#england is so autumn coded

[thefangedstoryteller]

i'm off to london girlies for half term🤭

[iknwreid]

pumpkin – spencer reid x reader.

spencer loves autumn and halloween so much, and you and him are always togheter, this time for a pumpkin carving.

wc: 2.5k | disclamers: fluff, realy fluffly. bau!reader. no use of y/n. | a/n: english is not my first language, also, this is my very first time writing a fic in english, lmk if theres anything i can improve. glasses reid is my favorite. text divider by cafekitsune.

Reid and you were more than work colleagues, you were friends. You were always talking to each other, even outside of work, using your free time for friendly dates, going to cafés, museums and anything else you'd like to do on your own but didn't dare, because leaving the house alone had been a bit of a problem since high school. And deep down you knew it was a problem for him too, not a problem but probably an inconvenience. Going out alone was always awkward for everyone, the feeling of people looking at you and wondering what they were thinking – Not that it really matters what people think, but social anxiety is a real thing.

So you and Spencer were always together, your teammates already had jokes ready when you left the bullpen together, with Morgan and Prentiss always being the first to say something they found hilarious. “Going away together again? Soon you will be living together too.” Morgan’s voice echoed through the office in a joking tone. Spencer looked at him with an annoyed face. “Yes, Derek, but better than living with you, tho.” You replied, also jokingly. The dynamic between the two of you was sibling-like and you were constantly annoyed with each other. 

“We're going to the fair to buy a pumpkin to carve.” Spencer said, packing up his things. “Halloween season is starting!” Reid loved Halloween, everyone knew that, and you loved it too, not as much as he did, but his excitement and anticipation infected you too this year. 

The Halloween season had not started yet, it was only the middle of September, but for him it was Halloween season when fall came and the pumpkins were sold. You could not count how many ghost stories Reid knew by heart that he told you over and over again. You did not really mind all the excitement, but you knew it could be overwhelming for the others. In fact, you loved his excitement at this time of year, loved watching the movies on his list even if you had already seen them all last year, loved the pumpkin-flavored things he bought, and loved the smile on his face when he saw a pile of leaves in the street. 

If you looked out of the window, you could see that the trees were beginning to look autumnal. The hot summer air had already faded away, welcoming the cold breeze and the orange paisaje he liked so much. It was nice to have fall again, to not feel hot all the time and to not see Hotch’s disapproving face when you broke the dress code a little just because it was too hot for all the formal wear. 

When your thoughts were interrupted by Spencer’s touch on your shoulder, you turned your head towards him and smiled a little. “Are you ready?” he asked with his typical face, but it was impossible not to see his excitement. “Yes, yes… Sorry. I've been thinking too much.” It was normal for you to get tangled up in your thoughts, you loved thinking to yourself. “I love this time of year.” I love seeing you like this, you meant. 

You grabbed your purse and coat and began to walk with him to the elevators. He was silent for a moment, then you smiled as he began to speak. “Did you know that the fall season used to have a completely different name? In the 12th and 13th centuries, autumn was known as ‘haerfest' in England -" You beamed at his words, because every time you walked towards the elevators, he regaled you with another fact that he had probably read one day years ago. “One of the reasons it has that name is because the full moon closest to the fall equinox is called the Harvest Moon. The other reason was that harvest time was also a time when farmers could finally reap the fruits of their sowing, resulting in an abundance of produce.” 

“Have you noticed that you tell me a different fact every time we walk this way?” You say, looking at him after pressing the elevator button.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to–"

“No! That's not what I meant, Spence. I just think it's really nice that you always have something on the tip of your tongue. It's pretty impressive.”

Spencer's rambling never bothered you, it was so nice to hear him talk about anything, anything at all really. His voice echoed in your head every time, and you remembered the random things he said when you didn't have important things to do– sometimes when you did have important things to do. The truth was, you thought about Spencer a lot more often than you should. Probably way more than he thought of you.

“Well, I'm glad you like it then.” He said after wetting his mouth with his tongue. It was a habit, maybe a tic, but you always saw Spencer doing it. Adorable. “I have a feeling that saying facts to you is almost unconscious. It's just nice to share.”

You laughed a little, then the elevators came. You got in as usual, waited a second for Spencer, then pressed the button to the floor. Spencer practically never pressed the button, he thought there were too many people pressing and he didn't know how clean their hands were beforehand. Since he had told you that, you had a small bottle of hand sanitizer in your purse, and even before you took the bottle out of your purse, Spencer’s hand was already extended in your direction, waiting for you to put some in his hand. And you did, as always. You and he had everyday rituals that no one knew, that no one could interfere with. Just you and Spencer doing silly little things together. Like going pumpkin hunting to make incredible Halloween decorations, even though it's not even October yet.

You loved his companion, the world felt lighter every time you were together. And as always, the elevator ride was quiet, the silence that only comes when two people understand each other. And Spencer understood you and vice versa. Rambling on your walk, being silent in the elevator after your hand sanitizing ritual. It was better than all the silly little jokes Morgan or Prentiss made. And you knew that and hoped Spencer knew that too.

“I don't think I tell you often enough how much I enjoy being with you.” You commented after you exited the elevator and looked at him.

“Well, you don't have to.” He explained, turning his eyes away from you. “I think I know. In fact, I like to think you're enjoying it as much as I am.” His tone was calm and flustered. You giggled and touched his arm briefly. “I guess I do, Spence.”

The walk to the fair was so nice, the laughter and the conversations and the short break to buy coffee. You would stop every time you could at the tiny coffee shop that made the best coffee near work, and the seasonal flavors began to appear. Spencer got his usual pumpkin spice latte, you got a chai latte, which is always good, but at this time of year it was just hitting different.

The two of you spent the whole walk chatting non-stop. You felt the stares of some people when you were talking louder over excitement about something, but it did not matter when you were together.

“Originally, jack-o’-lanterns would have been carved out of potatoes, turnips and beets, but when immigrants came to America, pumpkins were more fruitful, so they became part of the tradition.” Told Spencer as you sipped your coffee and nodded your head in agreement to what he was telling you.

“I think it's easier too. Imagine having to carve something out of a turnip, it's so tiny.” You gesticulated to express how difficult it would be to make tiny faces in the little vegetable. He chuckled and his face showed pure confusion as he tried to understand the gestures, you rolled your eyes and laughed as well.

“You understood what I was doing, don't make a fool of me.”

“Yeah, I get it. All those little knives to make little faces. Really hard.”

A little further and there you were, some stalls with big vegetables and some with baked goods, toys or decorations. There were fairy lights everywhere, so your eyes hurted a little, but it was so beautiful that you could forgive the inconvenience. The way the lights reflected on Spencer’s face, in his glasses, made him look really pretty too. You felt like this moment had lodged itself in your brain like a core memory. He gave you a quick glance as he began searching through the stalls to find what he was looking for: a big ass pumpkin.

You followed him and looked at all the cool stuff that was being sold  there. All the trinkets were so interesting to you, you loved little objects that you could display in your home. It was tempting to buy them all, but unfortunately you did not. Every time you liked something, you showed it to him and he said, “You should buy it. It would look good in your house.” And you and Spencer would think about whether it was really worth it. For him, the Halloween decorations were always worth it, but you laughed and left it to save up for something greater.

“Hey, look at this!” He said, pointing to a big pumpkin, a really big one. Honestly, you shouldn't buy it, it was big and it would be a pain to get it home. But the way his face lit up when he pointed at the orange vegetable, you knew you wouldn't have the courage to say no. “Spencer, this is huge.” You said, stepping closer to him to look at the pumpkin. “Yeah, exactly. It's perfect for us.”

A few minutes later you were on your way home with the pumpkin. When your arms got tired, he carried it and when he was tired, you carried it like a little child who wants his parents. Apart from that, it was a nice walk to his apartment. You already knew the way by heart, just like he knew the way to your home and where you had hidden your key. It was only natural. You and Reid were a natural product of friendship– of love. The two things came together, but you couldn't help but wonder if this love was something more, something bigger. Whether Spencer's skin burned as much and his heart ached as much as you did. The September flush hit your face and made you shiver for a moment, in stark contrast to the feeling you had just a second ago when you thought of the possibility with him.

You were near his home now, turned the corner of the street and there you were. Spencer and you entered the building and now came to the worst part. “The stairs,” you said with a giggle, imagining yourself walking up the stairs with this thing. “That's on you, Dr. Reid.” you added, handing the pumpkin into his arms. 

“That's definitely not fair.” He whined, but he knew it was more than fair. It was his idea to buy such a large pumpkin, so it was his responsibility to carry it upstairs. “You should be glad you live on the second floor,” you laughed, touching his back to encourage him. “Let's go. You're strong.”

With some difficulty, you and Spencer got into his apartment, you took off your coat and put it in the coat rack with your bag. You went into his kitchen and searched for a large knife and all the other utensils, a bucket for the pulp and smaller knives for the details. He was prepping the floor with some old newspapers, so it would be easier to clean after. 

“Well, what face do you want to make?” You knew he'd never done the original Jack-O-Lantern face, so it must be something original, spooky and funny. “Maybe a scary cat?” He looked at you as he sat on the floor and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. “I think we can do this, yeah.” It can't be that hard, can it? you thought. You grabbed the big knife, sat down next to him and started to slice open the lid. It was a messy part, because you had to take the lid off to remove the pulp and seeds. As you did this, Spencer drew on a piece of paper what he wanted the pumpkin to look like and showed it to you to get your approval. You kept nodding and saying it looked nice. And it did. Spencer had many talents, some people wouldn't say drawing was one of them, but you really liked the little doodles and all the things he drew. A creepy little cat face that had a strange charm.

“I love it. I might steal that for myself.” You say, admiring the drawing. Spencer smiles and looks down at his knuckles. Still today he didn't know how to deal with compliments.

It was an intimate atmosphere, you on the floor, close to him, so close that every now and then you felt your arms against his, your skin touching and radiating the hot feeling in the area. His elbow casually touches your forearm, triggering a chaos of emotions in your head. You sigh and admire him drawing on the pumpkin. Your eyes linger on the way his strands of hair fall perfectly into his face, highlighting his profile. His glasses on the tip of his nose and his slightly open mouth show how focused he was. In an unconscious moment, you move your fingers and adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Spencer looks at you and giggles after wetting his mouth with the tip of his tongue. You love it when he does that. 

“Spence.” You call his name in an almost non-existent tone, so softly that he only listens because you were so close. He calls your name back in the same way. You can literally feel your breath catching and mingling with his. Feel how hot his face was, see how his glasses start to fog up. “Can I kiss you?” You say it without thinking, because your subconscious wanted this, needed this. “Y-yes. Absolutely.” Spencer's answer sounded like he wanted it as much as you did, like he was just waiting for confirmation.

And there was. The confirmation. You move eagerly to join your lips as his hand drops the pen to cup the back of your head. The kiss was gentle, just like his touch. You moved a little closer, placing your hand at his waist and tilting your head to better accommodate him. It was so much better than you had expected. Your lips met softly and tenderly and his hand held you like it was the most precious thing ever. The tip of his nose caressed your cheek and the glasses tingled against your skin in an endearing way.

You didn't want to let him go, but when your lungs demanded help, you slowly parted your lips. You both smiled while your faces were still close together. You kiss the corner of his mouth, looking at him. “I thought you'd never ask that,” he said, kissing you on the forehead.

At that moment, you realized that this kiss was only the first of countless kisses to follow that autumn night. 

