian england where women could eat alone or with women friends, without a male escort. women's social clubs would even be set up above the shops in a few rare instances. this was complicated slightly by the poor payment of women workers by the company, they did not even originally pay women workers which eventually changed when protest was raised by women who frequented the tearooms. despite this, it was recommended by women's rights activists as a good place to organize and socialize without male escorts.

not everyone liked the tearooms though. one particularly bitter opponent to the tearooms was george orwell, author of books such as animal farm and nineteen eighty four. he stated on the shops that they were a "sinister strand in English catering, the relentless industrialisation that was overtaking it...everything comes out of a carton or a tin, or is hauled out of a refrigerator or squirted out of a tap or squeezed out of a tube" also one customer in a sydney tearoom claimed to have found a mouse baked into her pie, sueing for a thousand euros. the claim was found to be faked and the judge did not rule in her favor but it was still interesting

what happened to the aerated bread company? well, it did very good for a long period of time but like all good things (or at least somewhat good things) it came to an end. nothing really interesting happened in its closing, parts of it were liquidated in other countries and it was bought by the allied bakeries in 1955. the company ceased operations fully in 1982 and now all that is left of the aerated bread company are the ghosts of signs left over the doors to other shops.

and that's the aerated bread company for the interested!

[somekindofadeviant]

Victorian Era Fanged Four Fic Recs

So, like, my absolute comfort fic genre is that old staple that used to be such a standard, though you pretty much never see it anymore, and that makes me very sad. It's works set in the Victorian era, when the gang were all together and happily evil, William's a bebe fledgling learning the ropes, and you got this family unit/polycule that's simultaneously brutal as hell but kinda sweet and domestic. I will devour this fic, especially if the historical detailing is on point, and apparently some others wanna see this trope too so lemme spread the love and massacres.

Warning: A LOT of this fic contains noncon and torture and oodles of murders. If you want to know detailed warnings for a given piece, DM me. I'm also including some fics that are pre-Will's embrace but still Victorian and honourable mentions to a couple of Georgian era Darla/Angelus ones.

Ensemble Works

Peasantverse by Peasant - A goddamn masterpiece. The absolute foundational example of this genre. A series of works starting with William's siring (deliberately vague who did the deed itself) and going through the following years. Lots of intriguingly plotty stories, just so many, and everyone in the family gets some love. The historical detailing is absolutely wonderful, the dynamics are wonderful, worldbuilding is fantastic, with some delightful lil footnotes to give extra context to some of the historical points.

Rating: NC17 Length: 14 works, total 232,438 words

A Winter's Tale by Coquette - A road trip of sorts. I love it so. The fanged four on a journey Oop North. Truly engrossing, viscerally descriptive. Followed by Temper which is, sadly, a long abandoned WiP but still worth a read.

Rating: NC17 Length: 74926 words

Queen's Gambit by Josey - Lots of plotty intrigue and politics and gorgeous detail. 'The year is 1880 and the family is sorting things out amongst themselves. Plus politics – and that’s never pretty.'

Rating: NC17 Length: Long

Followed by:

Demon's Aria Oh my gosh you have to read this one. 1881. And more plotty intrigue and politics and a surprise encounter or two that you just truly have to see.

Rating: NC17 Length: Long

Followed by:

Master's Voice - It all comes to a head in 1882. Oh hey could that be the consequences of their actions arrivin? It just might be. Sadly this is another long-abandoned WiP but again it's well worth a read

House-Guests From Hell And How To Send Them Back There by Glassdarkly - Oh hey it's seasonal. The fanged four dealing with unwanted Christmas guests, and they're at their dysfunctional best. Delightfully funny.

Rating: Teen+ Length: 12353 words

The Perfect Present by Glassdarkly - And another seasonal one to go with it. A lil Christmas shopping.

Rating: Teen+ Length: 1998 words

Charity Begins at Home by Glassdarkly - And one more seasonal one for the road. Well, things do come in threes. In a very grand house on the fringes of Victorian London heartwarming deeds of bloodthirstiness are afoot - or should that be bloodthirsty deeds of heartwarmingness

Rating: Teen+ Length: 6713 words

Ennui by Glassdarkly - Darla decides to shake things up a bit to reignite the waning passion in her relationship with Angelus. Things get in the way.

Rating: NC17 Length: 2240 words

Alone at Last by Glassdarkly - Darla and Angelus conspire to send the children away for a while.

Rating: Mature Length: 997 words

She's So Cold by Rebcake - Spike and Dru conduct a harmless experiment. Darla is not amused. Part of the Travels With Spike and Dru series (which has lots of good stuff go read the rest too!)

Rating: Gen Length: 100 words

Fanged Four Fairytales by Kita - Some lovely but brutal little smutty vignettes with delightful imagery

Rating: NC17 Length: 2210 words

The Web by kidcyclone - William contemplates, just a little snapshot, short and lyrical and gorgeous.

Rating: Gen Length: 573 words

FFWTF by soulless lover - What happens when you try to cram every Fanged Four badfic cliche ever into one fic?

Rating: Teen+ Length: 502 words

Darla/Angelus

A Lost Letter of Jane Austen by Hello Spikey - A clergyman's daughter writes her sister about two new acquaintances, a Mr. and Mrs. Angelus.

Rating: Teen+ Length: 2462 words

Followed by:

Darla's Letter by Hello Spikey - Darla reports to the Master on recent events regarding an authoress

Haunted Summer by Gill0 - In 1844 Mary Shelly recounts to a friend her time with our couple in the Year Without a Summer. Absolutely wonderfully captures Mary Shelley's voice and the writing style of the period.

Rating: Gen Length: 1443 words

Angelus/Will

Incandescence by wiseacress - A night at the theatre. Run and catch.

Rating: NC17 Length: 2568 words

Breathing Lessons by Hello Spikey - When Spike's coughing during a fire nearly gets them caught by Holtz' men, Angelus decides he needs to learn to stop breathing.

Rating: NC17 Length: 2499 words

The Adventures of the Concealed Closet by brutti ma buoni - Angel and Spike encounter Sherlock and Watson. Yes, really.

Rating: Teen+ Length: 1399 words

Darla/Drusilla

Venus and Mars by Glassdarkly - A young gentleman encounters two mysterious ladies in the National Gallery, London, in 1874. An absolute classic.

Rating: Teen+ Length: 7972 words

In Pursuit of the Appropriate Man by lillianmorgan - Darla and Dru in 1860s Rome. Contains a delicious abundance of politely cutting Victorian speech

Rating: Teen+ Length: 1691 words

Ye Gods And Little Fishes by Beer Good - The first, aborted, trip to China, and why they never got there.

Rating: Mature Length: 868 words

Darla/Will

Lessons from the Lady of the House by joycometh - Darla discovers William's education is lacking. She sets things to rights.

Rating: NC17 Length 1317 words

Drusilla/Will

Tea For Two by Glassdarkly - Spike will go to any length to please Drusilla. All the way to Wonderland.

Rating: Teen+ Length: 1347 words

[elsdaydreams]

Tulip

Jacob Frye x Gender-Neutral!Reader

Warnings - mentions of melancholy, victorian beliefs of love and the right to choose who you marry, like an ounce of angst but also almost all fluff.

Word Count - 1957 words.

Description - Falling for Jacob is a dangerous game when you're in an elevated society. Victorian standards won't have you with a gang fighter, and certainly not your parents, but when he brings you flowers and walks you home, how could you not?

Authors Note - A new Jacob work? Proud. Hope y'all enjoy this one, it was fun to write. I know some of y'all really wanted some more Jacob stuff so I'm happy to provide. Wanted to make the reader as gender neutral as possible so anyone could enjoy and I feel like I accomplished it.

The small part of London you were acquainted with was one that Jacob himself clearly wasn't. It wasn't intentional, him seeing you walk along the stone streets, but once he had it quickly spiraled into something of infatuation. Occasionally, as you browsed the street markets, you'd find the strange man next to you. The first time he did it, your brain cataloged him as odd. Still, as your conversations grew more frequent, they also grew longer. Jacob had remained odd, but something warmer grew too. His blighters found it odd that they kept coming around the area, until one day they found him standing next to you.

It must've been at least the third or fourth time he'd been there, because he was looking at you keenly, making a joke that you couldn't help but laugh at. The blighters still couldn't be sure, so the next time they found themselves there, they made note of the way he preened before making his way next to you.

Your first impression of him had been completely right, you had found him strange, but somewhat endearing. Subconsciously, you found yourself looking for him in strangers' faces on the street, and in the acquaintances of your friends. The more you interacted with him, the more you'd find yourself longing for his presence. On quiet streets long after the sun had set, you wished for his companionship, much preferring his strangeness to whatever dangers lurked in the shadows.

Of course, this was preferred to stay a secret as a kindness to yourself. Selfishly, you didn't want his quirks and cocky attitude to be mistaken by your friends, and you certainly didn't want your parents' opinion of him. A pang of certain guilt lodged itself deep in your stomach at those particular thoughts, especially when he offered you a lopsided grin, eyes twinkling with an emotion you weren't sure where to place.

If you were being honest, sometimes you didn't know if you made this infatuation up in your mind. Besides the quirky smiles and soft looks, you weren't sure if you weren't just another part of his day. The thought stung, only because of how much you looked forward to seeing him. It slowly became the highlight of your weeks, and to think of it meaning anything less to him made your heartache.

The forlorn behavior was becoming more than apparent to your family. Without asking the why of it, they opted instead to send you to the coast for a few weeks with your sister. They hoped that whatever was eating at you would be discussed with her, and repeated to them in her letters home. When it wasn't, the trip was extended a week longer, only adding to the melancholy. Spending time at the sea usually cured you, having gone a couple of times in your childhood. It didn't feel the same now, not when your heart was so deeply involved, and certainly not when you couldn't stop yourself from wondering if he was still going to the market looking for you too.

It wasn't until one of the last nights at your family's home on the coast. Your sister had earnestly tried everything to ease you out, sworn secrecy and promised oaths. Inside the quiet of the home, she sat in the heart of the home, contentedly making neat stitches. Looking at her, you made note that she was the model child. The one that your parents could be proud of, that would marry who they wanted with no hesitation.

As if she could feel your eyes on her, she looked up quickly to confirm before focusing back on the gift she was making for her friend.

"What," she asked, only sounding a little tired considering the week she's had with you. Again, you hesitated, and instead of the usual process of her pressing you for answers, she let the silence fill the room. Grateful, your eyes took her form over, and you wondered what the future held for you. Was it as certain as it was for her? If your parents had anything to say about it, it would be.

You looked out of the large window, the most beautiful 'painting', as your mother referred to it the first time you'd gotten sick, was right there in the living room. Outside, the ocean was distant but still visible and the familiarity of the waves was comforting.

"Do you ever wonder," you paused, body raising from the seated position to look out the window, "who you'll marry?"

Without looking at her, you can tell she's looking at you, though it's not for long. She ponders for a moment, then resumes her embroidery. You take it upon yourself to glance at her, watching as she pulls the needle through the fabric.

She shakes her head, "no," then pauses for only a second, "well, yes. I suppose everyone does when the time comes. I'm sure mother and father will choose someone who's right for me."

You nodded, eyes focused back on the moonlit water, "right."

"Is that what it is," she prodded gently, eyes back on your figure, "has the idea of marriage been thrown about?"

"No," you said quickly, and then again, quieter, "no."

Minutes passed, and her eyes didn't leave you again. You half turned towards her, eyes focused on the wall's intricate designs. Her patience was a virtue you suddenly hated, and the resolve to remain silent about your predicament was fleeting.

"Would it be wrong to assume you wish to be married," she asked, tone gentle, hands now idly in her lap.

You shook your head again, "I don't know what I wish. I think that might be the problem."

That was the last you'd discussed on the subject, thankfully, although your sister knew more about the situation than you would've preferred. She'd kept her promises and oaths though, and your parents knew nothing about the quiet conversation the two of you had that last night at the coast.

By the time you'd gotten home, three weeks had passed. Dread filled your every bone with the thought of returning to the markets, walking the same streets you'd walked with Jacob. You wondered if he'd be mad at you for leaving without a word, or worse, not remembering you at all. The reasonable part of you knew that that wasn't true, but the emotional aspects of you ruled tyrannously.

You'd debated not even going, staying in the comfort of your house and your life. Undeniably, it was the safest option. But these three weeks were hard. You were looking for Jacob everywhere, in everything and everyone. No matter how much easier your life would be living the life your parents wanted, you knew that you'd never be happy. You'd always be looking.

It was much later than you typically went, but you found yourself walking along the cobbled streets of London. Your feet knew the path well, and absentmindedly they took you there. The sun was beginning to set, the alleyways already buried in darkness, and the tops of the buildings kissed by the sun.

"Well, fancy seeing you here," a voice called from behind, in the shadow of one of the buildings. Your heart jumped, the sound so familiar you didn't even need to see to know who it was. "I was wondering where you'd run off to."