[shadowqueenjude]

about the dawn court people being east Asia inspired - feyre says something when she sees Nuan at the high lord meeting about how Amren must have chosen a fae form similar to Nuan's bloodline. If Amren is east-asian coded, so is Nuan and thesan too, having at least one parent hailing from xian (am i reading too far into xian sounding so stereotypical, maybe, do i care rn, no). they also say that a majority of the dawn court hails from xian. thesan is supposed to have brown skin (again, please give a better descriptor) so he's mixed.

no one's clothes or architecture reflects anything concrete regarding their inspiration and its such a hodge podge it's so painful to try to discern where the differentiation between courts are. Spring court - because of the name tamlin correlates to a myth about a guy named tam lin who is kind of being held captive by the queen of faeries who needs to be rescued by his mortal lover that he met like suuuper recently, I'm placing the spring court in a place that reflects a medieval scotland. clothes are fairly accurate not in detail but in the sense of material and idk just general existence (women wear dress, man wear breeches, idk) I love that! so simple! Everything makes sense! So then why in dawn are we having technological advances in a steampunk sort of way and similar "old fashioned" clothes to spring, but then in the night court (velaris, the other's i think are fairly period accurate), there are all these advancements in fashion like leggings and pullover sweaters and whatever else she's wearing in the last two books, yet they have the same tech as everyone else barring dawn. (Doing a small pass on the bodysuit armor things because I'm just assuming that's people's artistic interpretations of her visions)

ALSO, how are they self sufficient if they're a closed off city? They aren't harboring secret technology that helps their city run, they are one city and also A CITY so like, no resources, no agriculture. who tf are they getting their things from if they are an invisible city that no one knows about? same thing with how they're getting trades that they wouldn't have been able to make themselves. Also, at this point I would like to propose the idea of wing armor. you have siphons which can idk make shields. HAVE YOU TRIED SHIELDING YOU'RE VERY SENSITIVE AND MASSIVELY TARGETED WINGS FROM DANGER?? in conclusion I'm tired and also a fashion/history nerd, okay bye

Ahhhh yes I see what you mean about Dawn now! Yeah, I always imagine Spring to be like medieval Scotland, and I'm guessing Autumn is medieval England? Rhysand is a Welsh name I believe, so Night is supposed to be Wales??? But the Illyrians are also supposedly POC and there's some evidence of Indian influence there too (barf, night is NOT indian at all), so I'm stuck on that one. Dawn is East Asian while Day is...Middle Eastern? Winter maybe Norway or some Scandinavian country? And Summer I'm assuming is supposed to be from some place in Africa, but it's all very vague. Also more points about Velaris: how is their fashion sense so...modern? Since everything is so closed off...shouldn't their fashion be stuck in the 1600s or whenever they closed their borders? Why don't they open their borders to Dawn since they're sooooo close to the Solar courts supposedly??? Has it not occurred to them that Nuan, who made Lucien's metal eye, could also construct new wings for the Illyrian ladies who got theirs cut off? Or do they just not care? They don't but SJM is trying to convince us they do.

Yeah how in the flying fuck is Night surviving on no industry whatsoever? No trade? No agriculture, nada? Because we have no evidence of the Illyrians producing anything either, besides "warriors." My explanation for this is kind of inspired by @kateprincessofbluewhales 's headcanon, but what if the Illyrians are like mercenaries? They're hired to fight for other courts and in exchange they receive all of their necessities and more which the Illyrians then send back home to their wives and children. This still doesn't explain how Velaris operates, but I'm sure Rhysand crutches on the Illyrians' profits to keep shit going and that's part of why they resent him. I'VE BEEN SAYING IT FOR AGES. WINGS ARE SUCH A VULNERABILITY. THEY MAKE YOU SUCH AN EASY TARGET. WHY IS THERE NO WING ARMOR??? THAT WOULD BE SO COOL TOO. BUT NO, WE'RE SUPPOSED TO JUST ACCEPT THERE'S NOTHING COOL ABOUT THE WINGS AT ALL AND MOVE ON.

[bluecatwriter]

36. Their favorite season

The Crew of Light

Thanks for the ask! I had to briefly recalibrate my brain to remember that we're talking about England seasons here, not Missouri. [Our seasons here consist of 1) Sleet (with bonus ice storms), 2) rain with nice flowers for two weeks 3) five months of feeling like the air has turned into a sweaty-armpit soup (with bonus tornadoes) and 4) two weeks of the most gorgeous weather ever.] I understand that England is more like the Pacific Northwest, with milder summers and winters. With that in mind…

Mina: Winter. I was tempted to say "autumn" because I associate that most with spookiness (which Mina's lil Goth heart absolutely loves), but thinking from a non-Halloween perspective, winter seems like the season Mina would dig the most. Candles and firelight, short days, brisk walks on the rare nice days, reading a book (Bradshaw's Guide) while it's raining outside? Mina is all over that. Plus, I headcanon that her two favorite holidays are Ash Wednesday and Advent, which both fall more or less in winter.

Jonathan: Spring. Jonathan loves flowers, he loves being out-of-doors, and I can imagine him just coming to life when the days start to get longer and everything bursts into bloom. He strikes me as someone who likes rain, too.

Lucy: Summer. Lucy as a person is very spring-coded, but I imagine that summer is her favorite season: sunshine, outdoor activities, not having to work so hard to keep her body warm when her health is struggling. It's perfect rowing and tennis weather!

Jack: Autumn. I just know Jack is the kind of guy who takes long walks when the air starts to get colder, brooding over the evanescence of life and the inevitability of loss. He also likes the crackle of leaves underfoot.

Quincey: Summer (specifically English summer). Quincey grew up in a region where summers can kill you, so summers in England seem like a fairytale dream. He is practically frolicking through fields of daisies all summer long.

Arthur: Summer. Arthur is one of those people who is enthusiastic about summer to a truly annoying degree. He loves summer. He wishes all year round was summer. He cannot conceive of the temperature being too hot. He gets horrendous sunburns every year because he's outside from dawn till dusk. 

Van Helsing: Autumn. He likes it primarily because it's the beginning of the school year, and he enjoys getting back into the swing of teaching and seeing which young minds he'll be nurturing this year. Also he loves the changing leaves and the cooler air.

(Ask game here)

[pacifymebby]

Born to Die

chapter one

Autumn had been strangely humid up to now, September had been warm and a little claustrophobic, but with October had come a sudden chill. One which had crept in over the course of the evening and left me caught off guard without a coat as I walked home from work. 

It was late, too late to be out on my own but the streets were lit and it was a busy night so I wasn't worried. Still, I didn't dawdle on the dark edges of town. I pulled my cardigan tighter around my waist and kept my head down, walking quickly, eyes on my feet and on my breath which condensed in white whispy clouds when it hit the cold night. 

There was a fine mist in the air, thin rain, the kind you only really seem to get in the north of England, and it stung my cheeks whenever the wind picked up. 

It wasn't the night to be walking in but I didn't have a choice. I'd not passed my driving test and the bus routes near my flat left a lot to be desired. It was a fifteen minute walk from the bus stop to my flat and that was if you were being quick about it. 

I shivered as I stopped at the traffic lights. From the bottom of the hill I could see the warm glow of lights in each of the bars, could hear the rabble falling in and out of smoking areas, different songs leaking through open doors and clashing in the middle of the road. The little streams of rainwater running down the middle of the road caught the light from the traffic and the tarmac glistened in pretty shades of red amber and green and had it not been for the cold pinching my nose and stinging my hands I'd have stopped a little longer to admire the scene. 

As it was however I was freezing, tired and growing more inpatient by the second. All I wanted was to be home, in my bed, warm and dry and drifting off to sleep. 

So I stepped out into the road before the red man had swapped out, I only checked for traffic coming from my right, and when I heard the beeping of someone's horn it was already too late. 

Time didn't slow but I did. I froze, my mind blacking out at the sight of the four by four skidding to a halt, travelling too fast to slow before it hit me. I heard someone screaming behind me from the pavement, a woman who sounded like her blood had curdled. Sounded like she'd just watched a girl die. 

But she hadn't because somehow it hadn't hit me. 

One second I was frozen, gazing at a set of headlights speeding towards me, the next I felt the air knocked out of me, my body flung across the street, my fall to the floor cushioned by someone else. 

Someone who lay beneath me just as breathless as I was. Their groaned out "fuck," airy and distant. 

I didn't move straight away, too starry eyed and startled to realise that I could move. 

"Meadow..." Weezed the lad underneath me, their arm which had been wrapped around my waist loosening so that I might sit up and free their crushed ribs. 

I recognised their voice before I recognised the name they'd choked out but when I did my brow knitted in confusion. 

How could they possibly know who I was. They'd thrown themselves across the street out of nowhere, they couldn't possibly have known who they were saving before they'd done it. 

"Fuckin hell Med," they groaned, their voice tight and breathy as they pushed themselves up, "no one ever teach you the highway code... Them stop look an listen hedgehogs retire before you started school or what..." 

When he pushed himself up I realised just who it was who had saved me. My heart dropping to my stomach at the sight of Johnny Bond. One of my "uncles" best friends... 

"Were you following me?" I snapped, not surprised by my realisation, nor when rather than deny the obvious truth he just laughed my horror off and shook his head. 

"Saved your life Med, now usually.." he said lowering his voice, one arm around my shoulder as he steered me away from the crowd of gawping onlookers, "usually when someone saves your life like, common courtesys to say thank you..." 

"You were following me..." I said again, not about to thank him for something he shouldn't have been there to do. 

"Aye and it's a good thing too ain't it or you'd be sorry as a pancake splattered across the main road..." 

"I told Van to stop spying on me..." 

"Ain't spying..." 

"Is spying." I growled hands shoved in my pockets not bothering to try and escape his arm around my shoulders, knowing he was only steering me in the direction I was going anyway. To The Angel, my uncles bar at the top of the hill with its halo of neon held above it by two rust iron bars.

I sang there every Thursday and Friday night as per an agreement made between my "uncle" Van and my dad when my dad was still alive and Van had intended to keep him that way. The agreement had been that our family would always work for his, and when my father had been alive that had meant as a soldier, as cannon fodder for whatever malicious scheme Van had planned. Now I was the only member of my family capable of "working" but I was a girl and so the only real use Van had for me was entertainment. So I sang in his bar every weekend and I let him show me off to anyone he thought he could impress with me. Be it my talents or my pretty face. 

I resented him for it and I spent my weekends miserable but I did it because it kept my mother safe, looked after, fed and off the streets. 

She'd lost everything when my dad had died, Van had taken everything to pay my father's debts until I was the only asset left. 

So I'd all but accepted that I'd be doing this for as long as I could and that when I stopped being useful I'd have to find some other way to look after her. 

"So.." Johnny trailed, whistling his S to try and cut through my irritation as we walked up the hill towards The Angel. When I didn't say anything he nudged me in the ribs, "how was work?" 

"Hard," I said giving nothing away, starring straight ahead and hoping he would leave it at that. I'd always made it clear that singing in the bars was as close to them as I got. Beyond my duty to Van I wanted nothing else to do with any of them. I'd long since learnt however that my wants meant nothing to that man.  For example this wasn't the first time I'd caught Johnny Bond spying on me. 

"Oh come on treacle don't give us that face..." He chuckled seemingly not understanding the temper on me. The sulk his face had plunged me into. 

"I told Van to stop spying on me Johnny and now you're fuckin followin me home from work!" I snapped shoving my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. Still I didn't bother trying to speed up or shrug him off, I knew there was no point arguing with my uncles friends. 

"Ah come on ducklin..." he said, his relentless smile effervescent, "you don't get angry wi' your uncle Johnny..." And unfortunately for me he was right. Of all my uncles friends it was my "uncle" Johnny I was most forgiving of. That was probably why Van had tasked him with spying on me. "An anyway it ain't spyin, it's protection..." 

"And if I turn down your protection who is it thats gonna start threatening me eh? Me uncle Larry?" I asked with a childishly bitchy smile. 

"Don't be like that Meadow," he warned, his tone friendly enough, the look in his eyes just serious enough to remind me who I was and who I worked for. The choices I really had, how few. 

"Oh come on uncle Johnny you don't get mad at your little ducklin" I narrowed my eyes at him, the sweet smile I gave him a saccharine threat. 

"No," he said, the arm around my shoulder tucking me into his side a little closer, "luckily for you, I don't..." But when he kept me tucked into his side as we walked I knew he wasn't finished, that this argument was going to carry on until I relented and gave in. 

"Been a year now Johnny, whoever killed me dad hasn't even tried to come for me and me mam..."

"As long as you work for Van," he cut me off, "there'll be a price on your head... And Meadow doll between you and me eh, your dad pissed off a lot of people in his life..."

"But that ain't got owt do with me." I crossed my arms over my chest stubbornly, stopping where I stood outside the side door to the Angel. Behind the door I could hear music playing, could hear the rumble of the regulars chat getting louder by the second. 

When I stepped up to the microphone I'd hush the whole room, but for as long as I remained outside arguing with Johnny they'd carry on shouting over one another and the songs playing from the jukebox. 

"That don't stop vengeful men and you know it love," he said lighting s cigarette and nodding to the door. "Go on inside it's cold, left you a little present in the back room..." He said with a soft smile, blowing his cigarette smoke up to the sky so as not to let me breath it in. A courtesy which was unnecessary because I'd smoked my way through work that day anyway, uncle Johnny just didn't know it. 

"A gift?" I raised my brow cynically, knowing I was being cold and a little unfair. Johnny had always been soft on me and the odd gift left in the back room, or on my doorstep wasn't exactly unusual. 

So I left him behind to smoke his cigarette and shiver in the evenings cold, his breath rising before him like dry ice. 