His footsteps shuffled behind you until he was almost entirely too close to you. Breath caught in your throat, you tried not to think about the impropriety of it and simply enjoyed the warmth emanating from him. The chance that someone could look down the alley and see the two had anxiety blooming along your spine and butterflies fluttering in your chest.

You looked at him with a ghost of a smile on your face, "I went to the coast, my parents arranged it."

Jacob looked no smugger than he normally did, though his eyes betrayed him with a warmth reserved only for you. Still, his voice betrayed him with an unusual waver of insecurity, "I thought I had scared you off."

"Never," you breathed without hesitation. It had embarrassed you, the immediacy of your answer, but couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Not when his face split into a grin, all smugness gone if only for a moment.

"How relieving then," the smile still there, his lips twitched up in a way that you couldn't stop watching. "Were you headed to the market?"

"Yes," you nod, eyes meeting his and then shake your head, "yes. And no, actually, I was on the way to see you. I was hoping you'd be there."

The pair of you looked at each other again, an unspoken sentiment shared. Jacob looked at you fondly, before quizzically patting his pockets. He shoved his hands in the inside pockets of his coat before pulling out a wilting flower and handing it to you.

"I was hoping the same," he said, winking with a hum of approval.

You took the flower in a hand, and even after careful consideration, you couldn't quite make out what type of flower it was, only that it was red. Still, you couldn't help but feel your heart squeeze at the gesture.

A low laugh came from him, hand scratching the back of his head, "I was hoping you'd be there sooner, though. It's a carnation, my sister, she said-"

"It's lovely," you laughed, cutting him off, still holding it delicately, "thank you."

You wondered if his sister knew the language of flowers, the implications of what a simple red carnation meant. If the hopeful look on his face was any indication, you could assume she did. The carnation was beautiful, but it felt less than compared to the way he looked at you. Your eyes met his fondly, and gently you touched his arm for a moment and then two.

"Come with me, then," you asked, eyes filled with a yearning that you couldn't quite say out loud.

"After you," he said, though offering his arm to you. Without hesitation, you take it and the pair begins the familiar path once more. The chatter from the homes that lined the street was comforting, people winding down as the sun continued its near-complete descent from the sky.

There was only a handful of people there as you browsed, not looking for anything in particular seeing as you'd already found what you needed. You'd found yourself looking at him, eyes focused on the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his nose. Within seconds he returned your gaze, squeezing your arm gently.

"How did you know I would be here," you asked, turning away, cheeks warm at being caught. A cart of flowers caught your eyes, the owner putting some things away due to the lateness and lack of people. You pulled him along, eyes focused on the red tulip dangling precariously.

"Mm, luck," he teased, eyes glinting mischievously. Watching you intently, you made your way over to the cart, making quick work of purchasing it. You shot him a disbelieving look, to which he responded, "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Have you been waiting in that alleyway for three weeks," you teased in return, holding out the red tulip to the man of your affections. He took it and brought it to his nose, sniffing before tucking it in-between his vest buttons.

"No," he shook his head with only slight offense, "I happen to have eyes everywhere."

You eyed him suspiciously, "strange man."

"Absolutely," he grinned at you Cheshire like, "did you miss me?"

You laughed earnestly, eyes meeting his and pulling him along, back on the path heading home once more, "how could I not?"

[anonymous-dentist]

Truth in the Tales: The Masquerade, Jack the Ripper, and America's First Serial Killer

Good morning everybody! Let's talk about murder.

Hi, I'm A.D., and I'm a history student. Today, fitting with the darker themes in The Masquerade, I'm going to be talking about two contemporary serial killers of the time that The Masquerade would have taken place, both of whom are more myth than fact at this point. For further discussion of The Masquerade, I did a little mini-lesson the other day that I'll link here. This post will be long, but it will not be comprehensive, but I'm always happy to elaborate in reblogs or asks!

I'm going to tell you now...

graphic content ahead.

(Image: 'The Nemesis of Neglect' cartoon 1888.)

As usual, let's grab the episode description from the wiki to begin with:

The episode stars Karl Jacobs, BadBoyHalo, Fundy, Nihachu, Quackity, Ranboo, Sapnap, and Technoblade. It takes place in the past and follows several upper-class people at a Masquerade in a large mansion. The Masquerade quickly goes south when someone starts murdering the guests. The episode ends by connecting current SMP events to the Masquerade and by introducing Karl to the Inbetween.

Why serial killers, you may be asking? Well.

It's hard to call a sentient evil Egg a serial killer, especially seeing as it's more of a cult leader than anything else. But I figured this would be more interesting for you folks to read about than my original topic of unions and the first red scare. (Get it, red? Egg is red? Hah...)

Before I begin, it's important to mention, hey, don't fucking glorify serial killers. I've been going through crime scene photos for this post, and they're really not fit for general audiences, to say the least. I'm not going to add the photos to this post for obvious reasons (read: they're fucking gross and I don't think anyone under the age of 20 should be looking at a mutilated woman's corpse.)

Alright. Let's go.

Part One: Jack the Ripper

(Disclaimer: most of this information is coming from the Wikipedia page because I will be fucked if I have to look at more crime scene photographs than I have to. Wikipedia is not an inherently bad source, and anybody who says it is sucks eggs.)

Anybody who's anybody has heard of Jack the Ripper. Hell, even Buzzfeed Unsolved did an episode over him. I recommend watching that as an auxiliary to this just because Ryan does good research and it's a bit more fun of a way to learn about the topic than some moron in a tumblr post.

The fact of the matter is that Jack the Ripper is a legend at this point, though his origins are based in the gritty reality of Victorian London.

As a bit of background, let me set the stage.

It's the late 19th century. The East End of London has just received an influx of Jews fleeing pogroms in Tsarist Russia. On top of that, the still-booming urbanization coming as a result of Britain's most recent industrial revolution has left London overcrowded and overwhelmingly under resourced. An underclass developed made up of people who couldn't even afford to be poverty-level. Robbery, violence, alcohol, it was all over the place. Also all over the place, and notably in the district of Whitechapel, was prostitution. Women were driven to prostitution as a result of economic instability and the ever-increasing disparity between workers and the bourgeoisie and middle class. There were an estimated 1,200 women working as prostitutes in Whitechapel around the beginning of the murders. On top of that, all of this overcrowding and turmoil had begun building and building into social strife. Hate crimes, attacks, you name it, it was going on towards anybody and everybody. Jews, Catholics, women, nobody was immune. There was even a case now known as Bloody Sunday in 1887 when the police beat the shit out of a group of protestors in London. So let it be said that the people weren't very happy with the police at the time.

(Map: The first seven Whitechapel murder locations.)

Okay, I'll say this first: not every murder attributed to Jack the Ripper was actually committed by Jack the Ripper. No, he's only been certainly identified as the murderer in five cases, and those are the cases I'll be talking about to try and keep things nice and simple.

The first was a woman named Mary Ann Nichols. She was found at 3:40 a.m. on August 31, 1888 with two deep cuts to the throat and two stab wounds on her vagina. Her abdomen had been partially disembowlled. Some of the stab wounds went clear through to vertebrae. The second was Annie Chapman, discovered at 6 a.m. on September 8. Her throat was in much the same condition as Nichols', but her abdomen had been cut completely open with her various organs being displayed over her shoulders. Her uterus and parts of her bladder and vagina had been removed.

(Photo: 29 Hanbury Street, where Annie Chapman and a 'mysterious man' had been seen and where her body was discovered.)

The third and fourth victims were both killed on September 30. Elizabeth Stride was found at 1 a.m. with the cause of death being attributed to a single slash across her throat, which really wasn't the Ripper's M.O. Catherine Eddowes, though, was almost certainly one of his. Her body was found in much the same way as Chapman's with her organs removed and some of the not missing ones spread around her body.

The final confirmed Ripper victim was Mary Jane Kelly, discovered in her own bed at 10:45 a.m. on November 9. Interestingly, she is argued to be the only actual prostitute of the lot. She was "hacked beyond all recognition", with her face in shreds and her body completely hollowed out of organs. Her heart was missing from the room entirely. There was also evidence of a fire at the scene suggesting further attempts to disfigure the body.

Now, note how the five Whitechapel Murders took place over several months. They weren't even investigated for a good murder or two because the victims were all lower class women considered to be prostitutes. However, whether or not they were prostitutes is still debated to this day. Some researchers claim that saying the women were all prostitutes is a result of good ol' fashioned Victorian misogyny.

(Image: 'Blind Man's Bluff' cartoon depicting the public's opinion of the police force's reactions to the murders.)

At any rate, we still don't know who committed the murders or even why he committed them in the first place. That's because the police were inept as hell, and because a lot of their records on the Ripper were reportedly destroyed during the Blitz in the 1940s. That being said, there are a couple of suspects that are still under real suspicion almost two hundred years later. They range from a Polish Jewish immigrant to Queen Victoria's grandson. At any rate, the Ripper was almost seen by the public as an extension of the aristocracy. Jack the Ripper was generally depicted as a well-dressed man in a black top hat. His murders, though, did draw attention to the poor conditions of the slums of London and eventually led to the slums being completely torn down. They also brought attention to the increasing wealth disparity between the lower and upper classes, and the newly-emerged middle class.

But, like, fuck Jack the Ripper. That doesn't really need to be said, does it?

Part Two: H. H. Holmes

Now to switch gears back to my wheelhouse, we go to Chicago, Illinois, to look at America's first identifiable serial killer, a certain Herman Webster Mudgett, otherwise known as Dr. Henry Howard Holmes, or H. H. Holmes for short. This guy isn't quite as well known as Jack the Ripper or other, more modern American serial killers I refuse to name, but he did get a season of American Horror Story based off of him, so that's something, I guess.

I'm not gonna spend too much time talking about Holmes himself because, frankly, it's boring. He was a pretty normal kid, none of the torturing animals crap that serial killers are known for these days. Maybe. That information contradicts itself depending on who you're talking to. Again, this guy and Jack the Ripper, possibly as a result of the increasing (blegh) popularity of serial killers over the past decade are known more as myth than fact.

(Photo: Holmes' mugshot.)

At any rate, Holmes was always interested in medicine and science. He became a pharmacist and moved to Chicago, and that's when he began going a bit apeshit. See, he had already been a criminal in the past. He was a con artist, a fraud, a scam, and a thief. Reportedly, he stole corpses while studying at the University of Michigan and used them for insurance fraud (and maybe experiments, but take that with a grain of salt.)

(Photo: Holmes' "Castle.)

The most famous thing about Holmes might be his "murder castle", pictured above. He had it constructed himself beginning in 1887. The first floor was to be storefronts, the second apartments, and the third floor was meant to be a hotel to be used by attendees of the World's Columbian Exposition. Holmes also had a factory that was maybe used to destroy evidence of his crimes. That isn't confirmed, though.

A lot of the information on his murders comes from so-called yellow newspapers or yellow journals, which really began picking up steam in America at this point in time (that is a lecture for another time, though.) Yellow papers, to put it simply, published information with little to no evidence or legitimacy. Think those magazines you see at the grocery store by the checkout lanes talking about how Queen Elizabeth is actually an alien or something.

Anyway, there's only one actually confirmed victim here. He's suspected of having killed at least nine others, with more blown-out numbers going up to as many as 200 victims. After being arrested, he confessed to 27 murders, though some turned out to just be flat-out lies.

Here's about how it went:

Holmes had this friend, Benjamin Pitezel. Pitezel kinda became his partner in crime, described as "Holmes's tool... his creature" by a district attorney. Most of Holmes' victims were women he reportedly seduced at the hotel-slash-Murder Castle. They were never seen again after entering.

(Image: August 11, 1895 issue of "The World" showing a fictional floorplan of the Murder Castle.)

The Murder Castle, unfortunately, was actually really kinda just that. A castle. For murder. There were over 100 rooms, some of which were soundproof. There were secret passages, trapdoors, kilns, all of which useful to murdering people and disposing of their bodies. Some rooms had gas lines put in that allowed him to gas inhabitants to death with at will. The basement apparently was his lab, complete with a dissection table. All employees, guests, everyone involved with the hotel had to have life insurance policies that he paid the premiums for as long as he was listed as the beneficiary.

Shortly after the conclusion of the World's Fair, Holmes and his buddy Pitezel took off on a cross-country road trip to commit insurance scams and pretty much abandoned the hotel in favor of regular old murders, including Pitezel. Later, Holmes scammed fellow scammer Marion Hedgepath, who got so angry about being scammed that he told the police about Holmes' scams. The police began tracking him down, and eventually caught up to him in Boston.

And from there, it's history.

The bodies they discovered were so decayed that they were basically impossible to identify. Again, he was confirmed to only have killed one person, but he did confess to 28 while being interrogated.

He was executed on May 7, 1896 for Pitezel's murder. He didn't break his neck, but was rather slowly strangled to death over 15 or so minutes. The Murder Castle stood until 1938. Now, it's a post office.

(Image: Holmes' execution.)

Part Three: Conclusions?

So the hardest part about discussing serial killers is sorting through fact and fiction. People like to sensationalize. People like the grotesque. My favorite episodes of Buzzfeed Unsolved were always the true crime ones. True crime podcasts are more popular than ever, and it's kinda super disgusting. Pardon me for soapboxing, but it's perfectly fine to be interested in true crime. Becoming obsessed with it, though, is a bit too far. Like. I was a criminology and criminal psych major for a good bit. I almost went into criminal law. I am interested in serial killers. I think they're absolutely fascinating. But when people begin twisting their characters to make them more interesting to a wide audience is where I begin seeing a problem. H. H. Holmes may have killed 200 people. He may not have. Nobody knows who Jack the Ripper is because so many people fucked around during the investigation pretending to be him. It's gross and weird and, uh. Well.

Anyway.

I think it's fun to note that this episode of Tales is the first to include our favorite evil time dimension, the Inbetween. God knows what that place is getting up to at any point in time. Maybe it's a Murder Castle. Maybe Karl is going to Fucking Die. Wouldn't that be fun?

Next 'week': The Wild West and Yet More Cannibalism Talk From A.D.

[chanluster]

non ducor duco | {m}

oneshot | historical! au | gang! au | 15.2k words 

“The most notorious gang leader in Victorian London can gouge out the eyes of men, steal from the corrupted rich, and terrify an entire city, but cannot figure out a few complicated feelings with you.”

s u m m a r y >> the leader of the sons of seoul, the wanted criminal mastermind, christopher bang, has the courage to commit any deed save for confronting you, his most trusted accomplice, about his feelings. however, when opportunity arises, in the shape of an invitation to a grand seasonal ball, to take down his fated enemy, he takes you to the heart of a lavish estate, both of you unaware of actions that occur inside, and after the mission.

w a r n i n g s >> gonna be using chris instead of chan cause it’s set in 1860s london, chan is a dom of course, jisung and changbin are dumb and dumber, are also massive cockblockers, some cliché scenes cause i’m a sucker for them, sexual! tension!, gore, foul language, making out, dirty talk, aggressiveness, semi-public fingering, unprotected sex (stay safe homies!!), oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, chan has a thing for being called his korean name, whack spelling for ‘cum’ as ‘come’ cause technically that word didn’t exist in 1860s, there is a plot so there will be build up

a / n > > so i went way over the 10k originally planned lmfaoooo but i hope y’all enjoy this oneshot! i worked my ass off on it and hopefully y’all can appreciate gang leader chan in 1860s london cause honestly i’m a 100% whore for that concept

back to masterlist

IT WAS A UNIVERSAL LAW THAT ONE MUST NEVER FUCK WITH CHRISTOPHER BANG. EVER.

Whatever charge you may have against him, it must be withdrawn. Whatever he had done to you — robbed you, murdered your son, destroyed your entire existence — it did not matter. There were always limits, and trying to challenge this specific criminal would only result in your undoing.

It seemed the target, cornered before you and the very man himself, did not fully understand this order.

Chris Bang, in all his midnight suited glory, took a step towards the cowering man, the ends of his longcoat trailing him in the air. His gloved hands locked behind his back, a grave curve of his lips as he addressed his next victim. “Mr. Shaw, we know you have the documents.”

This said Mr Shaw hastily shook his head, raising his hands in immediate surrender. “Please, Mr. Bang,” he whimpered. “I have no inkling of what you speak of!”

“Don’t you dare lie!” You interjected, sliding out your knife, pointing it towards him. “We received reports of you. Don’t you dare forget the monthly checks we’ve sent for its safekeeping!”

“I was taking care of it, Miss!” He backed further, until the wall of his office stopped his escape. “They came to the office though.”

“Who did?!” You demanded, but the way Chris’s hand fisted in irritancy answered your question.

The Mayor had taken their shares. Once again, the tyrant had robbed them off their fortune. 

“Mr. Shaw,” the man beside you started. The raw, dark matter in his voice had the owner’s eyes widening in pure fear. “Who was it specifically?”

“A really large man, about seven foot for sure…God, he had cuts all over his face, slight stubble,” he answered, knees slightly shaking. “Please, Mr. Bang, I have a family, children who have not grown—”

“Why is it that whenever man is at his weakest he mentions his loved ones?” A few stray locks escaped from Chris’ raked hair, caressing the ragged scar from his brow down to his cheek. “Why do you think that I’ll suddenly take pity because you have others who will mourn your existence?”

These questions had the man collapsing, leaning completely against the wall for support. You stole a glance at Chris, wondering if he was now capable of extracting the very souls from men. “Do not keep toying with me, Shaw,” he warned, leaning in slightly. “I know you have information.”

A soft, helpless whine escaped from the owner of the building. “Then-they'll kill me,” he mumbled, looking up at the criminal with desperation. It was a shame that never worked on a man with no sympathy.

“I can kill you too,” Chris countered, and in a flash a sleek, pocket knife appeared in his gloved hand, and hovered it right under Shaw’s chin. “So how about you tell me what you know, and I can prolong your imminent end, hmm? Does that seem fair enough?”

You almost felt sorry for the man. “H-his men…” tears formed in his eyes. “His men kept calling him Carter.”

“Brilliant,” you muttered. ‘Scar’ Carter, the Mayor’s link to the crime world, the dirty dealings of London. Carter, the lapdog of the socialites. The most irritating, disgusting son of a bitch you had ever encountered.

“I see.” The knife stayed, caressing the manager’s skin. “Now I know they’re to sell the documents. The bastard is greedy.

“Question is, Shaw, where is the transaction going to take place?”

Dear God, the man looked as if he was about to piss his trousers. “The ball.” He tried to gulp, but felt the curve of the blade. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a masquerade ball in a few days, and Carter already had a client. They’re going to do the dealing there, I swear on my children!”

A harsh scoff emitted from the criminal. “You better hope for the sake of your sons that you aren’t lying.” 

“Did you get the invitations?” You asked, eyes darting around the dirtied room, the messy desks and chairs lopsided from your searching. 

“Yes, yes!” He pointed to a set of drawers. “There are two in there!”

You walked towards the destination, opening the drawers and sure enough, finding the gold-edged enveloped, addressed to Shaw and his wife. “Are your names inside too?”

“No, just the envelope, but that is not important! I promise!”

You pocketed the invitations inside your coat pocket, joining your leader’s side again. Chris, after a minute of heart-wrenching silence, stood up, freeing Shaw’s neck from the knife, sliding it within his belt.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” His eyes were still upon the man when he said, “Let us return.”

The both of you were ready to leave when you heard Shaw’s sudden protests.

“The Sons of Seoul, everybody!” He declared, almost hysterically. “Coming in, fucking everything up, and leaving as if nothing had ever happened!”

Chris paused in his tracks, a quiet stillness passing over his whole figure. 

“What are you going to do now, Mr. Bang?” He hissed, slowly sliding up. “Are you going to infiltrate the biggest ball of the season? Create a bloodbath on the dance floor? It’s what you love to do so ardently, no?”

You heard the harsh spit smack on the office floor. “Stop meddling with the business of the British socialites. Go back to the gutter you crawled out of.” The next words overflowed with hatred. “Go back to where you really came from, you slit-eyed prick.”

Your eyes flashed in shock, swerving around to see the raging expression on Shaw’s beady little face. Fisting your hands, you were ready to knock him out when you felt the man beside you move.

Chris whirled around, eyes promising a horrifying future as he pounced upon the manager.

A yelp was heard as Chris’ fingers dug at the corner of Shaw's eyes, and relished the cries of terror as with a roar of his own, he squeezed with his thumb and forefinger, swelling the balls of vision from their sockets. With a loud pop! the two eyes tore from their origins, gooey residue trailing down his face as Christopher Bang palmed the two organs in his hands.

He observed his victim bellowing in pain as he fell to his knees, hands covering his bloodied sockets. A ghostly smirk accompanied his lips. "Better slit-eyes than none at all."

You had to suppress the severe shivers that threatened to break your stance. 

Shaw broke the universal law. His undoing was inevitable.

He flung the eyes upon the owner, and turned on his heel, eerily cool as he walked out of the office, blood and goo still on his black gloves. Not a hair ruffled upon his pretty head. 

You spared a look at the victim, crying out in infinite pain, hands on his sockets still. “Do not fuck with Christopher Bang,” was all you said, before following the devil out of the building.

The afternoon London heat hit you as you exited the offices, Chris waiting as he examined the filthy streets surrounding you. People of all classes strolled by, beggars on the street asking for two-pence, children selling newspapers down the corners, and carriages riding away on the wide roads. The man still did not clean his gloves from the mess, and you pointed this out as you arrived at his side.

“It does not bother me,” he waved you off, but you brought out your leather skin.

“Bring your hands out,” you ordered. 

Chris scowled. “I said I’m alright,___.” He began walking forwards, towards your humble abode, not far away from your starting point. “Besides, whoever strolls past us, they’ll second guess their evil intentions against us.” You glanced over the strange looking fellows, scattered across the roads. “Shows I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“Whatever,” you mumbled. “Dirty pig.”

You felt daggers glaring into you. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” you said, turning a corner, already catching sight of the docks. “I expect this behaviour from Jisung. Perhaps even Changbin, but not from you.”

“Enough with this,” the man ordered, irritancy clear in his voice. Grumbling, you walked beside him in silence, the Thames entering your vision. You wished it would have radiated a rich, clear blue body of water, but from the stench which even reached your nose, it would be impossible. The river, a dump for the sewers, the rubbish disposed daily, was a toxic mass of water, and the cause of thousands dying from drinking its contents. When you first joined the Sons you nearly drank from the river, being saved only by Chris’ rough hand slapping the cup away. You remembered you received a harsh scolding from him that day, immediately providing you with clean water after to quench your thirst. 

A small smile curved onto your lips at the memory.

“Hand it over.”

You perked your head up to see his filthy, gloved hands out. “What is it?” You asked. 

“The water.”An irritated sigh escaped him. “I’ll clean the bloody gloves.” 

Your smile grew as you handed him the leather skin. “But only because I don’t ever want to be associated with Jisung and Changbin,” he added, and you only laughed, watching the man rub the mess off his attire as you both arrived at the docks.

The first sounds heard were not of the boats bellowing at port, nor the waves lapping in underneath the stilts. 

No, all you were welcomed with was a string of curses, spat by Seo Changbin.

“You fucking bastard, how dare you—”

“Here we go again,” you caught Chris muttering, who quickened his pace, thundering to where the two of his sidemen fought, caught in a scrap.

Han Jisung’s whines were carried through the river air, burning into your eardrums. “Bin, no, I said I’m sorry—!”

When you caught up to Chris, he opened his mouth, exasperation clear in his voice. “Boys!” He exclaimed.

Immediately the fighting ceased. The boys addressed, Changbin atop Jisung, ready to throw the final punch, turned back to see his leader scowling. Jisung let out a yelp, throwing the former from him and scrambling to his feet. Changbin followed suit, a little more slowly after rubbing his side in agony.

“Why the fuck,” Chris started, pointer finger darting between his two men, “Are you both fighting again?”

Changbin, fixing his ruined locks with his hand, shot his best friend a glare. “He took my fucking scones again.” He groaned, much too loud. “God, I specifically stored them in a place where no one would find them, but this greedy pig still managed to snuff them out!”

Jisung, a slender and more comical figure, crossed his arms, raising his chin in stubbornness. “I did not see a bloody name on them! Tell me Bin,” he matched his opponent’s stare. “Did you write down your name with blood-red ink across the scones? Because I certainly did not see the words Seo Changbin scrawled on the surface!”

“Argh!” The elder of the two turned his raging gaze towards the leader, who was watching his subordinates with slight distaste. “Chris, permission to cut off his tongue for being the bane of my existence?!”

Chris only stepped past them, heading for the big wooden table situated near the gang’s warehouse. The sounds of ships sailing in the dirty waters thrummed to the port, shouting heard all around over new, imported goods. “Another time, Changbin,” he only said, bringing out a chair and sitting down, propping an ankle over a knee. “I have encountered enough organ slicing for the day.”

Jisung’s face twisted in awed curiosity, settling himself down beside Chris. “Without me?” he let out a disappointed whine, turning to you. “I trusted you, at least!”

“I was surprised myself, Ji,” you argued, raising a hand towards the aloof man as you sat opposite your friend. “I didn’t know Chris gouged out Shaw’s eyes until they were in his hand!”

“You truly are a selfish man,” Changbin complained, plopping himself on the last seat. “Alway keeping the fun for yourself and ____.”

You did not really know why your face flushed a little at his charge, but you made sure to whack Changbin in the gut, earning a pained groan from the boy.

Chris locked his hands upon the table. “Well, gentlemen, then it is time for you to join in on the entertainment.”

The two boys exchanged confused glances. On cue, you brought out the pair of invitations within your coat pocket, tossing them to the table. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a ball,” you explained, rolling your eyes at the boys tearing open the envelopes, yanking out the oblong, cartridge paper, details inked with a precise hand. “Since it does not have names, anyone can enter the estate.”