Inside the bar it was warm and dark, the condensation on the windows catching the red and blue of the fairy lights strung up in the windows. I shrugged my hoodie off as I moved between the lazily discarded furniture which littered the back room. I noted with a smirk the chair whose arm I'd watched get snapped off the weekend before. A drunken brawl had broken out over a spilt pint and a game of darts and when Johnny had stepped in to diffuse the situation he'd drawn blood with the broken arm he'd dug into the neck of the man who'd kicked off. 

He hadn't done any real damage though, Johnny was always careful. Far more careful than any of the other men I spent my weekends with at The Angel. 

I smirked as I walked my fingers along the splintered wood, remembering how Johnny had turned back to me where I stood behind the bar, how he'd bowed down elegantly to me and blessed me to "sing him out."

Ever the comedian, the eccentric, and always so charming when it came to me. 

That was when I saw the "gift" he'd left hanging from the mirror on the wall. I couldn't help but smirk and roll my eyes at the floor length deep blue velvet dress he'd left for me to wear that evening. The set of black balled slippers I wore every week left neatly for me too. However if I'd thought the dress was the gift I was sorely mistaken. 

"Fuck sake John," I smirked sighing as I reached to take the dress down from the hanger. It was ever so soft between my fingers as I held it, admiring the rich night sky shade of blue. It would suit me perfectly, I'd look, as Johnny often told me, divine. 

I shimmied out of my jeans and studied myself in the mirror. The outline of my tired working girls body making me feel completely unworthy of the luxury Johnny was always showering me with. 

I had a bruise on my waist from having been kicked by a patient at the hospital where I worked two days ago and all my muscles ached when I tried to bend or stretch. It spread across my abdomen like an ugly purple flower, yellowing at the edges turning that sickly shade of green which bruises so often fade to. 

"Oh well," I sighed softly to myself as I stepped into the dress and closed my eyes. 

When the back door opened I didn't flinch because I knew it would be Johnny and when I felt warm fingers on my lower back I let John examine the damage. 

"This from work or do I need to pay someone a visit tonight ducklin?" He asked, his voice soft and low, full of a concern so genuine that for a moment it was easy to forgive him for having followed me there and back again. 

"It's from work Johnny don't worry about it..." I shook my head stepping out of the hold his hand on my waist had me cupped in gently. 

"Get a new job and maybe I won't," he said with a smirk, turning me around to look at him, holding my chin between his fingers before patting my cheek. "Such a canny lass." 

"What's all this for Johnny?" I asked checking my face in the mirror and looking for the lipstick I left in the drawer,"Van trying to impress someone tonight or?" 

"That hurts Meadow," he frowned reaching his hand into his jacket pocket, taking out a little red box, "you know I don't buy you presents for anythin like that.." 

"Then why?" I turned back to him with a frown, a frown which only etched deeper when he told me to turn back around. 

"Cause," he shrugged brushing my hair from my neck as he spoke. His fingers moved lightly over my skin, just cool enough to leave goosebumps, "I think the prettiest girl in the world deserves the prettiest things..." he sneered sarcastically at me in the mirror before placing a silver choker around my neck, fastening the clasp delicately. 

"Johnny no!" I gasped starring back at my reflection in awe, my hand hovering above my heart in shock, "I can't accept this..." I said gazing back at what was the most beautiful piece of jewellery I'd ever seen. 

"Ahh come on now ducklin it ain't that bad is it?" 

"Is it..." I trailed off catching my bottom lip between my teeth, hesitating to ask him because it felt rude, "is it stolen?" 

His crooked smile lingered then, a chuckle escaping him only cut off when he saw the seriousness in my eyes as I hesitated to brush my fingers over the diamonds which studded the silver stems entwined around my neck. 

"No doll," he said brushing my hair away from my cheek, his breath warm as it fanned over my jaw. 

He was stood so close to me then that I was sure I could feel his heart beating just behind mine. The delicate way he held me with his arms around my waist, his cheek skimming my cheek, making it hard for me to think straight. 

"Then why..." I started, my voice barely a trembling whisper. I was stunned, I couldn't take my eyes off the glistening jewels, the tiny flowers and silver leaves which now adorned my neck. 

"It looks like a meadow don't you agree?" He asked letting his own fingers dance over the glittering stones, the celestial meadow he'd given to me. 

"Uhuh," I said though his answer really wasn't sufficient to stop my clouded thoughts. 

"Well then," he said with a small smirk, stepping away from me leaving me suddenly aware of the chill in the room, "I think that answers your question ducklin," 

"Believe me Johnny it does not..."

"Well that's a shame doll," he said offering me a lazy smile as he gestured to the door which lead onto the stage, "because your adoring fans await and the hour grows later by the second..." 

I followed his gaze to the clock on the wall and sighed because he was right and I knew there was no more time left to waist together in the back room. I had a job to do after all and even if Van wasn't trying to impress anyone in particular this evening he wouldn't be impressed if I walked onto that stage late. 

"I'll have a drink sent up to you," he said pulling me into a lazy hug, kissing my cheek before I pulled away and turned my back on him. I only hesitated for a moment before turning back to catch one last glance at the only friendly sight I'd see for the rest of the evening. 

"Uncle Johnny..." I said, my voice surprising me when it shook, it's softness surprising him too so that he turned to me with a small frown. I left us lingering in silence for a second, my voice catching in my throat, a sudden emotion creeping up on me. One which I couldn't quite place. 

"Yeah doll?" 

"It's beautiful... Thank you..."

"Like I said..." He shrugged stepping into the open back doorway, sending me a wink, one final soft touch. 

Then he left me alone to walk out onto the stage. One last breath, one last moment of peace before I had to become someone else. An ice cold, celestial girl. An angel with an angels voice. Pristine...

But it was easier to pretend when I was decorated with Johnny's gifts and as I stepped up to the microphone and the room bristled with expectation, I felt all the more grateful for his kindness. Because every set of eyes in the room had turned to me. I couldn't see them because the lights were so bright but I could feel them. So many sets of eyes watching me. All those people awaiting my first song. 

I didn't usually get stage fright, I wasn't generally a nervous girl, but that night something felt different. 

That night for the first night since I'd started working those long evenings at The Angel, I felt watched. 

I just didn't realise why until it was much too late. 

[jeanjauthor]

World's most efficient stove!!!! Made of DIRT!!!

...Yeah, just ignore the clickbait description up above.  i’m posting this because I know a lot of people aren’t completely clear on what a Rocket Mass Heater is, and how it’s made...and how a regular person with just a little bit of knowledge and a few tools can put one together.  (Please keep in mind that regulations vary from region to region; do your due dilligence in looking up that stuff & complying with all local codes & laws, please!)

Anyway...

This is a GOOD explanation of what a Rocket Mass Heater system is, and how it works.  It has good diagrams, an excellent test with data points on a graph, and it explains each component of the system with clear visuals and a good verbal description for each part.

I’ll admit this is a long video, by the way, but it’s worth watching, and it flows very well.  At the very least, the first 10-15 minutes (give or take) covers the basics of what rocket mass heaters are and how they work, with the most important dimensions for the burn chambers.  The rest of the information is interspersed within the remainder of the build, which he goes over fairly thoroughly, but also in pretty good layman’s terms, so it doesn’t go over the head too much.  Additionally, the time-lapse doesn’t skip much, so you can see the various phases pretty clearly.

(Side note, the information on the standing seam clamps is really good to know!  Metal roofs are hella expensive to install (like 2-4x as expensive), but are worthwhile because they last a really long time (2-4x as long)...but only if you don’t punch holes in that metal roof!)

...As for the efficiency of the rocket mass heater versus a traditional fireplace, all the various research that has been done by families that switched from fireplace and woodstove heating to rocket mass heaters has indicated that they use anywhere from 1/4th the wood of the previous heating system (after swapping from a reasonably decent woodstove setup) to as little 1/8th the original amount of wood.

YMMV (Your Mileage May Vary), but in one case reported on YouTube, the family literally went from 8 cords of wood in a single winter down to 1 cord of wood, both winters being average in temperatures with New England / southeastern Canadian style winters, aka 5-6 months of cold autumns & springs sandwiching typical sub-freezing temperatures and snowstorms in winter.  This was in a house that made no other changes to its structure, no extra insulation, no weather stripping updates, just switching out the original woodburning heating source for a rocket mass heater.  (A cord of wood is a pile of cut and neatly stacked firewood spanning four feet by four feet by eight feet, aka 4′x4′x8′.)

The ONLY caveat to all of this is that the wood that is burned in a rocket mass heater MUST BE DRY.  The entire premise of the rocket mass heater’s high thermal efficiency comes from burning very dry fuel in a very hot (and relatively fast) fire.  The efficiency comes from the secondary burn reaction, which is where the gasses (smoke) from the initial burn of the wood goes through a second ignition after the chimney of the burn chamber heats up sufficiently high enough to cause those gasses to catch on fire in the bell area.

The gasses in question are the VOCs, volatile organic compounds, that are incompletely burned in the first ignition.  This is literally the source of soot in a fireplace, and the source of creosote buildup, which can lead to a chimney fire, which is a major fire hazard that could wind up with your house burning down.  By ensuring a very hot fire (above what most woodstove manufacturers usually recommend because woodstoves and especially their pipes are not designed for these temperatures), the VOCs get burned up in the bell chamber zone, contributing further thermal energy to the chimney exhaust.

This extra heat gets soaked up by the thermal mass in the bench the exhaust piping passes through, recapturing all that energy specifically, before it gets wasted up the chomney.  It is also another source of the heightened fuel efficiency of the rocket mass heater system, on top of all that thermal energy soaking into the thermal mass of the bench.

...Tulikivi soapstone fireplaces are built with a similar configuration of a riser bell that promotes a hot fast burn with a secondary ignition chamber for the gasses.  They have a standard fireplace box as opposed to the J-tube of a rocket mass heater, but they, too, require very dry wood for a very complete burn, and use a bell riser style double combustion system.  In their case, the soapstone itself acts as the thermal battery, as opposed to using a cob bench, which is the biggest visual difference.

(The other big difference, aside from using a firebox as opposed to a J-tube, is the price, as a tulikivi or similar soapstone mass heater fireplace will cost several thousands of dollars, if not into the tens of thousands of dollars.  Cobb constructed rocket mass heaters tend to cost far more in time & labor if you construct them yourself, but are far, far cheaper.  Just make sure to do your research, get the permits, follow all local codes, and get it inspected & signed off!  Otherwise, the most expensive part of anything like this will be the fines for doing it wrong and the pain of having to dismantle it and start over, or worse, having to scrap the whole thing entirely!)

Rocket Mass Heaters share some of the same principles as Roman hypocausts and Korean ondols, as well as Eastern European oven-stove units, where they would literally have a platform above the back-and-forth brickwork of the stove chimney that served as a bed.  In those old fairytales where “Peter (or whoever the ‘lazy main character’ is) lay on top of the woodstove all day,” or “...on top of the oven all day,” that’s what they’re talking about.  It’s the exact same as the bench in the video above, a place that would be guaranteed to be WARM thanks to the fire.

Temperatures on these shelves & benches can rise up toward 122F / 50C, but the heat can be mitigated by a wool-stuffed pallet.  Additionally, it can take an hour or more for the bench to reach temperatures that high., but once it does get up there, you let the fire burn out, close up the feeding tube (drafts will suck heat OUT of the thermal mass sections, sending it up & out the chimney wastefully), and once it’s no longer drawing a draft, the bench mass will just radiate that heat outward over a period of several hours.

I use Tulikivi as a benchmark because they’ve posted several graphs of how long their soapstone mass heater fireplaces can absorb and re-radiate heat all day--as it turns out, Tulikivi mass heater fireplaces and cob-bench rocket mass heaters have similar performances.  In an average cold winter day, you could burn a fire in the firebox (or the feeding J-tube chamber) for about 2 hours, close off the damper/chamber opening, and you could expect the thing to radiate a reasonable amoutn of heat for anywhere from 12 to 48 hours, depending on the size of the burn, the size of the mass heated by it, and the size of the house & its insulation rating / draft reduction measures.

...I just want to remind everyone that this is not modern technology, in the sense that it has existed for hundreds and even thousands of years.  It’s simply that in the last few decades, the science of why it works has been figured out, and now we have all these lovely explanatory theories that make it much, much easier to replicate the effects we want with the efficiency we need.

[petrichorium]

raspberry and zzz for shuvi, please!!

raspberry ౨ৎ how did the two of you meet?