Jisung let out an excited yell, grabbing onto Changbin’s arm. “Binnie, we can actually have some fun!”

“Not so fast, boys,” Chris said, tightening his gloves. “The invitations are not yours.”

Changbin’s face immediately fell. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

The elder held out a finger, silencing the complaints, but not the quiet grumbling of his members. “As I was saying,” he continued, hands interlocking once more, “____ and I will use the invitations to get inside, with the two of you as our bodyguards.”

“Marvellous!” Jisung exclaimed, sarcasm practically dripping on his words. “Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic!”

“Jisung,” Chris warned, “How about you clean the shit off the docks instead?”

“Chan,” you murmured, causing him to glance at you. His sour expression almost softened at the word, the name which only few have ever said to him. You pondered at the time the two boys, sat to your right, tried teasing him with this name, and nearly earned an ass-beating. You, on the other hand, rather liked the way the name sounded on your tongue. 

Perhaps, you wished dearly, he liked the way it sounded on your tongue too.

The man, after a pause, averted his eyes from you, focusing them on his comrades. “You both can still enjoy the festivities, but you have to keep a low profile, because while ____ and I are socialising and distracting the guests, you both need to find Carter.”

“Is he at the party too?” Changbin propped his elbows on the table. “Lord above, I’ve been wanting to kick his arse for a while.”

“So you both just frivol away, then?” Jisung whined. “I want to drink and dance!”

“And you both will,” Chris persisted. “We all will keep a lookout for Carter and his dealings, and if any of us find him first, you report to me. At my signal, you and Changbin will break through their trade. I will be behind you as long as I slip away without anyone discovering our motives.”

You look to your leader. “There’s another problem.”

The three all turned to you. “If we are to go to the most lavish ball of the season, we certainly need to dress for it.” Suddenly, you sounded like a little girl when you pointed out, “I do not have a gown to wear for the evening.”

An eyebrow raised upon Chan’s face, while Changbin and Jisung snickered, puckering their lips. “Aww, poor little ____ has no lace to woo the rich men!”

You made to slap the pair’s arms and narrowly missed, glaring. “As if you animals have any decent attire to wear for the ball! When was the last time you wore a proper tailcoat?”

That was enough for their teasing to cease, but Changbin was adamant. “Don’t throw me in with Jisung! He doesn't even bother to shower!”

“Oi, you bastard!”

The pair were ready to fight once more when Chris cleared his throat.

“You’re right,____.”

A glance at the man who said it. “I have only seen you in stealth gear and rags, the first time I met you.” He leaned back in his creaking chair. “Perhaps it is time to flower you up a little.”

Jisung and Changbin were about to chuckle once again when you shot them a dirty look.

“I will order evening attire tomorrow,” Chris decided. “They will arrive on the day of the ball, which is adequate enough timing. 

“Now,” he declared, standing. “Are we all aware of what we have to do?”

The two boys turned sheepishly to you, who sighed and addressed the leader. “You and I attend the ball with these two fools as our bodyguards—”

“Hey!”

“____!”

“We maintain a believable facade and enjoy ourselves while also looking out for Carter and the documents. Once we find out where he is, Changbin and Jisung take him away, and we slip out of the party unnoticed.”

Chris, after a pause, nodded, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he left the table, your eyes a little wide and heart a little raced. 

When Chris retreated into the warehouse, the two boys turned their malicious gazes towards you, smirking much too wide for your liking.

“Do not,” you snapped, cheeks burning deeper, earning a smattering of laughter from the bastards.

“Whatever you say, good girl,” Changbin simpered, Jisung repeating the damned endearment until you hastily stood from your chair.

You rewarded them both with your middle finger before storming back into another warehouse, Chris’ words still engraved in your mind.

Just as Christopher Bang had predicted, the new attire arrived on the day of the ball. 

More planning had been explained, more additions to the grand scheme of the evening which was mere hours away. The gang was ready, but you can never be perfectly anticipated for any ideas gone amiss.

You even taught Jisung and Changbin to dance, ranging from the Polka to the Viennese Waltz, which was popular amongst high society in the growing years of Queen Victoria’s reign. They were terrible at the start, both of them always falling on each other, but with hard effort they learned quickly, almost perfecting the art of leading your partner on the ballroom floor.

You had not bothered asking the other if he wished to learn. There was something about him which made you think that he could do anything. Not once had he ever doubted your theory.

It was as if there was nothing in the world he could not know like the back of his gloved hand.

Thoughts like these were what filled you with such awe for him. Such deep-rooted pride that you worked under this man. Those thoughts did, however, curve into darker corners — when his midnight-lined eyes and raven figure haunted you in restless nights. 

You aggressively shook your head, swinging your legs over the dock. Sitting upon the wood, you watched the sun descend slowly, the stark yellows and whites of the sky beginning to darken. Ships docked and stayed, men with their filthy language and filthier intentions flocked outside, and strange women with too-tight corsets and lips too rosey, smirking at the newcomers, carrying out their own ways of living.

Sometimes, you’d watch this run-down life move on in this exact same spot, thanking the lucky stars for not being one of the boys with the weights on their backs, nor the girls with the untied top corsets. You thanked the same man, who brought you out of that hell, giving you the chance to fight all this wrong embedded in London. 

You also thanked him, especially that day, for calling you that endearment. 

God. The man was a criminal, yet you were the one being imprisoned. 

“____!”

You turned, heaving to your feet when you see Jisung running to you, packages in his hands. “Your gown’s inside!” He exclaimed, gummy smile lighting up his entire face. 

Throwing you the box, you caught it just before it flew into the Thames, shooting the boy a wary glare. “Careful,” you said, looking over the silk ribbon tied into a perfect bow upon the middle. Although there were greater happinesses in life, small ones such as new dresses had you in near giggles.

“I’ve got my very own tailcoat now,” Jisung yelled, ripping open the packaging, about to whip out his new clothing when you waved him to stop.

“Do it inside, Ji, or you’ll ruin your outfit!”

“Trust him to fuck up a perfectly new suit before trying it on,” Changbin’s voice drawled through the dock, who held a box of his own. “Also, the boss is saying to quit dallying and start dressing!”

You obliged, holding onto your box tenderly as you entered a little building beside the main warehouse, consisting of everyone’s rooms and privies. Your eyes glanced to Chris’ bedroom door before pushing open the door to yours, stepping inside to the small, yet decorated space, filled with a board of knives and bows displayed upon one wall and an erratic strokes of paint brushed along the textured surfaces, courtesy of Jisung and Changbin’s lack of motivation to finish your room. An undone bed was tucked into the corner, and a large mirror stood on its curled railing in the other corner, revealing yourself, hands underneath the package.

The sun fell further, sky being painted with dark oranges and purple and pinks, staining your bedroom the colours of soft autumn as you put your package on the bed, untying the ribbon and unboxing the whole treat. 

The first glance of the dress had you smiling in pure incitement.

You brought the dress out of its box, letting it trail free right down to your toes, holding it to arm’s length to examine the details : it was a mysterious, dark red, a colour which instantly attracted attention within the golds of the ballroom. The neck line was low, dipping just enough to tempt until it swelled over for the openings for the arms, black ruffles on the fabric to accentuate off shoulders. The intricate, midnight detail was stitched to perfection, creating a network of swirls upon the bodice before flaring out into the wider skirts. Dear God, you had never seen such an exquisite dress on any noble lady in this damned city.

Your smile grew a little wider. Christopher Bang, once again, has not disappointed. 

You turned it on it’s back, mouth parting in surprise at the silk lacing, undone and trailing down the dress, waiting to be tied and admired. Realising that we’re you to wear this, the entire ball would see your back half-exposed. Even the man you’re to be escorted with.

The thought alone made your insides sing. 

Chris had ordered this dress. He knew what he was acquiring for you, what he asked you to dare. 

Well, you were happy to oblige. Something within you wished to see his eyes blaze at you in the gown.

Closing the curtains of your room, you quickly lit up a metallic lamp, orange light leaking onto your dresser and walls.  Setting the source upon a stool, you began shedding your coat, tossing it on the bed before going to the dresser.

You spent about ten minutes on your hair, lifting locks upward and curling them into a messy bun. You brought out clips of pearls, attaching them at the back of your hair, letting the few stray curls bounce along your ears and neck.

After finishing your hair you began shedding your clothing, excitement rushing in your gut at the thought of wearing the ballgown. When you were adorned in nothing but your underthings, you grabbed onto the arms of the new dress, entering one leg into the opening before sliding the other. You raised the gown, fitting the bodice upon yourself and the short sleeves cuffing just under your shoulders. 

Looking over your shoulder at the back, it was bare before the mirror, saving your rear only with a small dip which was edged with more black lace. The laces for tightening the back still hung uselessly, begging to be entangled with their partners.

And you tried to oblige. You truly did, straining your hands behind your back and trying your hardest to tie the laces with the opposites, of creating a pattern adequate enough for the ball and announce your preparation. Unfortunately for you, your fingers refused to assist you that moment in the evening. 

Letting out an irritated sigh, you called for your friends.

“Jisung!” you shouted, hands endeavouring still. “Changbin!”

Your back still to the door, you waited for the two fools to arrive, but no one came. Again, you called their names, but to no avail, only silence answering you.

“I swear to the Lord,” you muttered, arms now starting to hurt from the stretching. You were about to bring the warehouse down with your roar when you heard the door quietly creak open, the sound of boots emitting against the floor. 

“Ah, finally,” you began as you turned around, hands clutching the bodice of the dress, ready to be irritated by your comrades when all words abandoned your tongue.

There, standing by the door, in all his midnight-tainted glory, was Chris Bang.

You hated how your eyes widened at the sight of him. 

The man always took care of his appearance, but that evening he had truly outdone himself - His infamous woollen longcoat was hung over his arm, exposing his black tailcoat, shining slightly in the flickering lamp light. His waistcoat underneath fit snug, and his white cravat tie peaked just above the lapels, caressing his Adam’s apple. His raven locks were slicked back, a few stray flyaways drooping over his forehead. The gloves were worn still, skin never exposed.

You caught his eyes flicker, something within stirring at seeing you, holding onto your dress in case it fell to the floor. The prolonging silence was shattered when you forced yourself to speak.

“Chris,” you said, because his name was the first thing, the only thing you could comprehend.

He, too, inhaled, slowly. “Jisung and Changbin...they’re outside, so they could not hear.”

“Oh.” 

Another round of silence. God, you wished you could just say something to him, anything which wasn’t a single syllable—

“____.”

You snapped into focus. “Yes?”

“Why did you call them?”

Blinking, you stumbled, “I, I just needed help with…” your hand gestured to your back. “...with the laces.”

There was an indecipherable undertone in his next words. “You could have called me.”

“You’re here now.”

Again. The world-heavy pause upon the both of you. 

A few more seconds ticked by when Chris set his coat upon the dresser chair. His eyes never left yours.

“Turn around.”

You dragged your gaze away from his as you complied, baring your back before him, laces dangling. His footsteps sounded from behind you, and his presence was felt, large and magnetic.

Leather sliding from skin, you sensed his eyes on you, taking in your illuminated skin. You had the greatest urge to shiver, but suppressed it, waiting for his next move.

A small breath hitched in your throat when Chris grabbed onto the first pair of laces and tugged them back, pulling you to him. 

Almost too conveniently, your rear backed against his crotch, and a minute noise escaped you before putting some distance between you two again. You instantly regretted the action, already missing the mere caress of what lay underneath his trousers.

“Stop fidgeting,____,” he ordered, and you immediately stilled, the tug still adamant at your back. Almost disgraceful how quickly you listened to him.

Slowly, he tied the first bow, right to the small of your back. When he started on the second, though, the first touch of his fingers against your back threw you off guard.

You should have expected this. You should have known from the start of his task that his fingers would graze your skin but each caress was like a lick of fire, threatening to singe the skin. Your breath caught in your throat, each time Chris touched you.

Those damned fingers skirted upwards, tying up the laces with such delicacy it nearly softened your stance, if only you didn’t notice his growing warmth. You realised with no small amount of pleasure that he, too, was possibly flustered.

Christopher Bang. Flustered over a girl.

You almost gasped when his hands brought a few stray curls over your shoulder, the dip of your neck exposed as he began the final bow of your gown. The process was excruciatingly slow, each little caress enough for you to turn around and—

And what?

How you desperately wanted to find out. 

Sensing the ribbon curling upon your neck, you understood. 

“It is done,” he whispered, and you shifted at the sigh which kissed your skin. God, he was so close, you were scared that if you turned around his lips—

You did not need to worry when you felt strong hands grip your shoulders, whirling you around in a sudden fashion. Your eyes widened at the close proximity of his face, his beautiful fucking face, and the warm, slender hands on your naked shoulders.

“Chan,” you let yourself say, and you swore the criminal’s eyes darkened. His grip on you tightened.

Perhaps he would have closed the distance, saved you from desperation when someone knocked on the goddamn door.

“___?!”

“Hurry up, the carriage is waiting!”

“Women, honestly—!”

You yelped at the sound of your friends bellowing behind the door. Even Chris looked a little surprised, a slight tick in his jaw as the noise grew louder.

Grabbing onto your skirts, you thundered towards the door, furrowing your brows as you twisted the knob, opening to see the same two idiots, shooting you irritated glares. 

“Is Miss Fancy-Shmancy finally ready?” Changbin drawled, propping a hand upon his hip, tails of his coat dangling behind him.

“Madame certainly took her time,” Jisung went on, sauntering into your bedroom without a care. “Might as well not attend the ball at all—”

His incessant rambling was instantly ceased when he saw Chris standing before you, putting on his gloves. His face was impassive as ever, save for the jaw still tightened.

“Oh, Chris,” he said, and started backing away to the door. “The carriage is outside.”

“Let us go, then,” he only replied as he grabbed his longcoat, strolling out of your bedroom, leaving your skin tingling and heart confused.

Changbin watched Chris exit the building, turning to you with a raised brow. “What was the Mr. Thorns-up-his-arse doing in your room?”

You scoffed at the nickname, picking up the invitations from the dresser. “He was just helping me.”

Jisung’s lips curved into a smirk. “Helping you…?”

“Stop it!” You demanded, but both of the boys could see the blush on your cheeks, even from the dim lamp light. 

“Come on, now,____,” Changbin said, holding out an arm, and hitting Jisung’s arm to do the same. “Let us follow Chris before he shouts at us for keeping you here.”

“Don’t say such things,” you cooed, looping your arms with the two boys. “He will kill you outright instead.”

Laughter emitted from the two, leading you out of the room, down the halls and soon the building.

The carriage was waiting at the entrance of the dock, horses neighing softly at your arrival. Jisung opened the carriage door, letting you climb inside. Chris, inside already, held out a hand, you taking it as he had you sit beside him. His hard figure brushed against your shoulders, reminding you of his fingers on your back not too long ago.

Just like that, you slumped against the seating. That man was truly going to be the death of you.

When the two boys scrambled inside, Chris’ hand thudded against the roof, indicating it to start riding. The carriage obliged to his command. 

The small, interwoven streets widened as the carriage rode upon the main roads, going faster with each signal of Chris’ hand. The inside was alive with Jisung gloating shamelessly over his checkered waistcoat, with Changbin giving reassurances for his “ugly face ruining the clothing.” You laughed at every jab the two threw at each other, but would tense at the erratic touches Chris’ knee would send with every shake of the vehicle. Although the many layers of skirts cushioned these brushes, the blood rushing to your cheeks was evidence enough - everything he did made you so unhinged.

Soon, the big roads led from filthy, back-to-back housing to larger homes, the further the dirty central city strayed from you. A few touches of countryside teased your view when you saw mansions, estates the size of neighbourhoods gracing the surroundings. The carriage began to slow down, as more people adorned in fine attire entered your window view, no doubt going to the same destination as the gang.

The most illuminated estate welcomed you as the carriage stopped right before its vast, colourful gardens, smattering of couples taking intimate walks along the hedges. Chris, noticing the destination, opened the door, Changbin following suit. As the former got out he held out his hand to you. Surprised by his sudden manners, you took his hand, stepping down from the carriage, careful of your skirts as they brushed against the pavement. Jisung and Changbin were right beside you, uttering the driver to come back within a couple of hours.

“Now,” Chris began, bringing your hand to his arm. “You both stay behind me and ____. You wouldn’t need invitations if you both act like our bodyguards.”

“Right behind you, boss,” Jisung chanted, counting his knives inside his coat pockets. Changbin took one of the weapons from him, sliding it up his trouser sleeve, securing it with a leather ankle strap. 

“Right.” the gang all looked at each other, silent understanding passing between all of you.

“Let’s ruffle some rich feathers.”

With your hand still on his arm, the leader of the Sons of Seoul led his gang inside of the massive estate. 

Guards at the entrance shot you grave looks as they stopped you. “Invitations,” they said. You obliged, bringing out the golden paper. They looked over, convinced, and gave them back to you.

You and Chris were about to enter when Jisung and Changbin were stopped behind you. “Protection,” Chris said, but the guards were unconvinced. 

“They need invitations too,” was their answer.

Dread, slight yet present, began to fill your stomach. Has the mission failed before it could even begin?

“I suggest you let them in, too,” Chris only said, black eyes piercing the two men with a glare. “Or my friend hosting this party will hear of this inconvenience.”

That seemed to stir the guards, for they said nothing more, letting your friends enter the estate. Jisung and Changbin made sure to smirk at the men before sauntering inside behind you.

Your eyes, upon stepping inside the main hall, were welcomed with paradise. 

Gold. gold upon gold was painted, lined, moulded everywhere, upon the walls, on the floor, on the painted ceiling, hypnotising you with its kaleidoscopic pattern. Swirls of white and silver journeyed along the walls, and the floor bore solid treasures, sculpted into the ground and shining exquisitely from the chandelier lighting. Hundreds of lords and ladies, businessmen and escorts populated the manor, either being moved by the orchestral band, dancing, helping themselves to food from the lines of dishes or simply mingling among others.

It was the chaos of the rich. A place you didn’t quite fit in.

You stole a glance at the man beside you. Even though he looked contained as ever, you felt his arm tightening all over. Perhaps he knew he did not belong in this world either.

The grim understanding was cut off when Changbin’s shrill gulp sounded from behind you.

“Scones!”

The man immediately dashed towards the food section, earning blatant laughter from his friends as Jisung stepped beside Chris. “Once he’s done stuffing himself, we’ll get into positions.” He skirted his eyes over the buzzing crowd. “I have already spotted some of Carter’s men in different corners of the hall, so we can see where they’re going to go.”

“Any signs of Carter?” you asked, already feeling suggestive eyes on your body, the dark red curves of your figure. 

“He’ll show himself soon,” Chris promised, beginning to take a step forward. “The bastard thrives in attention.” He turned to Jisung. “Make yourself scarce.”

He then saw Changbin making himself much too comfortable with the jam scones rapidly declining in his wake. “And for God’s sake, control Changbin.”

Jisung shook his head, mocking a salute before strolling to his friend. You and him were left to your own activities, and soon you felt the tug of his body, leading you further into the hall.

You looked up to see him scouring the room. His brows furrowed slightly, that stiffness felt underneath your fingertips. “Chris,” you called to him, and were answered with an uncertain stare.

“I’m alright,” he said, walking along the lines of the dance floor, looking away when he gave you the false assurance. 

You did not know what was going on. In other missions his composure would never falter — this was what he was so notorious for, being calm despite the anarchy around him. Never before had you seen him so tense.

“Stop it.”

You blinked back into reality. “What?”

“You’re doing it again,” he hissed, raking his hand through his hair. “Looking at me that way. Like I’m about to snap.”

A pout formed on your lips, looking up at him underneath your lashes. “I can sense you’re distressed.” You squeezed his arm in comfort. “I cannot help if I worry for you, Chris.” 

With small surprise, you found him soften, only slightly. “I just…” he sighed in exasperation. “I hate parties.”

You understood the connotations. Wealthy parties. The men and women who throw them. 

“And I, too,” you agreed, earning a soft snort from the man. Your heart warmed a little at the sound, and thankfully the tension faded between the two of you, not necessarily from each other but from the socialites around you.

Your heart, however, received no such rest, beating much too loud for your liking. 

The two of you took another turn of the room before a low, arrogant drawl paused you both in your tracks.

“Mr Christopher Bang.”

You and your leader both sighed simultaneously. 

Turning, you tilted your head upwards to none other than ‘Scar’ Carter, smirking ridiculously down at the the two of you. He was something out of a children’s book, the grotesque villains with wanned skin and beady looks, ready to pounce and make you disappear without you ever realising. Although young, he looked to be in his mid-forties, unkept locks and curled moustache, being played by his fingers. 

He held out his other hand, extending the smile to the man beside you. “Always a goddamned blessing to see you.”

Chris assessed his hand for a moment before he let go of your grip on his arm, slipping off his gloves. His own olive coloured hands were roughened, no doubt from years of manual labour. He took Carter’s hand, shaking the greeting in place, and the latter turned his enemy’s hold, looking over at the new image inked upon the hand.

“What is this, Chrissy?” He mused, the nickname causing the said-man’s lips to twitch. “Some flowery poetry?”

Your eyes strayed to what he meant; just under his thumb, where the joint began, was a tattoo, inked deeply in a cursive hand. It was a phrase you had never knew the meaning of, nor had you asked, but the Latin was beautiful on his textured skin.

NON DUCOR DUCO.

“Not poetry, Carter,” he only said, tracing his sole tattoo with a finger. “But something I live by.”

Despite Carter towering over the man, Chris Bang pinned him with a piercing glare. His signature phantom smile appeared on his lips. 

“I am not led. I lead.”

The giant’s shit-eating grin faltered. You could not help but let a small chuckle escape at his reaction. 

And maybe you shouldn’t have shown amusement, because when he focused his animalistic gaze upon you, you had the sudden urge to hold onto the man beside you again.

“Ah, Miss ____,” he jeered, mocking a deep bow which you did not return. “Chris’ little...protégée.”

He then held out his hand to you, and you knew it was not to shake the gnarled fingers. “Would you do me the honour of dancing with you?”

You scoffed, anger bubbling within your veins. How dare he even ask you, after all the trouble he had caused for the gang? Smirking as if it was all a little game.

Your mouth parted, ready to reject him outright when a warm hand settled on your back. 

Chris’ fingers stroked the exposed skin, skirting over the lacing, and despite the heavenly feeling, you knew what this signal really meant. 

Distraction. This would be the perfect opportunity to divert Carter’s attention while Chris joined in the other’s search. Listening to the instrumental, you realised that would spare them another five minutes.

Reigning in your fury, you offered the bastard a thin-lipped smile before taking his hand, already missing the mere touch of another seconds before.

Carter led you to the dance floor among the other dancers, you hardly radiating the same enthusiasm as the others accompanying you. The man’s other hand, one still holding yours, snaked around your waist, and you hated how it felt against your back, pure distaste staining your features as he tried to impersonate the idle lace curling that Chris did.

As if it physically hurt, you propped a hand upon his shoulder, and when the music began, the game started.

The giant kept ogling at you as the sly grin appeared on his lips. “I must say, I am very envious of Chris.”

You matched his stare. “Of course you would,” you only said, trying your best to sound like your leader, who was an embodiment of calmness. “You can never be the man Chris is.”

“Oh, I did not mean by what he is, my lady,” he corrected. “I meant by what he has.”

He pulled you to him, much to close, and you hissed as the fingers behind you played on your back. “He is much too lucky to possess a creature like you, Miss ____.”

Good God. If he endeavoured to make you as uncomfortable as possible, then he was doing a splendid job. You regretted ever listening to Chris, but for the plan, you will do what is necessary.

As if on cue, you felt dark, piercing eyes on you. By the little hairs which stood at the back of your neck, there was no doubt who watched over you, murmuring progress with Jisung as he sipped wine on a tightly held flute. 

“Tell me, sweet,” he began once more, making you lose your thoughts, turning about the room as the music went on. “Why do you work for a man like him?”

You sighed at the question. Truly this man did not know how to initiate small talk. “Why is that any of your concern?”

“Because I’ve seen you in action,” he answered, and you could not mistake the awe that threatened to expose in his voice. “You have incredible potential, my lady, and it pains me that Chris does not use you properly. You waste your efforts in a silly gang.”

His condescending speech made you dig his nails in his hand. “Careful, Carter,” you seethed, watching his face crumple in pain from your action. “The silly gang you speak of will not hesitate to obliterate your entire organisation. And neither will I.”

Rage flashed in his eyes as he grinned at your claim. “I doubt the esteemed Christopher Bang would even let you participate,” he drawled, grazing his fingers against your back. “You being his whore is enough for him.”

You parted your mouth in slight shock. The reaction quickly evaporated with pure, unadulterated fury. A lot of people speculate your true relationship with Chris, but your own demeaning always struck deep. How dare people think that you only have the power you have because you slept with the greatest criminal in the city? 

With your head raging, you sent your low heel down upon Carter’s boot, a yelp escaping the man as his dancing faltered, grip on you loosening. Fortunately for you, the orchestra smoothed their music to a close, and small applause rang around the room, you joining as you smiled at Carter’s slight groaning.

When the giant looked at you again, all his arrogance was gone, instead a face of wrath. “You bitch-”

You were sure he was going to strike, despite hundreds in the ballroom. Even your smug demeanour dampened when you saw his bear-like hand raise when its journey was paused.

Ceased completely as Chris’ hand wrapped around Carter’s wrists.

Your leader’s smile was sharp, like a decorated dagger. “Are you already creating a scene, just when you finished the first dance?”

Carter, dumbfounded by his enemy’s sudden presence, waved off the foreign grip on his hand. “You are never going to find the documents,” he crowed, glaring at the two of you.