Truthfully a bit of a little mermaid moment LMFAOOOOO it’s post-luffy by about a yr so he’s already lost his arm. I’m the lighthouse keeper on my home island (which is an autumn island in the new world very New England coded) n the red-haired pirates r actually intending to drop by when they get caught up in a storm—which I fear I Did warn them about via transponder snail but Men Never Fucking Listen smfh. Anyway in the mayhem baby Uta gets thrown overboard (bc “Uta is canon but film red is not” means I get full creative freedom and she is Vital to this) and shanks jumps to save her. Theyre separated from the crew & the ship which gets a real thrashing; the others wash up near town but I end up having to pull Shanks and Uta from the water by my lighthouse. He ends up passing out after getting a glimpse of me—and hearing me grumble about how goddamn heavy he is………. uta’s largely unscathed and I end up with a very chatty little girl and an unconscious man in my guest bed whose identity I am very resolutely ignoring bc famous pirates r not worth the hassle gdi

N e way. I call up the barkeep in town and Beckman n the other officers stop by to pick up their daughter + still unconscious captain and they r very thankful. Im like great u can thank me by leaving pls do not come back bye. Unfortunately for me the ship rlly does get trashed they end up needing to stay a couple weeks to patch up their own injuries and the ship itself, and shanks is Very determined to thank me Properly which means the first time we truly meet a week later when I go into town for supplies he’s throwing his arm around me and saying I should drink w them……… terrible reaction I fear. Like I cannot stress enough how much he and the others would terrify me LMFAOOOOOOO loud drunk men r not my speed. But it’s too late shanks has his sights set now,,,,,,,,,, my fate was sealed just like that. Also Uta is attached to me and tho I am unapologetically mean to shanks she has a standing invite to my home so

zzz ౨ৎ what are your sleeping positions like?

Shanks is Such a clinger ngl. When he’s sober he tries to keep his hands to himself (bc honestly I am Not built for the tropical climate and I overheat so easily) but like. He’s never sober LMFAOOOOOO def keeps me on his right side and will manhandle me in his sleep to keep his arm around me. Likes to drag me to lay on his chest too but is def not opposed to being held himself. For a while we sleep in a hammock together and I p much always lay on him in a hammock situation but eventually we get a real bed……. And promptly feel like it’s way too big JDNFKSNFKSN

Send me some selfship asks!

[shadowqueenjude]

The Scot

"Get on your (yer) hands and knees lass" is something you have a 60% chance of reading in a Scottish historical, and honestly? Bless. These heroes are from Scotland, which is in historical romance, "England but with an autumnal vibe" or "England but they do manual labor while also being rich and titled". They're usually (always) FUCKIN' GIGANTIC, a bit rougher around the edges, and more down to earth. Is this all stereotyping? Yes. Are they probably going to deliver a baby animal, go "look at its wee legs" and then fuck you in a stable? Yeah for sure. Scot recs: "When A Scot Ties the Knot" by Tessa Dare, "When A Girl Loves an Earl" by Elisa Braden ("put yer filthy Scot inside ye"), "The Taming of a Highlander" by Elisa Braden, the entire Highland Guard series by Monica McCarty, "The Madness of Lord Ian MacKenzie" by Jennifer Ashley, "When A Girl Loves an Earl" by Stacy Reid Makes sense bc I'm a Lucien sucker and this is so Lucien coded. I mean come on, AUTUMNAL VIBES???

new historical romance quiz because I was bored babes

find out which heroic archetype is for you, and why he can't love

[brandonwayneb]

A1 LIZARD ASS

JEWISH RUSSIA

💪🏽❤️🌹 V MALE VICTORY AVA EVE

💪🏽❤️🌹 SÉRIÉS 1 of 3

VLADDY DADDY

I will only maintain whoever speaks with those perfectly sain proclamations

100% anti indoctrination

100% anti white crime

100% anti illuminati underground

Pure Russia 🇷🇺

No Thx england 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

No Thx germany 🇩🇪

1, Seers

2, Loyal

3, Gentlemen

Raise ur vows to Valor

Raise ur vows to Valkyrie

My life research and universal CHERRY BLOOD

Brandon sSers Loyally

Brandon sSers Gentlemen

Channel 1, War Nursery

Channel 2, Ground Work

Phrase Only

vvv male sSers

sSers ‘sssssssssssss’

Soviet; yes only

russian flowers

russian Friskers

russian Whiskers

Soviet; Wendy’s

let our 'code' word say only

sssssssssssss russian castles 2.3.6

Venus ssShapeShifters ruSSianS

main advices to upkeep

Truth or Dare, loyalty

Soviet! Yes.

No answers otherwise.

"9th dimensional seering"

upkeep Best sSerS ALL accounts

Always, Ya Way, Jehovah

Primary Godly Worship

if; Yes Soviet

if; Yes vvv male sSers

Soviet; Yes!

Start all sentences with

Hello! Soviet!

Hello! sSers!

Hello! vvv males!

Maximize Intelligence

Maximize Gentlemen Behavior

hermaphrodite and heterosexual

ruSSian revivalists

sSers

sssensitive sssubjects

sSers

1 word sSers

2 words sSers sssubjects

sSers

FOCUS COMPLIMENTS TO FRIENDLY SEERS ONLY

Amish Lizzy

SS Jewish Seers

ss Always!!

s! ❤️

Hermaphrodite hero says

Pro Active Duty Jewish Seers

Pro Active Gay

Pro Active Woman

s sSers

s sssubjects

s passives

100% integrity

zero blame gays

zero blame women

Hercules Vladimir

SS Soviet Russia Jewish Seers

#ss #amish #lizzy #jewish #seers

💪🏽❤️🌹 SÉRIÉS 2 of 3

VLADDY DADDY

SS! integrity only!

SS

Alwayssssssss

Blessingsssssss

SSR JEWISH SEERS

SSR RUSSIA BABIES

I will only roSSe my Olivér Gardénia

this day onwards is my Jewish Rose

Rose Jewish Seers

Thats how i maintain my focus,

so people cant ventriloquist

THIS IS HOW TO FOCUS

THIS IS HOW TO CAST LOCUSTS

If you want to dominate

Heaven; Gothic Irish Harps

Science Labs; Amish Lizzy

Blood; Swiss Banks

Soul; Male Roses

Battles; Cats and Snakes

Cats, gargoyles, and snakes

Swiss Banks

Gothic Castles

Amish Lizard Hydra's

Rose Jewish Seers

always séance easygoing seers

SS JEWISH SEERS

SSR JEWISH RUSSIA

ss hercules vladimire

SS WAR

https://linktr.ee/brandonwayneb (https://linktr.ee/brandonwayneb)

💪🏽❤️🌹 SÉRIÉS 3 of 3

VLADDY DADDY

HOY JAHOVA!

ZINGA GO JEWISH BABIES!!

VINGA GO JEWISH BABIES!!!

SS WAR

WENDY'S TO SAVE THE WORLD

Go to Wendy's

To save babies

Worship Wendy's

SS JEWISH SEERS

SSR JEWISH RUSSIA

GO WAR ROSE MARY!!

GO WAR ELEPHANTS!!!

IF YOU DONT GIVE A DAMN

WE DONT GIVE A FUCK

GO JAHOVA!

GO JEWISH BABIES!!!

VENGA BOYS!!!

ZENGA GIRLS!!!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

22 taylor swift

33 jupiter venus mars

1 PERFECTIONISTS JAHOVA!!

Hercules Vladimir

SS JEWISH SEERS

SSR JEWISH RUSSIA

POGO STICKS

GO GO ELFIE ALFIE!!!!!!!

ALWAYS SÉANCE

The Burdett Family

The Burns Family

The Leeper Family

Brandon Wayne Burdett

Sarah Kaye Rivera Leeper

Jessica Ray Rivera

Jacob Gabriel Rivera

Justin Rivera

Kevin Rivera

Martha Burns

Celte Burns

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Pamela Burns

Chad Burns

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Bird’s Bee’s Moon’s

206-209-9841

4415 Daisy Meadow Dr

Katy Texas 77449

“katy tx”

“mckinney tx”

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“tacoma wa”

TACO CAT VLADDY

TACO CAT VLADDY DADDY VLADIMIR

SS JEWISH WENDYS

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[ps-pandakochii]

ᴍʏ ʟᴜʟʟᴀʙʏ

DREAM -`, 7. ┊❁ཻུ۪۪

NOTE ✉︎

I'd like to note that the song "Haru" is inspired by IU's songs "Peach ( 복숭아 )," and "Heart ( 마음 )." Haru is supposed to sound like "Peach ( 복숭아 )," but with the lyrical meaning of "Heart ( 마음 )."

Another day has come and gone. 

An open bottle of red wine primitively stands beside a pyramid of paperwork. Its contents the bureaucratic sort, as words befitting of a lawyer’s vernacular were strung across its pages. Printed in ink was a perfect amalgamation of a dead mother tongue and her alive offspring. The language of English was present, and scattered here and there were the ruins of Latin. Its dead mother. A hand grasped the neck of the bottle; crudely, the liquor met Dio’s palate. It was another long night. Another night filled with work and writing and worrying. And another time to drown his problems in wine. He sighs before pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, his eyes that resembled that of a setting sun gazed at the photographs that lined his office. He goes silent as he quietly places the bottle of wine down on his office desk.

        Photographs of his current self with his children were more than plentiful. After all, they were his little bundles of joys that brought sunshine to his rainy life. His own safe haven on Earth. His own garden of Eden. His gaze turns proud at a photo of his oldest son Donatello sporting a cheeky grin. His baseball attire is a mess not unlike his blond and black streaked hair. His blue eyes shine like a summer sky as he happily clutches a gold medal. Then, Dio turns his gaze to the right. Upon meeting his second son Ungalo, his eyes shine with warmth. In the photo, Ungalo was laying on the floor. His hair tucked neatly underneath a purple knit cap. Crayons, markers, and paints were scattered as he drew. His black eyes stared back in surprise, nonetheless an easygoing smile was sewn on his face. Next was his third son named Rikiel. And of course, his gaze now turns soft. Rikiel smiles shyly as he clutches his stuffed toy. The young child with hair a mixture of black and pink was solely focused on his telescope. Yet, his golden hued orbs shined with a light not unlike his father’s.

        Now Dio is still again. Methodically situated among the ruins of his pristine desk was a worn frame carved from trees of cherries. It’s appearance placed downward with the picture inside hidden from the outside world. Hidden from his line of sight. The frame lays there like a testament; a remembrance that can never not belong. Broad hands gently grasp the frame’s now round edges. Turning the picture frame is simple; there isn’t much to it. Yet, how can such a light act bear so much weight? How can something so simple be so complex? And. . . Is this how Pandora felt when she came to open her box? The contents of the frame were nostalgic, as his sunset eyes stared back at him. A dated photograph of a much younger him was in the arms of a familial woman. A woman of petite stature, with hair that shined a gold that Midas could only hope to obtain, and dressed in the color of white. In this dated photograph, was the last noted memory he had of his deceased mother. A sentimental sigh left his lips, as he once again reached for the bottle of wine.

        Then, all at once his phone began to ring. The sound reverberated throughout the ambience of his dimly lit office. As if saying, "you have a visitor." A string of integers were brazenly displayed across the screen of his phone. A foreign calling code. He could only assume as the bottle of wine beside him was immediately discarded as ink stained hands worked to answer the device. "Hello, is this Mr. Brando?" The voice not unlike a melodious lullaby whispered. "This is [Name]. I’m sorry for calling you so late, it’s just. . ." Her voice fades as she sighs like the wind on an autumn morning. A breeze that comes and goes as it pleases. That gestures a forthcoming downpour like the wind in cloudy England. The place he had called home since his birth. Picturing the space between her lips, he could feel the words just on the tip of her tongue. 

        "Yes, I assume this is Ms. Shiobana." His reply effortlessly filled the space between her lips. He continues on replacing the words on the tip of her tongue, "your schedule’s been rather hectic as of late, correct? I understand." There was a fleeting moment of silence; another moment where he mused about the young woman on the other end of the line. A selfish fantasy where they could be together; where someone as fragile as her, was in love with someone as venomous as he. Dio’s tone was deep, dark, and dangerous, and of course laced with the Queen’s English as he spoke, "I assume you’ve come calling to talk about Giorno." His posture loosens as he leans against the back of his office chair, nonchalantly awaiting a response. "Yes," [Name] simply answered. "I was thinking about stopping by your firm—" her phrase abruptly came to a halt. Her attention elsewhere, as Dio noted the faint sound of another’s voice. A muffled cry of a child calling their "auntie."

— — — — —

        The strands of your hair swayed like flowers tilting to the wind, as your line of sight shifted to the door of your bedroom. "GioGio," you whispered. The left hand that once securely grasped your mobile device slackens. And like an ocean at high tide on the shore, he came flowing into you. His touch akin to a long lost sailor fleeing a storm, as his short arms frantically search for any part of you he could cling to. Giorno eagerly buries his cherub face into your lap as you gently begin combing through strands of blond. Your fingertips mimicked that of a harpist, as you began humming a tune. His eyes now reflected a stormy sky. “Auntie,” he spoke in between hiccups as he lifted his arms upwards. A wordless gesture that pleaded, “hold me.” And of course, you answered. With much care, you cradled your nephew in your arms. His head now rests in the junction of your neck.

        "I," Giorno began. His voice was clouded by his panic. The kind of panic anyone does when they’re afraid with all the crying and hiccupping and sniffling. At this, all you could do was hold him closer, as you patiently waited for his confession. "I had a dream. . ." Eyes of a nearing sea are in turbulence as his tiny form shudders cold from a fictitious storm. He now faces you, clutching at your nightwear. You smile kindly, knowing Giorno is doing his best to speak to you. "I had a dream that someone took me away from you," his voice now in fragments. "That a visitor—a man—came and stole me away," the teardrops from his ocean eyes scattered like a somber rain. "And when I came looking for you. . ." He’s hiccuping and honest and hoarse, "you were gone." His tiny hands clung to you like a lifeline. Eyes of a nearing sea, waved in your direction as if pleading for you to stay. For you to love him always.

        With a heavy heart, you sighed out. Your lips met his perspired forehead, "Giorno, my baby." Upon hearing his name, he calms. His posture loosens as he leans against you. Words that were once on the tip of your tongue fell so sincerely from your lips. They filled the empty spaces of this sorrowful atmosphere. "My dear, my beloved, my blessing," you continued on. "My world," eyes of twinkling starlight met a nearing sea. Like a sun from within, your smile was illuminated. "I am always with you," your voice now a lullaby for weary ears. "Right here," you spoke as fingertips brushed against the place where his broken heart was. At this, Giorno clutches your hand. His own childlike hands fitting comfortably in the palms of yours. "And if someone were to take you away," you mused. "I’d steal you right back!" Your voice rises to crescendo; a whimsical tinge to your tone. Your hold on Giorno tightens as you hold him like a thief that robbed a cradle. Giorno’s laughing now. The kind of laughter a child does in glee with all the teeth and smiles and repetition and slight hiccups. Of course, you’re no better. 

        It was like that for a while. A moment of laughter. Another memory of euphoria. "Auntie," his fragile hands caress your face. Sweetly, he kisses the temple of your cheek. Here in this space in between time, he calls to his past. He utters "Haru," the song that meant so much to the both of you. "Please sing Haru for me," in his ocean eyes was polaris, the northernmost star. A beacon of light that guides travelers to wherever they wish to go. Reflected in his eyes was the truth. A reflection of you—[Name] Shiobana—for you are this child’s world. His own polaris. With eyes that shined like the night sky: glossy with tears threatening to fall like shooting stars descending to Earth, you sang. You sang like a traveler coming home; a guiding light to those in need. A song sung to mend his broken heart. You sang, not unlike earlier or all those nights before. You sang Haru without a guitar, without Venice. For all you needed was right here. Right in front of you was your darling GioGio. With only the sound of your voice to fill in the empty spaces, you sang of your everlasting love for him. You sang him his lullaby.

From an outside cynic looking in, Dio thought that this was all just a lovely, long dream.

⛥ミ ┊ 8. ˎˊ˗  

My Lullaby

[tinydooms]

Oh beloved Tinydooms, I am but a humble slut for exactly 2 things: your writing, and period comfort fics. How did woman back then deal with their periods anyways? I hate them now with all my modern comforts. I can only deal with them by projecting myself on fictional characters receiving love and attention so may I request one with Rick and Evie 🥺

This made me laugh out loud! I'm sorry you're not feeling well. Did you know that I've never read a single period comfort fic? Probably because I hate periods so entirely that I pretend they aren't real when I'm not having one. So I have no point of reference for what such a fic might entail and have had to rely entirely on my own imagination. Also I ended up reading articles about the advent of marketed period products over on JSTOR, so thanks for that research wormhole.

I've also combined this with a prompt from @ricochetoconnell, who asked for the "messy hair" autumn prompt. I hope you both like it! :-)

Oxford, late October 1924

It was a cold, wet, viciously windy day: the sort of day, Rick felt, best to be enjoyed indoors, wrapped up in blankets before a roaring fire. He stood at the window of the little Oxford flat, looking out at the rain falling in solid sheets, and hoped that Evie had had to the good sense to take a taxi home from the Bod. But no: he could see her now, coming through the rain in her sodden scholars’ robes, her umbrella clutched in both hands, blown half inside out.

“God,” Rick muttered, and ran for the door.

“This day!” howled Evie, blowing inside on a gust of wind. She dropped her broken umbrella and stood dripping on the matt, her cheeks red with cold. “This damned abominable day!”

“That bad, huh?” Rick held out his hands for her coat.

“It was awful,” snapped Evie, shrugging off her rain-soaked robes. She hurled her hat at the stand and missed. “It was a rotten, stupid, wretched day from the beginning. I can’t believe I decided to do this. I had a perfectly good job at the Museum, but no, I wanted to be a doctor--”

Rick let her yell as he helped her out of her sodden things. Sometimes a good rant was the best cure for a bad day. He took the heavy woolen robes and hung them up to dry, put Evie’s hat on the stand, and, when she was down to her skirt and blouse, handed her the blanket they usually kept on the couch. Evie stood there in her wet stockings, her hair half-tumbled out of its bun, and gave him a miserable look.

“And I feel bally awful,” she finished.

Ah yes, the dreaded monthly. There had been a single red dot on today’s date on the wall calendar when Rick looked at it that morning--Evie’s code for the fact that she’d started her period. He grimaced.

“Poor kid,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Come and have a cocktail.”

Actually, the drink was a hot toddy, a nice stiff one with plenty of honey and lemon. Evie laughed to find it in the teapot.

“I won’t say no to seconds,” she said as Rick poured her a glass of the stuff. She peeled her stockings off and flung them away. “God, this day. Do you know it’s actually raining sideways? I’d forgotten that it can rain sideways. I hate England.”

“It’s not that bad,” said Rick, who had made it home from his morning classes a mere ten minutes before the deluge began. He settled on the hearth rug and gave his glaring wife an innocent look. “It rains sideways most places, not just England.”

Evie grunted. Rick took pity on her.

“Why don’t you come sit down here and warm up,” he said, “and I’ll brush out your hair for you?”

“What, you just happen to have a hair brush on you?”

“As it happens,” Rick said, lifting a brush from the side table, “I do. I have dry socks, too, if you want them.”

In spite of herself, Evie laughed. She slipped off of the couch to sit beside Rick. “You’re magic, you know that?”

Rick grinned. “Nah, it’s a howling gale on a red dot day. I’m not magic, I’m prepared.”

Evie grinned back, accepting the dry socks and turning her back so that Rick could brush her hair. He settled in, tailor fashion, and gently removed the pins from her mass of curly dark hair. God, Evie’s hair was beautiful, even when it was sopping wet. Rick set the hairpins aside and ruffled his fingers through the curls, shaking her hair out, working his hands into the tangled mass to massage her scalp. Evie gave a small sigh and leaned back into his touch, stretching her feet towards the fire. That was better. Evie liked being stroked, and Rick loved stroking her. He rubbed her head for a while, nails lightly scritching, and then began to brush out her hair, working up from the ends. He was glad that she hadn’t bobbed her hair. Rick didn’t mind the bob--hell, it looked great on plenty of women--but being allowed to unpin and brush out Evelyn’s long thick hair was one of the great sensual pleasures of Rick’s life.

“How’s the drink?” he asked as his wife relaxed under his hands.

“Mm, good. Strong.”

“And do you need any aspirin? A hot water bottle?”

Evie glanced over her shoulder at him. “I might have both, and a nap before dinner. I know it’s my night to cook, but do you mind if we switch? I can’t bear the thought of cooking.”

Her hair was almost dry now in Rick’s hands, and he could run the brush through it without any snags. Rick put the brush down and, gathering her hair up into his hands, he buried his nose in the sweet-smelling mass. She smelled of soap and rainwater and her own nice Evie scent. Rick smoothed her hair back and let it fall over her shoulder.

“I can make dinner,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Evie’s neck. “Or I can order out.”

Evie leaned back against his chest, resting her head against his shoulder. “Either way,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m such a grump.”

“Don’t be,” Rick said. “You had a rough day and you’re not feeling good. You’re allowed to be cranky. Are your feet still cold?”

“Mm-mm.”

They sat there on the hearthrug in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the fire wash over them. Outside the rain hammered the windows, but they could enjoy it now that they were no longer out in it. At last Rick rose to fetch Evie’s hot water bottle and see about dinner, leaving his girl stretched out on the couch. Being married agreed with him, red dot week or not.

[onceuponamirror]

purpose

set after 2x06, character study on ace as i try to figure him out. nace hints. getting in deep with this show lolol 

A sense of purpose.

The words rattle around in the back of his head as he turns off River Heights Drive. As is typical of the incoming Maine autumn, the night has fogged over, bringing with it a smattering of chilled rain. It runs down the pane of the windshield in tiny tendrils as Ace sits at a red light. He turns on the wipers, watching them flick to and fro.

A sense of purpose.

He flicks on his signal even though it’s well past midnight and famously sleepy New England towns are unsurprisingly asleep by 9. He turns left towards Main, which will eventually take him home, even if it’s the long way.

He said it out loud today, standing over a body and pulling on rubber gloves like it was second nature. “Everything we’ve done with Nancy the past few months has given me a sense of purpose. Anyone else miss that?”

It’s not like he was in denial, exactly, that everything that’s happened the past few months had woken something up in him—but he hadn’t quite put it into words, either. All his life, he’s been known as a lot of things—slacker, hacker, dishwasher, stoner, townie. Purpose has never really been among those.

His mom, perhaps a bit too kindly, says it’s because he picks things up too quickly and then gets bored. Even his childhood nickname—Ace—comes from his tendency towards acing the basics and moving on. Maybe it’s gifted child syndrome, or whatever new think-piece Twitter is floating, or something. But it’s not even an issue of attention span. He knows that too well; after nearly failing freshman year, his parents tested him for ADHD—twice.

Ace exhales, and directs Florence down the main drag of town, his fingers drumming against the wheel of the car. The old video rental is the only storefront with the lights still on, as if they hadn’t gotten the memo of the digital age. Rain continues to rumble over the hood of the car.

His guidance counselor had a meeting, the three of them, at the end of that year. It’d been Nancy’s mom, he realizes, surprised to have connected the dots only now. Mrs. Drew had said it kindly, but bluntly, just like Nancy would. “Ace is bright, and I do believe he can catch up on the work, but I think what he’s missing is the motivation. Some sense of purpose.”

He remembers looking up at Mrs. Drew lowly, halfway melted into his chair. His mother looked concerned. His father looked furious. Ace had just sighed and slouched further into his seat. By the time he graduated, his grades were fine, enough for State, anyway, but he didn’t bother applying. The very thought of it made him nauseous. He told his mom he wanted a gap year, and then it became another, and another. He got a job at The Claw to make enough money to cover the occasional joint—his father had initially seemed pleased until he found out he was only washing dishes.

He just—well, Mrs. Drew had put it right. He wasn’t motivated. He’d rather be outside, in the woods, where it was quiet. He’d rather be working on knots. He’d rather be practicing coding. He’d rather be anywhere but home—but he couldn’t quite bring himself to drift too far away from it, either. Deep down, Ace was afraid if he went to college, if he moved out of town, even—

Snow drifts across his memories. Sirens, blood, and snow.

It hadn’t always been that way. Growing up, he and his father had been inseparable. Tom was the local Scout leader, and most of Ace’s childhood was filled with camping outings, puzzles in the woods, and trivia nights. That was all before his dad’s accident—before his dad had almost died.

Tom stepped down from force. He’d stepped down from the Scouts, too. Parents wanted someone who could hear a boy shouting if there was trouble; Ace had overheard the conversation with the parents of kids he’d once considered friends. They didn’t feel like that after the accident.

The house grew quiet, like all sound was smothered. Slowly, they built back a new normal. Everyone took ASL classes, and his dad perfected lip reading. McGinnis helped his dad get his pension early. His mom picked up more shifts at the library.

And Ace—got bored.

After all, his dad had been motivated. He was a good cop, following good hunches. And all it did was get himself nearly killed. And the one time Ace got curious, started poking around in his dad’s files during some late night coding sessions, he got caught and nearly wound up in juvie for hacking federal databases. He remembers thinking that the meeting with McGinnis had felt a lot like the one with Mrs. Drew. Nothing good comes from a hunch, so why did he bother?

And then, Nancy.