Chris, the magnificent bastard, only kept his magnetic smirk as he took your hand, enveloping his fingers with yours. “We shall see about that,” he promised, and dipped his head in adieu, turning on his heel and taking you with him. 

You felt your heart flutter when his grip on you stayed, even when Carter stomped off into the crowd. “Bastard,” you hissed. A hum of agreement followed. 

Soon, music began to play a sensual tune, and you looked to the couples joining in the main circle of the floor. You made to leave that area when you felt the man refused to be led. 

You looked back, noticing an uncertain emotion swirling in his eyes. “The dance is about to begin.”

“So?” he merely said, hands still clasping yours. The people around you began to take positions. 

“Chris,” you got out. “You do not dance.”

A small smile enveloped his mouth at the claim. He answered in wrapping a hand around you, making you suck in a breath. You caught sight of the tattoo inked on his skin as he raised his hold on. NON DUCOR DUCO.

I am not led. I lead.

“You’re right,” he admitted. As the first tune of the violin settled in the ballroom, the man took a step. “But I let it slide on special occasions.”

You did not reply, only staring at him as you happily let him turn you about the dance floor.

Your assumptions were correct - Chris Bang was a wonderful dancer. The man already possessed a natural smoothness in his usual movement, but the way he led you across the room gave fluidity another meaning entirely. His hand on your back was an anchor to reality, keeping you from dreaming away in the skies above, and his fingers, interlocked with yours, were a silent promise that he was never letting you go. 

You were so caught up in your fantasies that you did not hear what Chris said until he called your name. 

“____.”

You perked up, raising your brows. “Yes?

“Did Carter say anything to you?” His fingers on your exposed skin began to caress you, and it took a lot within you to stay calm. “You were seething while you both danced.”

Oh, so he was watching you. The information didn’t help your nerves. “He was being his usual, charming self,” you drawled, careful of your feet. 

He paused a bit at your unhelpful answer. “I see,” he got out, index curling with the ribbon of your back. You let out a shuddered breath, not going unnoticed by the man. 

You changed the subject, focusing on the mission. “Are Jisung and Changbin still searching for the documents?”

Chris, on the note, twirled you delicately, and brought you back into his arms. “They have discovered the hideout, and have taken down half the men,” he informed, and you sighed in relief. “They’ll find what we’re looking for soon.”

“I hope so, too,” you murmured, listening to the music ascend in its pitch. 

So much finery radiated in this room. As your eyes drifted to the surroundings once more, you became slightly envious of the family fortunate enough to reside in this estate, and drink in the liquid gold splattered everywhere in the vast hall. Complaints were heard from a rather nasty woman, who screamed at a young servant for spilling wine on her oh so expensive dress, and the jewellery which glittered upon necks and ears. 

This. you hated this. Despised the wealth which accumulated in this ball, this entire neighbourhood. Not months ago you were about to die from the lack of food in your stomach. No doubt these people simply relished another one of these many balls, occurring every season.

It was the only reason the Sons of Seoul existed in the first place. To battle the ranks of the rich, and establish a sense of justice which had long faded from London.

Perhaps Chris sensed your growing disgust at the environment, for he sighed. “I hate these people.”

You nearly smiled at how similar you both think.

His touches still had you nearing closer to him as he continued, “I hate how everyone here can simply enjoy themselves without a care in the world. I hate the Mayor for letting this chaos happen as he sits back on his arse, corruption spiking under his office.”

His anger grew. “I hate that pig-headed prick Carter and all the trouble he’s brought me. I hate that he stole those documents and constantly fucks with me as if we two had not crawled out of the same hellhole.

“And God,” he snapped, pure venom now lacing his tongue, “I hate how he was touching you as if you were no one but his.”

Your eyes widened at the confession.

He groaned out in frustration, fingers tightening on your hand. “I hate how Jisung and Changbin walked in on us this evening. Despise that the moment I was about to close the distance they burst through the door, leaving me helpless. And I hate feeling helpless.”

You did not know what to say, what words to comfort him with. Not when you were thinking the exact same thing, and felt the exact same agitation, particularly at your core.

The man leaned in, eyes heavy lidded. “You know what I hate the most, ____?”

Gulping, you let out a little, “What?” afraid of what he was going to reveal.

His tongue ran along his bottom lip, fingers continuing their teasing.

“I-” he seethed, gripping your back tightly. “Fuck, I hate how ravishing you look in that dress.”

You parted your mouth in shock, blushing the colour of roses. “Why do you hate that?” you only asked, breath almost lost in your lungs as your blood began to thrum beneath your skin.

His eyes lost all dreamy light when a small curve enveloped his lips. “Because, my dear ____,” he muttered hoarsely, each breath ragged, “It makes me think of all the things I want to do to you.”

The strong hand on his back was felt much more, fingers playing with the laces of your dress. You nearly cried out in front of a hundred people over their idle play, and his bold, bold statement.

Chris relished in your whimpering reaction. “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he whispered, leaning in till his mouth hovered near your ear. “Do you not want to know what I wish to do to you?”

“What,” you rasped out, grip tightening over his neck. “What are you going to do?”

His husky chuckling nearly sent you over the edge. “I’ll find a nice little space, away from Carter and all these people,” he began, breath caressing your skin. “Then I’ll kiss you slowly, like so.” he pressed a chaste kiss underneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “These hands of mine will roam all over, but they will gladly trail up your legs, ____.

“And God, when my hands stop at your sopping cunt, I’ll make it cry with my fingers.” He drummed his fingers on your back. “One.” Tap. “Two.” Tap. “Three of them.” Tap. “Perhaps you’d like more.”

You whined into his shoulder, feet stumbling as you clung onto him tighter. “M-more,” you pleaded quietly, so careful to keep dancing, move along to the music. 

“Of course you would,” he only cooed in your ear, and you were scared you would collapse over his words. “Luckily for you, I wouldn’t be finished with you either.”

Your hand, clasped in his his, squeezed at his words. “Chris, please—”

“Yes, just like that,” the man mused, whirling you on the dance floor. “Just like that, you’ll beg me to send you over the edge, but I won’t let you be satisfied so easily.” 

On God and all his subjects, if he did not cease his filth you were going to come onto the floor by his mere words. You could tell Chris noticed, almost reading your mind as the ghost of a smirk widened. “Already afraid, love?”

Love. 

Dear, fucking God.

“You see, ____,” he muttered, leading you to the final round of the song, the steps of the dance going faster. “I won’t let you be satiated with just my fingers.”

And as he broke his hold on you, twirling you with his tattooed hand, he pulled you to him, one last time, crushing you against his granite chest. 

His eyes bore into yours when the last string of the violin wailed around the hall. All you could see was pure, unadulterated desire.

“I will have you writhing with my cock.”

Your eyes never left Chris’ as the music finally came to a close, gaze blurring at the dark promise. Applause scattered around the ballroom, yet your hands stayed upon his arm, the other enveloped in his.

You caught the words once more under his thumb. NON DUCOR DUCO.

Indeed you do.

“Chris,” you breathed out, waiting for him to let you go. He did no such thing.

Feeling a few suspicious eyes on you, your feet backed away from the man, hands escaping the feeling he emitted underneath your touch. 

A whine threatened to escape you when you saw his desire had not dampened. His hands shook, only slightly, and your stomach erupted into a million butterflies, journeying lower and lower. 

You wanted him. You wanted him so badly you feared you would faint on the dance floor. 

Excusing yourself, you hastened your footsteps, sending a few smiles to passerbys as you picked up a flute of champagne, hurrying down long hallways, catching a few couples leaning towards each other. When you found a grand wooden cabinet beside another door, no doubt a guest room, you slumped next to it, breathing loud and ragged, too affected by a certain man’s eyes and the hidden intentions underneath. You drank the entire champagne in one gulp, propping the flute on a servant’s tray as he rushed by.

“____!”

Gasping, you turned to the source of the voice. The voice which filled you with such unexplainable hunger you had to clench your thighs as it drew nearer.

Footsteps thudded against the carpet, and you squirmed at the sight of Chris Bang, storming towards you with a ferocity which had your knees near buckling.

“Where,” he began, voice an octave lower as he stood not a foot from you, smacking his hands against the wall, caging you with his presence. “Were you trying to lead me?”

“Somewhere where they cannot see us,” you responded, excitement clear in your voice. The ballroom chatter was still within your range, so technically, anyone could wonder down these halls, look over the cabinet and catch you both. 

The throbbing inside you didn’t particularly care. 

“And what do you want me to do,____,” he murmured, and his voice was glazed with pure lust,  “Which the world cannot see?”

“I…” slight shame tried to course through your body but the overflowing desire was too strong. Not when your tongue was not afraid to voice what was in your heart the moment you first saw him. “I want you to do all those things you said. I want you to ruin me.”

And perhaps that was all he needed, when Christopher Bang pressed his lips against yours and answered your prayers.

He was instantly rewarded with your surprised whine, drowned out by the movement of his mouth as his hands left the wall, holding onto your face. His thumbs caressed your cheeks as he led the fiery kiss, opening your mouth to let the little noises escape.

“Chris,” you tried to rasp out, but his lips refused once more as he tilted your head, gaining full access and truly discovering the sheer pleasure oozing from the swell of your lips. God, he had gone through every experience which gave him a sense of thrill, but the kiss he shared with you brought him a new, foreign high — as if he tried the drugs he had seen on the streets for the first time, and becoming addicted on the first dose. 

You broke the kiss, gasping for air as the two of you shared a carnal gaze, chests rising at an unsteady rhythm. Chris was ruthless, only sparing you for a few seconds before pouncing back in on your mouth, this time tongue playing along, asking to be let inside and slide along the inner workings. You would have been a fool to refuse him.

The moment you opened your lips for him his tongue slithered inside, sliding it along the roof of your mouth, while his hands left your face and instead gripped onto your waist, driving you further against the wall, snuffing out any distance which dared come between you and him.

A slightly moan bubbled within your throat when he began to roughen your lips, capturing your tongue before closing the seam of your mouth within his own, repeating the action until you didn’t know whether you were sane or absolutely fucking crazy.

You were sure straight after when one of his hands began sliding down. Down. He hurriedly broke the kiss, letting out an angry groan at the never ending skirts which met with his fingers. “Fuck this dress,” he cursed as he descended a little, peppering kisses upon the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, trailing until he found the hem of your skirts.

Bunching them up with his one hand, he lifted the fabric, baring your legs to the dimmed chandelier light from the main hall. His hand trailed right up to your core, a single layer hiding it from Chris’ fingers. The poor, soaked fabric could not ever compete, when the criminal, with a single finger as he scattered kisses upon your face, hooked under the lacey underwear, sliding it down your thighs. So much desperation lurked he did not even bother to slide it down to your ankles,  a chuckle rasping out of him as his fingers skimmed your upper thighs to find them dripping with the suppressed arousal.

“My poor, poor, darling,” he whispered in a menacing tone, the other hand caressing your face, “Couldn’t contain yourself for me?”

“Ch-chan,” you heard yourself say, because at this point your soul was not present, probably lurking in seventh heaven where this man was taking you. 

Hearing his name on your slurred mouth only had him plunging the first finger inside you. 

You let out an obscenely loud moan, which was immediately followed by hushing. “Don’t make a sound,” he demanded, smiling slyly at your whimpering, “Or else I stop. Understand?”

You could not nod fast enough, and he huffed out a laugh before sliding the second finger in, rubbing against your slit, drawing circles upon your throbbing skin, testing the rather sticky waters of you and your fucked out state. 

Satisfied, he delved the two fingers in deeper, pulsating against your walls until they hit a certain spot which had you crying out in pleasure. Chris’ heavy lidded warning flashed in his eyes.

You nearly cried when he began to slide his fingers out over your moaning, your hand immediately stopping him from pulling out further. “Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, pleaded like the whores you heard on the docks, but you didn’t care, did not give a single fuck when those fingers needed to be inside you again. “Chan, please, I’m sorry—”

“One more fuck up, ____, and these—” his fingers plunged back into you once more, hitching you upwards with the sheer force, “—will be back out.”

Nodding hastily, you left your hand on his wrist. Chris continued to work so deliciously inside you that it took every ounce of strength left in you not to bring the manor down with your moaning. The whimpering could not be contained, but the criminal let that slide, finding great contentment every time you begged for more.

He curled his slender fingers, acquainting himself with that same bloody spot which had you seeing stars. Your hands gripped onto his neck for stability, nails digging into his shirt. How you wanted it off, along with all the damned layers he adorned.

The way he played with your sweet spot had you feeling heavy, a pleasured ball of pain forming at your lower back. You knew you were being led to an edge, an edge you could not, did not want to escape, and when you pulled away from Chris, looking into his eyes, he instantly understood.

“Oh my, love,” he simpered, his free hand thumbing your cheek. “Does someone want to get fucked against the wall? When I’m not even finished with them yet?”

Tears lined your eyes, cunt throbbing almost painfully around his fingers. “Chan, I’m going to—ah!” you cut off, closing your eyes as you barely held on to your last grips of sanity. “Chan.”