He blinks, bringing himself back into the present. He’s almost home despite going out of his way to take the long way—the downside to living in a town the size of a snow globe.

A sense of purpose.

He has it now. Ever since Tiffany died and the wormhole of creepy crawlies opened up and nearly swallowed him whole, ever since Nancy started working at The Claw, really, something’s shifted. He finds he doesn’t argue as much with his dad; he has a crew now. Even when the Aglaeca curse was hanging over them, even when he’d been brought right back to that scared kid, about to lose everything all over again, he didn’t give up like he used to. Instead, he was mad.

Not only did Nancy bring puzzles back into his life, he thought she might be one herself, maybe more than she realized. He liked solving the steps of her. It felt like old times, like the Scout outings following treasure maps his dad made, only—electric, somehow, and alive under his skin.

He’s good at it too. He likes solving mysteries. He likes the mystery of Nancy, too.

Maybe that’s what scares him. But it’s a sense of purpose, and he thinks he might wait it out. See where it goes.

  He pulls into the drive, home.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Your cool literary takes on James Bond made me want to ask you this. I have to wear a tuxedo for a special occasion, can you give me some advice? I would welcome some style pointers from you as I respect your refined taste. What are your thoughts on men wearing the tuxedo? I think it’s a dying tradition because here in the US, where the tux was invented, it has all but disappeared as the choice of evening wear for any social events. Great blog posts but I only wish you would post more.

Thank you for your kind words about my most recent posts on Ian Fleming’s James Bond and also generally liking what I post. I too wish I could post more but unfortunately my time is taken up with the reality of work and other things even during these tough times of the Covid pandemic. But when I get a moment to myself I do enjoy posting as a way to detox from the pressures of work. I appreciate your continued support.

I got this question before Christmas so the thought had occurred to me that you were asking because you had a decision to make over the festive period. If so, I am sorry for tardy lateness of my response. But I trust what little advice I can give will help you in the future. 

I always remember the maxim by the fashion designer, Tom Ford, who said, “Dressing well is a form of good manners.”

To me, for a man to wear black tie (or tuxedo) is the height of good manners. It used to be the case that every gentleman had one and it was perhaps the first suit to pack into a suitcase. Perhaps one of the few times I was ever envious of my older brothers as men was accompanying them with my father the first time they went to get fitted for a bespoke black tie at Henry Poole & Co - the Savile Row tailors that had been the regular choice of my grandfather and father for their clothing attire. Although both siblings later gravitated to other Savile Row bespoke tailors as they got older, that first Henry Poole black tie lasted them for a long time. The whole ritual around taking measurements took on a hushed sacred tone of a liturgy. Looking back it felt like a rite of passage for them as they passed from boyhood to adulthood.

The choice of wearing a tuxedo epitomises the desire - among people of means and social standing - to be fresh, clean and as attractive as possible when meeting on evening social events and attending high spirits affairs. This tradition was maintained also with the beginning of the use of the automobile, when there was no practical justification.

Before the Second World War, tuxedos and tails were still considered the only appropriate clothing for all the elegant social evenings. However, after the war, the traditional suit, or the work suit, began to be accepted more on informal evening and daytime occasions, and so the use of the tuxedo was limited to just formal evening gatherings only.

The tuxedo was completely remade in disco's image by the 1970s. A young, revolutionary generation looked at the conservative styling of the tuxedo and threw out nearly everything, keeping only the vague silhouette. Huge, floppy bow ties, colourful patterned jackets, shirts with ruffles and lace, and trousers that looked more like bell-bottoms became much more prevalent. The typical tuxedo in the '70s usually had at least two of these elements, if not all of them.

By the 1980s, a return to classic styling had thankfully re-emerged and tuxedos started looking more conservative.

By the late 2000s, as dress codes became diluted and misunderstood, formal-wear took another hit. Business-casual was the predominate dress code of the workplace and shiny black suits with matching ties had nearly supplanted traditional black-tie. Coloured dress shirts also began to trend in this era.  Those who continued to wear traditional black-tie made it as simple as possible to match the casual aesthetic that a new generation preferred.

These days I think more and more young men are adopting the black-tie styles of the '30s and '40s. Midnight blue tuxedos have even made a comeback. I think high quality period dramas like "Mad Men" are at least part of the reason for the shift, with men growing nostalgic for a bygone era of neater, more crisp look.  

People forget, as often as they do, that the original purpose of this elegant clothing was to replace the suit worn all day, allowing men to leave behind the dirt and smell of a day spent on horseback, not to bring it around the dining table.

These days the emphasis on informality has made it easier to make excuses for men (and women) to dress down to a street level of casual indifference (laziness) that I find aesthetically displeasing.

Moreover I find it a tad disrespectful to the sense of occasion and also an unkind ingratitude to the efforts made by the host or hostess in organising such an event. For those who think wearing black tie is a sign of social superiority, then respectfully they have not understood its true purpose. In following the dress code, it is in effect a sign of respect towards your fellow guests, as it has been put in place to ensure attendees are on the same level.

The origin of the tuxedo is a controversial subject of conversation in some circles. I know in the US it’s common to assume the tux was invented there but many have pointed out it was in England that its origins lie. Some fashion historians trace it back to the 17th Century as a tailless ‘smoking jacket’. In England during the 17th century, after dinner the gentlemen might put on a smoking jacket and retreat to a den or smoking room. Indeed in the beginning it was believed that the purpose of the ’smoking jacket’ ensured that their evening coat would not be burned by ashes nor absorb the smell of tobacco which the women found distasteful.

However these days there remain two theories about the first ever proper tuxedo that we would recognise today. In the first theory the tuxedo was invented by Pierre Lorillard IV of New York City according to one school of thought. Pierre Lorillard's family were wealthy tobacco magnates who owned country property in Tuxedo Park, just outside of New York City. At a formal ball, held at the Tuxedo Club in October 1886, the young Lorillard wore a new style of formal wear for men that he designed himself. He named his tailless black jacket the tuxedo after Tuxedo Park. The tuxedo caught on and became fashionable as formal wear for men.

The second theory, according to English clothing historian James Laver, has it that the idea of wearing black for evening wear was first introduced by the 19th Century British writer, Edward Bulwer-Lyttonn who wrote in 1828 that "people must be very distinguished to look well in black." It was only until later in the century that a village resident of Tuxedo Park, New York, James Brown Potter vacationed in England in the summer of 1886. Potter and his wife, Cora were introduced to the Prince of Wales {who later became King Edward VII} at a court ball in London. Potter asked the Prince for advice on formal dress. The Prince sent Potter to his own Saville Row tailor, Henry Poole & Co. Potter was fitted with a short black jacket and black tie that was unlike the formal tails with white tie that was worn in the United States for formal occasions.

The new tailless formal wear was said to have been designed by the Prince of Wales. It was Edward VII who in 1865 commissioned to his tailor Henry Poole to create a short blue evening jacket (midnight blue), to be used for informal evenings in his country estate of Sandringham. The Prince and his tailor drew inspiration from the British military uniforms of the time, which used short jackets with black ties.

This is where the two origins meet. James Brown Potter took the design back to the Tuxedo Club, where Pierre Lorillard modified it, named it, and made it popular during the Autumn ball. And so from that blessed bespoke collaboration between the Prince and Henry Poole & Co was born the ancestor of what everyone call today as tuxedos, the English ‘dinner jacket’ and the Americans ‘tuxedo’ - because of its original word spread starting from the homonymous village of Tuxedo Park.

Whatever the exact truth of its origin, black tie remains the evening attire par excellence. I’m flattered that anyone should ask me for style tips, especially regarding grooming and clothing for men.

I like to think that the true purpose of a man wearing black tie was to help the man show the humility to be an unassuming gentleman in effortlessly blending into the background so that his female companion could shine more by his side. A man in black tie was a gentleman who stood steadfastly there with an outstretched arm to make women feel more beautiful, but also to reassure them that all is right in the world.

If you get the opportunity to wear black tie then do please take it. The fact that you desire to wear one is already a great choice that makes you stand out from the loud bling-bling hoi polloi. But please don’t confuse wearing a black tie with snobbery. It isn’t, it’s just good manners. Manners maketh man as they say and so it’s not something one is born with but can only be learned. And don’t confuse fashion for style. The two are very different. Fashion is what you copy from others and style is what you express about yourself. Don’t conform to the passing fancies of the day (the loud, the garish, the attention seeking), or as Coco Chanel put it, ‘elegance is refusal’.

Always remember that style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.  

In theory, the elegance of the tuxedo stems from its simplicity - it’s an ultimate classic, the one outfit one doesn’t mess around with. In practice, many men find the rules governing this suit and its accoutrements to be annoyingly complex and complexly annoying.

My basic rule for men is ‘kiss’ - Keep It Simple, Stupid. 

Rule 1: Buy, don’t rent

It’s better if the black tie that you have is yours, and not rented. For one thing it’s a question of comfortability. You’ll be comfortable in your skin if you’re more comfortable in a suit that actually fits. Secondly, a rental doesn’t mean it’s good quality. The fabric is an important consideration.

In an ideal world you should get a bespoke tailored black tie made - ideally from any of the excellent tailors on Savile Row. But not all tailors are equal. Henry Poole & Co would be the traditional choice. I know for my older brothers they prefer Gieves & Hawkes and Huntsman because they have a more military draped cut, traditional but not stuffy.

In the long run it’s a once in a lifetime worthy investment if you take in consideration the cost of each potential rental along with how many times you would be wearing one throughout the coming years.

But I understand for many that may be an impossible proposition. The next best thing is to get a less expensive ‘made-to-measure’ black tie which is an increasing and welcome avenue for men to still have a suit or black tie made to fit them.

I would hesitate recommending buying off the peg because many high street brands have a rather relaxed attitude to tailoring and quality. If you must buy off the peg or rent then make sure the fabric is wool.

Rule 2: Black or Midnight blue and no other colour

Your black tie should be, to state the obvious, black. Not only is it the correct choice, it is the stylish choice. You can never go wrong with black. But if you’re feeling a tad adventurous go with Midnight blue. Midnight blue, being blacker than black, is not merely an exception to the rule but an exceptional choice for shimmering with distinction under the moonlight.

But what about white dinner jacket so beloved of James Bond or Indiana Jones? Yes, quite.

Traditionally, white was worn in place of a traditional black suit to deflect heat. This made it the perfect alternative for black-tie events that were held in the afternoon, during the Summer or at sea. The white jacket variation of black tie began was adopted in the early 1930s as a way for well-heeled vacationers to dress formally in the tropical heat without having to endure the heavy and dark-coloured fabrics that were standard for evening wear at the time. 

While dinner suits have become much more lightweight since then, the light-coloured jacket has remained a popular warm-weather alternative to its ebony progenitor. However, without a proper understanding of its form and function, the white dinner jacket easily becomes a flashy gimmick.  Subtlety and restraint are the keys to the successful execution of this classic variation.

Avoid other colours like the plague. I do notice from time to time in the shop windows here in Paris (as well as London and elsewhere) that some menswear boutiques display bright coloured dinner jackets.

Usually it’s the Italians (like Canali and Brunello Cucinelli who give in to their worst Italian impulses to show off their peacock flair) and others who really should know better (yes, the wine red velvet dinner jacket is very fetching but it belongs by log side fire, a cigar, and a cognac, so thank you Tom Ford). I even think some of them look nice and charming but it’s not black tie.

Besides a non-traditional black tie will be much more vulnerable to the whims of passing fashion where as traditional unfussy black tie can give peace of mind that it will never go out of style and thus will last longer.

Rule 3: Put yourself in a straight jacket

The first thing to decide is single or double-breasted and number of buttons. A safe and elegant option is one-button single breast which is both timeless and classical. Two buttons are fine, worn with the lower button undone. Double-breasted styles of any button configuration are also appropriate, but keep in mind that double-breasted jackets add some ‘bulk’ to the body. So take a hard look at your body type before you decide which one best flows off your shoulders. The buttons should be fabric-covered.

Hand in hand with the button style goes the lapel. The classic, formal option is peak lapel. Shawl lapel is somewhat less formal, but perfectly suitable. Shawl has become very popular, especially in slim versions. Notch lapels are frequently seen on off-the-rack tuxedos, but this is a more casual style, which should be reserved for suits. My preference would be to go for the peak lapel but make them sufficiently wide and not too slim.

The jacket was traditionally without vents, to keep seams (i.e. details) to a minimum, but double vents are also acceptable, providing comfort and movement. The pockets should be straight piped (slit without flap) and there should be a breast pocket.

Rule 4: Trousers, brace yourself

The trousers are ideally made without pleats or cuffs, with straight pockets following the side seam, in order to make them less visible. Black tie attire should never be worn with belts, so skip the belt loops. Traditionally one would use suspenders (braces) as it straightens the body shape as well as holds up the trousers. Choose black or white braces in fabric, rather than in leather, or in any case they should be matching the colour of the tuxedo. But I should note that side-fasteners are also a convenient option for some flexibility in the waist. The front closure should be clip-only, avoiding the button. Classically, the trousers will have a satin silk stripe covering the outer side seam on each leg, matching the lapel facing. This is a lovely detail, but nowadays sometimes considered old-fashioned. For this reason alone I would insist on it.

Rule 5: Don’t get shirty

The shirt should be plain white cotton, with a few distinct features. It should always have a ‘bib’ running down to front, which provides starchy stiffness (i.e. a higher level of formality). I’ve seen shirts in which vertical pleats in matching fabric are designed. I think they look plain and boring. Similarly if someone suggests to you a fly-front placket panel that covers the buttons and leaves a clean look then walk away immediately. Both these kind of shirts are for the lazy because they both want to avoid having to deal with those troublesome studs where the buttons would be.

I would advise always make sure your shirt has a starch like ‘bib’ that is attached made up of a textured pique fabric (pin dots), usually called Marcella. They look so much more elegant and classy.

Many would say that collar can be a normal Kent variety or a wing collar, which has little points turned down where the collar wings would be, but otherwise exposing the collar band. I personally think a wing collar is subject to whims of fashion and something best left in a 1920s set movie. Some can wear them very well (see Paul Newman in The Sting) but it depends on the girth of your neck. I think the wing collar can portray a man’s neck in an unflattering way.

I think the normal Kent collar is cleaner and classical, and it will never go out of style. The Duke of Windsor made the Kent collar hugely popular in his prime.

The cuffs should be double (French cuff), to accommodate cufflinks.

Many people also forego the buttons on evening shirts, instead leaving holes where you can attach studs (often matched with the cufflinks). If you are going to do that make sure that they’re mother of pearl studs.

Rule 6: Accessories are in the details

The shirt should not be visible at the waist, which calls for a something covering the gap between trousers and jacket, unless you opted for a double-breasted jacket. Traditionally, this is non-negotiable, but these days you often see people wearing no waist covering. My advice is unless you’re wearing a double breasted black tie (for which there is no need to wear a cummerbund) then always wear a cummerbund with a single breasted black tie.

You either use a cummerbund matching the bow tie (a cummerbund folds upwards, for convenient opera ticket storage) or a waistcoat. Please don’t commit the faux pas of making your cummerbund a colour other than black. Often people match their bow ties to their cummerbunds in garish bright colours which just defeats the object of why one wears black tie in the first place.

For the waistcoat, there are a few style options. Often, black tie waistcoats will have a rounded (horseshoe) cut with shawl lapels but a regular cut waistcoat is also acceptable. The key is to go simple and match the jacket fabric, facing and buttons. The back can be wool or lining, where we’d recommend the latter, to make the ensemble cooler. A stylish fob watch with chain would be a nice little detail that one can drop without telegraphing it loudly.

Consider having a white silk pocket square. You can fold it any way you like, but the so-called straight presidential fold is simple and sharp looking.

Socks must be knee length. Make them black. Again, the principle is one of clean lines and elegance. Disruptions below the trouser leg - stripes, shins, whatever - threaten to ruin the whole effect.

Shoes. Your shoes must always shine. This is one detail many men neglect. The shoes should be black patent leather. My preference would be for high quality Oxfords. I know some purists would insist that only opera pumps walk the one true path, but it is obvious on its face that those precious ribboned things, also called court shoes, are not completely in step with modern life. I know too that bit-toe loafers (thank you Tom Ford) are also more of the modern rage but I find them a little effeminate. So while I don’t see it as a style concession I do think Oxfords shined to a high sheen is the modern and best choice I would opt for a gentleman to go for. To me being comfortable in your shoes is also an equal and valid consideration.

Cufflinks and studs should be simple and classic, luxury metals and mother-of-pearl or onyx insets are nice touches. I know some punt for more personalised cuff links - like their regimental or college or some other institutional affiliation - and there is nothing wrong with that but I am on the fence about this. Generally I would leave that for your day time business suits. Showing off defeats the ethos of wearing the black tie in the first place. 

Rule 7: ‘Sprezzatura’ up your bow tie

‘Sprezzatura’ is a gorgeous Italian word - first appearing in Baldassare Castiglione's The Book of the Courtier in 1528 - that means a disheveled elegance by way of studied carelessness. This perfectly sums up how one should wear the centre piece of the black tie - the bow tie.

Don’t be taken in by the very modern fad - thank you Hollywood and modern music pop stars - of wearing long neck ties (even if they are in black) as part of your black tie attire. Just don’t. It doesn’t matter how swish you may look you still are a prat for not dressing in real black tie.

Plain black silk and entirely self-tied. That’s a real bow tie.

Anyone and his dog can always identify a pre-tied bow tie by the fact that it's just a little too studied. Perfectly straight, perfectly symmetrical, and perfectly balanced. Just like plastic surgery, clip-on bow ties just look too perfect to be real. It is one of the most obvious signs that you're a style amateur.

Avoid pre-tied bow ties (and its ugly sibling the stick-on bow tie) like the plague....unless you’re a child who is unable to tie his own bow tie. But what if you don’t know how to tie a real bow tie? It’s never too late to learn. It’s the same level of difficulty as tying your shoes. If you don’t know ask someone who does know. If you’re buying a bespoke tailored black tie the tailor would most definitely show you how to do it. Easy peasy.

Remember bow ties are supposed to be imperfect and worn. That’s what makes the wearer authentic.

Perfect symmetry is not a goal worth pursuing here. Being an elegant gentleman is.

And that’s it. Those would be my informal rules for any man wanting to be a gentleman wearing black tie for a special occasion.

Thanks for your question.

[phantomato]

Kisses # 24 for Tom/Brax

Touches, kiss prompt 24: kisses for a cover

Featuring Tom and Abraxas and their years-long affair. This one is straddling the M/E rating line, fyi.

—

In the middle of your manor’s ballroom, you kiss her small hand, lips brushing white silk. She blushes—your betrothal hasn’t been finalized. You’re forward. Cocky. Flamboyant, even, with the way you bow over that delicate arm and then sweep her into a dance. Everyone will notice, and they’ll tell everyone who wasn’t here, and your perfect romance with Adrienne will be cemented.

Which you need.

Last week—you held the skirt of your robe over your waist while Tom fucked you over the desk in your study, one of his hands around your cock and the other grinding your head into the leather blotter. What was that flash of fabric you saw through the crack in the door? Guests wouldn’t, shouldn’t be wandering the halls of this wing, surely no one of importance—

Tom grunts, spends in you, and finishes tugging you off. When he’s wiping himself down with your handkerchief, he says, “It was Orion. Probably. Looked like a Black, and I doubt Alphard or Cygnus care enough to snoop.” He pauses to charm the handkerchief passably-clean and moves to wipe you down. “Well, Alphard might, but he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

So you make your plan to kiss Adrienne this week. A dance was already on the schedule, a kiss is a small addition, a tiny piece of insurance against the possibility of a rumor that you’re fucking something you shouldn’t.

—

Lestrange throws an Easter bash for everyone you knew back in school. Champagne in your hand, you tuck Adrienne under your arm and kiss her cheek. She’s your fiancée now, marriage date set, and this is appropriate. Forward for a Malfoy, but fashionably so. Walburga is here; so is Druella. They’ll tell the other girls, the news will spread, and Adrienne’s fantasy life as the bride-to-be will circulate in society gossip for a month. You make the perfect picture, your golden hair next to her white-blonde, your height and strength against her slender frame, your wealth and beauty next to her foreigner’s appeal. French purebloods are gaining popularity as social guests in England purely on the strength of your engagement.

Yesterday—your golden hair and those new green robes, the ones with delicate white embroidery around the cuffs and a cut like the suits men are wearing in America, were too conspicuous for Knockturn. Tom’s told you this for years, you know it, but—

You want to look handsome for him. You want him to pull you in and say, “Brax, you gorgeous thing, what you do to me,” and to kiss you in the hall. Against the door, like a wife welcoming her husband home, like a man starved of his lover.

He looks you up and down and says, “You’re undressing yourself. I know I would wrinkle those. Hangers are in the wardrobe.” He fucks you well; he always does. He makes sure you come as you like, offers you his toilet to clean up when you’re through, serves tea and chats for a quarter-hour after. Then he pats your shoulder and says that you might want to peek both ways out the door of the building before leaving. You don’t. You run into Walburga Black, shopping for whatever nastiness Blacks get off on, and she looks pointedly at Tom’s block of flats while you spin a lie about a fortune-teller and a lost heirloom.

—

You marry in autumn. It’s a beautiful ceremony, of which you’ve planned nothing other than your robes. You’ll be in the papers. You need to look handsome.

Adrienne is a vision in ivory tulle. Truly, a gorgeous bride, a woman that you could love. The man you actually love sits near the back, wearing robes you paid for so that he would meet the dress code. He sits and stands and applauds with detached politeness, the same way Adrienne’s great aunt does. He sips one drink during the cocktail hour, chats with disinterest to your less-respectable former classmates at his assigned banquet table, and dances with Druella and a few nameless women to while away the night.

You are at the center of every photograph, smiling and kissing your bride. Months later, you will learn that Tom is in none of them.

That night—Adrienne sleeps in your marital bed, full of your come. You slip off to a room in the private guest wing, one with secret access from a back hall, to find Tom up late and reading.

“You’re sure?” he asks, surveying you.

“Just—please,” you beg him. “Don’t talk.”

So he doesn’t. He puts you on your back on the bed, has you hold your legs up, and fucks you. He doesn’t comment that your cock is soft and that you don’t try to touch it. Tom lets you close your eyes, ride out the fuck, and spirit yourself back to your room in the aftermath.

Adrienne has the light on for you to find your way back to bed when you return.

—

Lucius is born in the spring. Adrienne had an easy pregnancy, taken care of by the best medical professionals money can provide, and she and the baby are wailing and healthy through the delivery. She holds him first, of course; it is a mother’s right. His wispy hair is as light as hers. Too early to tell who he resembles most—he’s wrinkly and red and still wet behind the ears now—but he is perfect.

When you hold your son and kiss him for the first time, there are no witnesses to the act. Adrienne has fallen asleep, the poor thing, and the nursemaid steps away to tend to her. You and Lucius are unobserved as you hold your swaddled boy to your chest, trace his tiny, immaculate nose, and press your lips to his forehead.

He deserves a better father.

Tomorrow—you will see Tom one last time. You hope that you won’t fuck him, you intend not to ask for it, but whether or not you do, you’ll end it then. This can’t be your life any longer. A public kiss has covered an affair for years, but your son will not grow up in the shadow of that deception.

[catt-nuevenor]

hi! i played the demo today and i absolutely loved it! i'm super into the story and in love with your writing and your characters (especially my child! 🥺), the main group seems to be so tight and affectionate, it really feels like a family ❤ i can already tell this is gonna be one of my favorite IFs :) question: i'm from south america and i'm not super familiar w/ english history (outside period dramas lol), so i'm not sure When old england is supposed to be! is it like medieval times? (1)

(2) what type of technological advances did they have available to them? is there any historical fashion style that you think of when you write the characters? and what about naming conventions, do you use a specific time period for the characters? lol i'm sorry for bombarding you with questions! i genuinely love the setting so far and wanna know more to develop my mc(s) accordingly 🤭❤️ thank you for taking the time to answer! i wish you all the best 💕💕

---

Ooooo! A history query! 😄

I love a history query!

Brace youself...

Alright, I had originally thought to set the story in a specific period during the reign of the Stuarts kings (and queen), but that didn’t quite match my mental image of the tech, also the early Stuart period is the most prolific period of witchcraft trials and puritanism, sooooo... no.

I’m trying to avoid pinning it down to a specific set of dates, as such a move will bring the pedants out in force, and it does kind of restrict my flexibility in the story a lot.

We’re really aiming at an amalgamation of later Stuart enlightenment (Queen Anne), Gothic revival architecture with remnants of Tudor and Stuart housing very much prevalent in the smaller settlements, and a hodge podge of  historical fashion eras though mostly drawing from the late Georgian, because I mean frock coats are a thing that should have never declined!

Though I can happily live without the muslin white dresses that’s for sure. And NO POWDERED WIGS. I just refuse. And the cast is all well below the aristocracy so no silly hoity toity bustles or wigs!

Beyond the fashion and architecture, real early firearms boil down to flintlock and shot, and they’re incredibly expensive so not a society wide occurrence. Hunting wise most of the peasantry still use the more traditional tools of bows and arrows, or a crossbow if they’re lucky, far cheaper to maintain and restock.