Your weakened, fucked out demeanour had the most dangerous man in London fearing for his own senses. He wished nothing more than you screaming his name for the whole city to hear, and with you, looking at him like that…

Oh, he was definitely going to drive you over the edge.

Christopher Bang nearly carried out his promise when a shrill call interrupted you two. 

“CHRIS! ____!”

“WHERE ARE YOU—?”

Your lust-glazed stare cracked as you blinked. “Chan,” you said his name, but the man let out an enraged roar. You felt the hollow emptiness when those golden fingers were pulled out of you, sticky residue coating his skin. The footsteps grew closer, the volume of the shouting increasing. 

Chris brought out a white handkerchief, cleaning your mess on his fingers rather aggressively. “I’m going to fucking kill them,” he guttered out, making your legs tremble. To your utmost misery you felt the orgasm, so close before, fading from existence, and you made a silent vow to break Jisung and Changbin’s legs the moment all of this was over.

Speaking of the Devil, the two hastened, opening all doors and closing them till the two stumbled upon the both of you, infuriated and worryingly turned on.

Changbin looked at the deflated expression on both of yours faces. “Chris? ____?” His eyes narrowed, trying to work out the reasons for the slight electric atmosphere he suddenly entered in. “Are you both...alright?”

“Perfectly,” the man answered in a ragged hiss, sliding on his gloves again, smoothing over his raven locks. “Now why the fuck are you both here?”

The two boys did not understand their leader’s anger. Choosing to let the snipe slide, Jisung said, “We’ve caught Carter.”

That seemed to send you and Chris back in reality. Well, not really, when your core still throbbed, the pleasure fading with each passing second.

“Where is he?” Chris flattened out his coat. “Where are the documents?”

Changbin brought out a small file from inside his waistcoat, holding it out for the former. “Right here.”

Chris took the file, skimming through the contents. His previously angered expression relaxed, just a fraction, and he held onto it as he set his powerful gaze on you all. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The four of you managed to slip away easily, you trying your hardest to fix yourself after the whole fiasco in the hallway. Your heart was still running a mile per minute, refusing to calm as your mind relived the events. The original carriage which you all arrived in was now accompanied with another one, with a dark figure hunched over from the window’s view.

“We threw the giant fucker in another carriage,” Changbin said, laughing as he recalled the takedown with Jisung. “Man could not believe he was failing!”

Chris ignored his story, turning to you all as he stood before Carter’s carriage. “You three, take the free one,” he ordered, his eyes rooted on you. “I will journey home with him.”

“But Chris,” you began, taking a step towards him, “Let me come with you.”

You caught a glimpse of the desire which swirled in his eyes, not long ago, and perhaps that was why he held your arm in his now gloved hand. 

“Go,” he only said. “I have a few things to say to him alone.”

After letting you go, nodding at the boys behind you, Chris Bang stepped inside the first carriage, slamming the door shut. The metal wheels screeched as the whole thing began to move, accelerating away.

You watched the carriage fade from view, Jisung and Changbin stepping beside you.

“What happened, ____?” the former asked, the other trying to comfort you with his gaze. 

Silence was their only answer, as you turned on your heel, climbing inside your designated ride and watched the stars twinkle from the window.

The two members of the gang really tried their best.

As you all journeyed home without your leader, the pair told their tale of how they took down Carter and his men, Jisung adding exaggerated gasps as Changbin demonstrated each kill he thrust upon his victims. You offered them a few laughs, giving them your attention, but really your mind was somewhere else, specifically a midnight-tainted criminal who nearly brought you your undoing.

You were insane. Insane as you thought of him, insane as you remembered how wonderfully he had you writhing over him, just by his fingers. The mindless pondering alone had your cunt pulsating, and you deserved an award for how unaffected you acted with your friends. 

Soon, the carriage slowed to a stop, and you perked up, not realising you had already arrived home. 

You waited for the boys to exit before you stepped out of the carriage, the only light on the docks emitting from lamps and the night sky, reflected on the surface of the river. The first carriage was already there when your feet met the concrete floor, and when you turned to the man who reigned in your mind he had his signature expression, an aloof distaste as he walked over to his gang. 

“Jisung, Changbin,” he called, and the boys responded. “Lock the carriage door,” he ordered, jerking his chin towards his transport. “We will bring him out in the morning.”

“Chris, should we not throw him in the cellar?” Changbin glared at Carter’s direction. “Bastard might escape.”

He only slid his hands in his pockets, you catching the dried blood on his gloves. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, striking a step towards the building. “He’s not going to disturb us tonight. I can promise you that.”

Jisung cursed low along with you, only watching the man walk back to the bedrooms. Bidding goodnight to your friends, you followed Chris’ trail, opening the door and stepping inside the hallway.

You saw him before his bedroom door, bringing out a rusted key. His eyes slid to you as your feet brought you to your entrance. You looked back, waiting as Chris unlocked his room and began to enter.

He turned back, something dark and twisted still lurking in his eyes.

You waited, so patiently at the words you wished to hear, of him finally ruining you.

Instead, you received something else entirely.

“Goodnight, ____.”

And closed the door behind him.

Your heart dropped. 

Fell to the floor, and shattered under the criminal’s bloodied boots. 

The light of the hallway flickered as you stood rooted to the doorway, eyes staring at Chris’ door as if looking at it hard enough would get him to change his mind.

What did you know. The man is not led by exterior forces. Only by his own will.

When you gathered up the strength to the slam the door shut, you slumped against the wood, hating yourself for the tears which threatened to break the lines of your eyes. This was pathetic — utterly disgusting that you were about to cry over his decision.

But you could not help it. You were so enraptured by him. Hell, you were ready to throw yourself in the fires of damnation for him, as he whispered filth all the while rutting against you. Why had that suddenly changed?

“Argh!” You screamed, stomping over to the lamp, light now long extinguished. You relit it’s spark, illuminating the room once more, and set it on the stool before recklessly plucking out the pearls in your hair, a few tears daring to trail down your cheeks. 

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you so rattled. Fuck him for having that effect on you.

You looked into your mirror and cursing yourself for the disheveled appearance. Again, the consequences for letting yourself fall for him.

“To hell with you Bang Chan,” you cursed. 

You were about to untie your dress when your bedroom door was nearly ripped off its hinges. 

Flinching, you grabbed the dagger on your dresser, raised to cut down whoever stupid enough to barge in on an assassin at midnight.

You were met with Christopher Bang. 

And the disorder he brought with him.

Chaos reigned in his figure; his tousled locks, his star-struck expression, his rolled-up sleeves and his pandemonic eyes, all working together and against each other to create the man you had never seen in your life. 

Good God. What had happened to him?

“Chan?” You got out, dagger now brought down. He said not a single word in response as he slammed the door shut, hard enough for the entirety of London to hear. 

Instead, he imprisoned you with his stare, almost giving you his chaos. The chaos you had always shared with him since the moment he picked you off the streets.

No, he said not one word — only took the steps needed to march towards you. You could only watch with widening eyes when he grabbed your face in his rugged hands and collided his lips against yours. 

You did not even hesitate to comply, hands grabbing onto his shirt, pulling him as close as you possibly could, so afraid that he would disappear from your grip if you dared let go. With the way he moved his mouth along yours, however, already opening up the familiar workings, you had a feeling he was not going to abandon you now.

When he broke away, breathing already erratic, his hands slid down to your neck, thumbs caressing the length of your throat. “I couldn’t,” he started, and he was sprinkling kisses all over your face. “I couldn’t leave.”

“I was scared, Chan,” you confessed, fisting the material harder. “I thought you truly did.”

His eyes focused on you. Within the turmoil, there was a promise. “Never,” he whispered, leaning in. “Never again.”

And suddenly his lips were on you, and the desperation was so rooted he nearly stole the very breath from your lungs. The sheer intensity, the longing implied broke your heart to the point you attached yourself to him, wrapping your arms around him and refusing to ever let him go.

The rather soft kiss began to heat up, as Chris broke the seam of your lips, swirling your tongue in his, already receiving incoherent praise from deep down your throat, making the man smile against his lips as he continued. 

His hands slid further down, right to the small of your back, where he began to untie all the little bows he created for you at the dawn of the evening, the little touches of fire singeing you still. It was fascinating how effortlessly he loosened all the laces, fingers sliding through the patterns until one by one they fluttered down, until the dark red dress slackened around your chest. 

A small gasp escaped you as Chris, while creating a trail of kisses down your jaw, right down to your neck, grabs the dress from your sides, hitching it down until it falls to the floor. Leaving you practically naked save for the scraps covering your dangerously soiled underwear. 

Chris paused from his ravishing, taking a much too long look at your skin, glowing from the lamp light, and before he could stare any longer you brought your arms to your chest, suddenly becoming a little too embarassed to let him see you at your most vulnerable. 

The supposedly unfeeling criminal, however, nearly broke into a smile at your flustered nature, and grabbed onto your wrists, opening the lock to your breasts, peaked by his actions, and the thought of what was to come.

The soiled underwear was about to drip at this point.

“You’re exquisite,” was all he said, making you almost burst into tears at the praise. You pressed a long, heart shattering kiss upon his mouth, and he responded perfectly, hands sliding to your naked waist, each drum of his fingers like a tug towards a dangerous edge. 

Things began to take a turn, open mouthed kisses being plastered on the skin of your throat as the man pushed you back, further and further until the back of your knees hit the bed, stopping you in his tracks. His grip on your waist directed downwards, planting you on the mattress as his mouth descended to your collarbone, down and down until he licked your peaked nipple in a way that had you moaning obscenely loud. His husky chuckle resonated along your skin, still not pausing his trail until he hit the end of the dip of your cunt, barricaded by the fabric. 

The moment he looked up at you, that alone made you nearly undo yourself. By the increasing volume of your breathing, Chris seemed to realise so too.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he got out, watching you whimper at each touch caressing your hips. “Already about to come when I haven’t even done anything?”

“Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, wishing for those damned fingers of his to plunge inside of you. The son of a bitch was taking his time, making you wait knowing it pained you to stay like this. “Chan—”

His name on your tongue had him gritting his teeth, hands on each of your side grabbing onto your lace, and sliding your underwear down, all the way till it fell free from your legs and threw it across the room, forgotten when Chris parted his mouth at the moistened treasure between your legs. 

Those roughened hands steeled their grip on your thighs, pulling you closer till you sat right on the edge of the bed, cunt mere inches from his face. You could not even comprehend the insanity of this situation, that the hidden fantasies you dreamed of shamelessly were morphing into reality right before your eyes.

“So, so pretty,” he murmured, blowing a little air on your slick folds, earning himself a sucked in breath from his truly. “So pretty and wet, and all because of me.”

You let out a ragged breath, words of filth sounding so foreign on his tongue. It was not like he didn’t talk like the sailors living near you on the docks, but these dirty words and dirtier intentions, now all directed at you, made you feel so flustered, in a wondrous way you could not possibly describe. All you wanted was for him to keep singing this filth till you blacked out.

Chris, with the force of his hands, spread your thighs a little wider, and without warning broke his tongue from the seam of his lips, planting it upon your slit and moving it slowly over the surface.

That alone made you cry out in ecstasy.

But that was only a test, a taking on of foreign surroundings before truly welcoming himself, and by God, did he welcome himself in as more than a guest, when that tongue slid deeper and performed strokes which had you seeing all the stars in the universe. 

What was first slow teasing then became a starved hunt, tongue relishing in the sweet arousal you emitted, lapping it up brazenly as if he had been wanting to do this for a long, long time. Your blubbering grew louder with every lick, fisting the sheets behind you with such ferocity you were sure they’d tear. 

And if that wasn’t painstakingly enough, the man spread your legs a little wider, his tattooed hand, two fingers out, sliding straight inside you, making you mewl at the way they tightened they walls they journeyed in. Curling, just like they did earlier in the evening, they took their time finding the certain little spot which had you bringing the house down with your cries. 

“Ch-Chan, please, please, I’m going to—AH!” You rasped out, when the said-criminal found the sweet little undoing of yours and stroked your fingers along the sensitive spot, making that bundle of pleasure resonating in your back appear once more, like a low throbbing begging to be released.

His tongue had not given you any breaks, still working ruthlessly along your clit and you cried for him to give you that sweet release, to just let you come but he had not let you be satisfied this easily. No, he wanted you writhing underneath him, wanted the final ruination to be from underneath his trousers, angered as it outlined against his leather.

You craned your head back, screaming out his name because you knew all else had abandoned you. “Chan!” Looking down, his mouth very much occupied with your cunt. Your orgasm was reaching, was on the very edge, and if he kept working on you like this he was on his way to taste the consequences of his actions.

Something about that image made you want it as a reality with a worryingly strong intensity. 

“Chan, I’m going to—” you were about to warn but were interrupted by a squeeze of your thigh, done by yours truly as if he knew. And as if he knew, the two fingers began pumping much faster, harmonising along with his tongue, and the two actions at once, fucking you with that rapidity was so pleasurable that, with the first earth-shattering cry of the night, you were driven over the edge, releasing your orgasm straight into the criminal’s face.