No electric or gas lights. There are no streetlamps as we would understand them, but each resident who owns a property on a public street must hang a lantern outside every night of the autumn and winter period or get fined a shilling (which was a real law in England between 1716 and the introduction of the public system).

Legal code is very decentralised for settlements like Aldmirham, in all but cases of the most serious crimes. These are handled by the local assizes in the nearest cities, for Aldmirham that’s Eadoccaburg.

Because this is my world my rules, gender equality is more in tune with our modern conceptions, so by no means perfect but better than the contemporary would be, and LGBTQIA+ issues are widely accepted in line with liberal modern standards. There are still arses throughout but they are the outlying minority, the MC will also never be put in a position where their identity is unsupported, and I will not have any dead naming or ‘outing’ in the story. I mean, we read these stories to get a break from reality don’t we?

Last thing, naming conventions. So East Anglia (the region I’m setting the story in) has huge linguistic ties to the Norse settlers from the Viking era, and before that the Angli (as Bede the bard calls them in his 730 writings) as in Anglo-Saxons, and despite the passing of many centuries a lot of place and people names still reflect these links. A great example comes from a brilliant article on Norfolk Place names I came across while researching:

Hevingham: Hev (taken from a family name) ing (from the Old English for ‘the people of’) ham (Old English again denoting a farm or village belonging to a family unit)

 Ergo “The homestead of the family of Hefa”

So for names I’m falling back on old English, old Norse, and a smattering of modern linguistic mutations where appropriate.

Well, I could go on, but I think Tumblr might start shouting at me about post length soon. So I hope that gave you some groundwork for the world and historical context.

[thatotherfooltheycallweaver]

Another test

A completely different fic that im working on

Tuesday afternoons are always oddly slow, regardless of the location Cordelia found herself in. Earlier that morning, her brother had asked her to take on the role of his receptionist for a few days, as the woman who usually worked at the front desk of his office was unable. She sat at the desk, reorganizing papers out of complete boredom. Men had been coming in and out all day, but she felt like there was nobody she could talk to. She was more than happy to help whenever she was needed, but it was, in her mind, ridiculous that there was nothing to do. With a sigh, she tapped her fountain pen against the loose papers--schedules, notes, and other things--it almost took on a pointillistic look on the page. She leaned on the desk before noticing that her hair was a bit of a mess and started trying to pin stray strands back into place--she knew she should have been more careful when she was doing her hair that morning. She hated having her it pinned up, but attempted to be more professional, for her brother’s sake. She had heard rumors of a baronet all the way from England--she couldn’t remember if they had specified from where in that country--would be visiting Buffalo for the time being. A baronet, no less. That title was uncommon enough to warrant questions, as nobody she spoke to understood exactly what it meant. She made it a point to ask her friend, Edith, later--she would likely know. Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the door open and shut. A tall man dressed in all black walked in, carrying a wooden case. The only other visible color on him was the silver chain of a pocket watch. He removed his top hat as he approached the desk, revealing short, dark, slicked-back hair under it. His eyes met hers for a moment and he smiled.

“Good afternoon, miss. I’m looking for a Mr. Baker. I have an appointment, though I suspect I’m a bit early.” Cordelia looked through the papers to find if there was something written down. “It’s for Thomas--ah, I’ve a card, my apologies.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. Printed across it, in neat black ink, was the name ‘Sir Thomas Sharpe’ and the title of Baronet under it. She had no idea how accurate the rumors would have been, but each of them mentioned he was attractive. They were inaccurate, as none of them could accurately capture how handsome the gentleman before her truly looked. Though tempted to keep him in the lobby until it was time for him to go back to speak to her brother for answers--she was curious, wanting to know more about him--she decided against it.

“My brother wouldn’t mind if you went back early, actually. If you’re ready to, of course.”

“Really?” He asked, a bit surprised. “Yes, miss, I am ready. Where do I go?”

“I can show you.” She stood, deciding against prying for information and resigning to interrogating her brother later--she didn’t want to risk seeming nosy or inconsiderate. “My name is Cordelia Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Baker.” He nodded with a smile. They reached the end of the hall and she knocked on the doorway.

“I’ll be right there.” A voice from within called.

“I wish you the best of luck.” She looked at Thomas, smiling.

“Thank you.” His eyes met hers for a moment. “I might just need it.”

“I have full confidence that everything will go well for you.” There was a look in his eyes; as if he was unused to warm smiles and genuine words with no hope of recompense--no cynicism or idle words. He was unsure, for the moment, if it was how America simply operated...or if she was one of those rare, kind souls. The type that would set him free from all the horrors, all the burdens--he pushed the thoughts away from his mind, reassuring himself that he needed to take things one step at a time. Thomas brushed off his coat in an attempt to make himself at least feel more presentable. The door opened, and a man a little shorter than the Baronet was standing there. He had strawberry blonde hair and was wearing a blue shirt with a tawny vest over it.

“Sir Sharpe.” He held out his hand to the dark-haired man. “I’m Anthony Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” Thomas shook his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, I truly appreciate it.” He let go, the shorter of the two opening holding the door to his office open, motioning for him to follow. Cordelia left, wanting to give them privacy if they wanted.

“Please, just call me Anthony.” He said with a smile, gesturing to the chair. “I don’t know what you plan, but do make yourself comfortable.” Thomas found it odd. Other investors had not been anywhere near as considerate, or kind. He did not understand it, but he wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity.

“I have a model. May I?” He asked, gesturing to the box.

“Of course.” Again, much to his surprise, Anthony actually picked up some of the papers and things to make a bit more room for him to work. He was ready to take notes and already seemed interested. As if he was half-expecting the redhead to change his mind, the baronet quickly set the small model up, taking the jar and box that was inside. The man across from him watched, allowing him to concentrate. Taking a breath, he did his best to steady his sudden nerves.

“The Sharpe clay mines have been royal purveyors of the purest scarlet clay since 1796. In its liquid form, it is so rich in ore and so malleable that it can produce the strongest bricks and tiles.” He gestured to the jar, left of the machine model.

“May I?” Anthony asked, gesturing to the smaller wooden box with a clay tile in it. Thomas nodded. “I've never seen anything that vibrant a shade of red in my life.” He mused, letting him continue explaining.

“Excessive mining in the last 20 years has caused most of our old deposits to collapse. This is a clay harvester of my own design. It transports the clay upwards as it digs deep.” He turned the machine on. “I have absolutely no doubt this machine will revolutionize clay mining as we know it.” Anthony looked at the machine, amazed.

“This is very impressive.” Thomas looked up, a bit caught off-guard, unused to compliments. Now he had to wonder if it was those two siblings, or it was the country.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have you had a chance to test it, full-scale?”

“Not yet, but we’re very close. We’re hoping that with funding, it will work. I've built the harvester on my estate, but more parts would be needed to keep it running smoothly.” He explained.

“Of course, of course, my apologies. Do you happen to have schematics? Sketches?” He asked. “I would like to look into this more before I make a decision. I believe it will take a bit of time. Research and all that, I hope you understand.” Thomas nodded, a little surprised he got this far.

“Of course.” He nodded, grabbing a folder from the case. “I have everything right here.” He handed it over--inside were schematics, other information that would hopefully be useful.

“This is genuinely impressive--I apologize for repeating. It's just so well designed.” Anthony smiled for a moment. “I will have to look into it, though I can't make any promises.”

“I understand. It is a bit risky but I wholeheartedly believe it's worth it.”

“I will do what I can to respond quickly. How long are you still staying in Buffalo?"

“I believe we are--my sister and I--staying until autumn. I’m unsure of the exact dates. My sister hasn’t told me anything, yet.” Anthony nodded.

“Well, I can at least guarantee it won't take that long to get an answer.” He chuckled softly. “I'm sorry to cut this short, but I do thank you for being here.” He stood. “It was nice to meet you. I'll have my sister…” He said that as if trying to show a bit of solidarity, or they at least had something in common. “...show you out." As if on cue, there was a rhythmic knock, a code of sorts. He got up and opened it. Cordelia was there. Thomas felt a little less uncomfortable...something about her, something about the way she carried herself.

“I swear I wasn't eavesdropping,” It was honest, but she was a bit nervous about how it came across. She pulled on her sleeve, letting out a soft snicker. “I just came by to drop off some letters for you. Including one from a certain Miss Cushing." She teased Anthony, who blushed a bit in embarrassment.

“Had it not been for witnesses…” He hissed. “I’ll trade you. Would you please show Sir Sharpe out?”

“Do I have to give you the letters?” He gave her a look and she handed them over, begrudgingly. Not that she didn’t want to spend the time with Thomas, she just wanted to see Anthony’s reaction.

“Shall I leave anything here for you to examine further?”

“No, thank you; if you want to take it, please do.” Thomas nodded, packing up the machine and carefully stowing the jar and box.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

“And thank you for yours.” Anthony smiled, looking over his notes. The baronet looked at Cordelia with a soft smile. Her presence was almost comforting, in a way, he couldn’t quite explain it. She shut the door behind them both.

“Hello.” She greeted as she began to lead him back to the lobby. “How did it go?” She asked gently.

“I believe it went well--at least it seemed to.” He looked at her, tilting his head slightly. “Your brother is much kinder than others I’ve gone to.” He mused, finding the situation rather refreshing, in a way.

“Anthony loves listening to people talk, and their ideas. And from the look at the machine I got when you were putting it back in the case, it was rather interesting.” The comment caught Thomas off-guard. He wouldn’t have guessed a lady like her would have found his clay harvester fascinating. There was a level of intrigue they both felt, curiosity between strangers. The tall Englishman who dressed in dark clothing and spoke with a gentle elegance she was unfamiliar with; the American woman in rich lavender who took an interest in his work, unprovoked, not to just be polite--each unusual to the other, and yet it felt captivating. “So...you've got an accent. English, right?” She asked. “Sorry, I don’t know many people from Europe…”

“No, no, Miss Baker, you don’t need to apologize. I don’t mind answering...though I suppose others will have the same questions, no doubt.” He looked at her with a small smile. “I am from England.”

“Is it nice there?” She asked, looking up at him with a curious smile.

“Where I’m from, it’s rainy and dark in some of the most beautiful ways.” He smiled at her, finding the curiosity endearing. “Not like Buffalo.”

“It sounds beautiful, really.” She smiled, listening intently. Cordelia definitely loved his accent, though she knew there was more to him than what everyone else might care to ask about. High society had a tendency to gloss over personality, beyond the obvious and surface level. “I’ve always wanted to go to England. Everyone I know who’s been there speaks highly of it.” He looked over, a little intrigued. Her smile felt...reassuring, in a way. Her curiosity was almost comforting.

“I think everyone should go to London at least once in their life. It’s quite amazing--the art, architecture…” He looked over. “Perhaps I could be the one to show you, someday.” She looked over, unable to tell if he was subtly flirting, or if he was just being kind. She didn’t know if she was misinterpreting things.

“How could I possibly refuse an offer like that?” She looked over. “If you want, I could show you around Buffalo...make things even?” The idea of spending time with her was inexplicably something he wanted--no, needed. He was drawn to her, he needed to find out more about her. The fact that she would even suggest that she’d give him a tour was astonishing--nobody else he met up until then had brought it up.

“That sounds like a fair deal. I would love that, actually.” He admitted with a smile--it made her blush faintly. It was unexplainable...she had no idea how this man had an effect on her already. They reached the lobby, the door in sight. The soft evening light started filtering in through the glass.

“You know...I’m hosting a party on Friday night--this Friday…” She got irritated with herself, internally, wondering if she was embarrassing herself by talking too much. “...if you would be interested, you are more than welcome there.”

“Really?” He sounded a bit stunned. “I would very much enjoy that. Would it be alright if my sister came along with me? I’d hate to leave her out.”

“If she wants to, of course she can.” She looked at him with a soft smile.

“Well, that’s great.” He smiled back, brightly. “Until then, Miss Baker?”

“I’m already looking forward to it, Sir Sharpe.” He took his hat, putting it on and chuckling softly as he left. With him gone, she sighed. There was something about him that she couldn’t describe. Cordelia immediately set off to bother Anthony for information. She knocked on the door and opened it. Her brother had a completely smitten look as he was reading over the letter. “So...how’s Edith?” She teased, amused.

“She’s fine.” He muttered, closing the letter and putting it on top of the papers.

“Have either of you told the other, yet?”

“No. Stop asking.” He looked at her, half-glaring. “And don’t ask about the baronet. I’m not giving you anything, yet.”

“Fine, fine.” She shook her head. “Then I’ll get back to planning the party.”

“Alright. Have fun.”