You felt the work of his fingers slow down, along with his tongue, that with one, final lick, he retreated from your cunt, fingers still inside you as they comforted your aching core with slow, soothing strokes. 

When he looked up at you, though, with your residue mostly upon his mouth, scattered on his cheeks, and basically a bit of everywhere, that sight alone nearly caused you to come all over again. 

Perhaps that was his intentions. 

Because when he licked his lips clean of your mess, ever so slowly, as if enjoying your orgasm like a man starved, you instantly saw in his eyes that this night was not over yet. 

“Already so good, so wonderful,” he mused, slipping his fingers out, both hands now resting on your thighs. “Coming so quick even though I had been saving for the last.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but still had the nerve to ask, “The last?”

He raised a groomed brow, and that gesture was so breathtaking, more so when he raised himself slightly, so he knelt eye-level to you. “Don’t act oblivious, love,” he mused, leaving your thighs to your disappointment, but quickly diminishing when his fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, slowly popping upon, each patch of skin being revealed like a show of your own. “We both know this isn’t how it’s going to end.”

Shivers crawled down your spine, but you only watched as the man finished undoing his shirt, peeling it off of him and throwing it amongst the other clothing. You nearly let spit trail down your chin at the sheer finery of his muscle alone, sharpened at his arms, his chest all the way down to his v-line, which dipped dangerously low. With no small amount of pride, you also noticed the large, angry outline of Chris’ cock, begging to be set free. 

The man caught you blatantly staring, and a shit-eating grin twisted his glistening lips. “You may do the honours if you’re so keen.”

Blushing, you mumbled a shut up, but was captured by Chris’ lips, tasting your own arousal on his tongue, as his grip on you led you further into the bed, while you fumbled on the buttons of his trousers, popping them open one by one when you broke from the kiss, your turn to shower him with more along the veiny expanse of his neck as you pulled his trousers down, tossing them among the pile.

When you saw the slight-stained underwear of his, you felt the familiar throbbing again, so affected by how you affected him. Noticing your apparent pride, he pressed his lips upon you in a searing kiss, peeling off any last scrap of clothing and forgetting that too among the other clothing.

And by God, when Chris Bang’s cock escaped from his underthings your mouth actually watered at the sheer size it bore. Husky laughter resonated in your ears, and you flushed the colour of blood when he caught you staring much too audaciously than he would have imagined. 

“Already fantasising about my cock?” He slurred, the tattooed hand curling stray hairs from your sweat-slick, flushed face. The way you scrunched your nose, clearly flustered by his comment, melted his stone cold heart, as he caressed your cheeks with his fingers. 

You did not answer him, only whispering his name along his skin, waiting and waiting for the man to drive that force home inside you. “Chan,” you murmured, and the name you kept saying like a religious chant, like it was the only word that mattered, was what brought him to grip his cock, directing it against your entrance, the still slick folds which grew more wet every time the tip caressed the sensitive skin. “Chan, please—”

“Please what?” He demanded, demanded because he needed to hear you precisely want you wanted. The words he practically prayed would be on your tongue the moment he kissed you for the first time this evening.

Obliging him was like second nature. “Please fuck me, Chan,” you breathed out, holding onto his shoulders, knowing you were going to need a hell of a good grip for what was about to arrive. “Please, just ruin me with your cock.”

A malicious smile curled upon his lips. “Good, good girl,” he purred, and began the descend which you dreamed of the very first night you realised you were ridiculously attracted to him.

His cock slid inside you, and with a soul-wrenching whine, was perfectly snug as the journey went on, and on, and on, until you were certain you could not take anymore, despite the man retaining a few inches. He was slow at first, making sure you were not going to be pained by this action. Although your nails dug into the granite muscle of his shoulders, you only egged him on. “M-more,” you only said, and he readily obliged, until you felt him all around you in your body, as if he had filled you up to the brim. 

“Ready?” He asked, and when you nodded, he rested his forehead against yours as gently, he began to pull out. 

You nearly whined at the lack of inches filling you up, but then he brought his cock back in, creating this hypnotic rhythm which was so unimaginably ethereal you felt yourself float amongst the clouds. Each thrust out and thrust in was a drive in and out of reality, with Chris Bang holding the tether of your survival, pulling you in and out of his mercy. 

Gradually, he began to fasten, panting as his drove into you with more force, and when the momentum hardened, you felt your soul leave your body. His cock created wonders for you, having you scream in unimaginable pleasure, and driving your nails into his back was not enough, your lewd moaning not enough given to his sheer skill, his pure simplicity in bringing his cock back and front which had you seeing stars. Hell, Christopher Bang showed you undiscovered universes, leading you across galaxies and unfamiliar cosmos, each thrust in a different vision, and when he lifted your leg a little higher for more access, you feared that you would wake the whole docks with your groaning, for this criminal, this heartless criminal provided you with the whole universe with the simple strokes of his cock inside you, and all you could offer him were screams. 

Even your reactions were pure Beethoven to his ears, relishing in your fucked out state as he gave you all he asked, driving you to the edge of the world. You, finally, clashed your lips against his, offering him sloppy, open mouthed kisses all over his face and neck, and that alone had him greeting his teeth, knowing his own release was near. You were going to die if he was not given the same pleasure as you, so you reacted with each of his touches, each of his thrusts, him practically pistoning you upon this bed which very much would break. 

“Ch...Chan…” you grated out, eyes blurring, vision completely fucked, “I’m...I-I—”

“I—fuck,” he too got out, for your last love mark painted onto to the curve of his neck nearly had him ruined. “I’m going to come, too, love—”

“Chan!” You whined, because the throbbing was there, and was so close that if the man did not send that last thrust home then it was all for nothing, everything that had ever happened will all be for nothing.

But he listened. The man who did not listen to anyone or anything listened, and pounded his cock so hard in approval that it had you crying out to the cosmos as you finally let go, orgasm spilling out from whatever space the residue could find between his cock. Your own release had Chris groaning louder than he had even done this entire time, praising you unconditionally, until the filth was cut off by a low curse, with his own release barrelling into you, some joining your spilled mess upon the sheets.

Chris let out a shuddering breath, slowly crossing his movement inside you. Carefully, when you stopped digging your nails into his shoulders, he pulled out, reaching for the blanket untouched and bringing it over you and him before collapsing beside you. Both of you breathed as if you had held your oxygen for a thousand years, chests rising unevenly. 

A silence hung over you two, heavy yet not uncomfortable, lingering in your bedroom. Chris sat up a little, using your pillows behind him as comfort as he raked his hair back, sweat-slick all over, much like you. You held the blanket right up to your chest, hair in disarray, much like your heart. The poor organ threatened to collapse at the events.

Sneakily, you caught a glance at the greatest criminal in London, staring off at the distance, mouth set in a concentrated line. He looked dashing even in his post-sex state, the lines of his chest still stark against his sweat. You truly had never seen a man this beautiful in your life. 

He turned his head to you, catching your staring, and when you tried to look away he captured his chin with his fingers, making you meet his fierce stare. Although dark, the lust had satiated, and instead held passive affection. Well, you hoped it did.

“Why do you still look away?” He demanded in a low, tired voice.

You tried to slide your gaze to the lamp, but was too bewitched by his midnight eyes. “Because you’re beautiful, Chan,” you answered, feeling the blood rush to your face. 

He cocked his head, damp curls sticking to his face. “You say that as if you are not,” he countered. 

You did not say anything then. Even so, he received your answer. 

“____,” he said in a low tone. The grip on your chin loosened, and the hand went to your cheeks, cupping your face. “You are truly flawless. Don’t make me have to make you believe that.”

A small smile hinted at your lips. “And what if I still don’t?”

His answering smirk sent butterflies tumbling once again. After a moment, as if hesitating, he then snaked his arm around you, pulling you closer to him. You were surprised when his one hand fully encircled you, while the other hand, the tattooed hand, rested upon your head, stroking your hair with his slender fingers. You did not pull away, was never going to, only wrapping your arm across his chest. 

It was the first time you had ever seen Christopher Bang hug someone in his life.

“Chan?” You asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you get that tattoo?”

He paused for a minute, never ceasing his fingers intertwined in your locks. After a small sigh, which you felt beneath your own fingertips, he said, “It is simply something I live by. 

“Non ducor duco. No one will lead me, love. Only myself.”

You pondered over the roots of this phrase, of the significance for the man you lay with. 

“Good,” you said after a while. “I wouldn’t want anyone leading you either.”

With that, you gave into the soothing movement of Chris’ fingers, working lazily in your hair. And while you dozed off to sleep, the criminal mastermind of the biggest city in the world pondered some more, specifically over his motto.

NON DUCOR DUCO. A phrase which had stayed true for so long no one could ever change it.

But after tonight, as you slowly dozed off under Chris’ caresses, he wondered whether there isn’t one person he wouldn’t mind being led by. 

And as he stole a soft glance at the specific person beside him, he knew. 

He knew that although he will be led by no man, there is one woman who he would, to his own shock, happily be led for. 

So, with that new, and slightly terrifying revelation, Christopher Bang went to sleep, knowing that someone had fucked with him and gotten away. 

And he was willingly going to let it happen. 

[the-blind-geisha]

holy eff, that was 2 years ago? im so sorry, im absolutely unaware of the passage of time XD but yep! that's me! it wasn't very hard to find you tbh, i went to overlord tag one day and i found your art. this time i simply searched for demiurge and was pleasantly surprised that you changed your blog again (more like returned to your old one but yeah). don't worry tho, no need to hide from me! im a good anon, and a person you knew quite good (and also a person who, i think, triggered you once? with some depressing themes. im so deeply sorry for that) glad to hear you have everything under control now! but im more glad that you're enjoying yourself and grow the fandom. overlord is really amazing, both anime and light novel (that's it, if i ever decide to watch the new season or catch up with the novel). you did a very fine choice, dear, to get into it! (and, especially, to get into demiurge hehe) don't mention it truly! i've been wondering for a few weeks now how you're doing and all. and i'm really, really happy to see you're enjoying yourself and having fun.

I also wanted to say that, uh, i know how ac fandom treated you and please take no offence, but, i really appreciate that you didn't delete the responds to people's asks or the gifts that are ac themed. i know it wasn't an easy choice, and i really appreciate it. it sounds stupid but it means a lot as it brought some pleasant memories. so, yeah, thanks for that! <3 (also: your emmett is forever in our hearts) i hope you won't mind me being here from time to time (and not like, appearing after 2 years XD). you were always so lovely to talk to! you still are, of course, but yeah! lovely to talk to and you're lovely too! as always <3 - P

LOL to be fair, I think the pandemic really threw us all for a loop. X”D Heck, it being 2022 hasn't really come to my realization yet. I still keep thinking 2020 was just last year.

Haha, that is very fair. ♥ If you were able to hunt through the Demiurge tag, that is indeed where I kinda live now. ♥ Though I am working more and more on drifting my version of him out of the fandom and into my original works. But we'll see! I do love the character a lot!

Oof, I gotta be honest, anon. My memory got a bit scattered no thanks to anemia causing me a bit of brain fog/damage. So if you did anything that triggered me, it's quite alright. ♥ I've obviously gone past whatever may have happened now, and it is all water under the bridge as they say.

I adore Overlord, but my poor Albedo and Demiurge... I wish they were given more time to develop. ;~; They are my treasures next to Yuri Alpha. ♥ But I do hope you enjoy the new season! I love the animation has really been upped in quality! I'm still eagerly waiting for the movie!

Thank you! I have a lovely group of readers and friends who support me like yourself, and I appreciate every single one of them. I especially love the readers who have been with me since the AC days. The fact you guys will still follow me from one thing to the next is sweet, and I am always happy to see reoccurring names pop up now and again!

I will be honest, hon, in that I did delete a few things in my desire to heal away from the fandom years back, but not all of it is gone, no. ♥ The Fall is still on AO3, I just removed my name from it, and the Prostitute Series, while removed from AO3, is still on here too. I know those were the main stories people would have been upset to be removed from the net completely. I do still have the others on my hard drive (like certain love letters and The Dove Effect, Daddy Dearest, etc), but I just don't feel comfortable releasing them again to the public. Maybe one day. ♥

Aww, thank you! I actually did plan on bringing Emmett back into a Victorian setting but away from AC: S. ♥ I had a werewolf story in London kinda idea that I wanted him to be apart of, so he will return just—in a new way and away from Jacob being his dad. (He's gonna have an adopted dad/mentor instead.)

Awww, I adore when folks drop in to say hi every now and again! I still get people DMing me saying 'thank you for writing this super old fic from 2005' ever so often, and it's great! I hope people never think it's weird or annoying to talk to me about old times or just say hello. I promise, it's okay to do so. ♥

It's kind of why I never really ever change my name or at least, try not to. ♥ I want it to be easier for folks to find me.

It's always great to hear from you, anon! ♥