#victorian starch au

[sxbxb8]

couldn't resist and drew more... March eventually got cold while they were taking a walk outside of their estate

thinking once again about that starch au... march's chronic illness is probably something immunodeficiency related + getting cold (bc ice powers from hsr, duh). stelle is a rich rich woman with some type of military job bc i love rich women in my media 😔 she is weird and stoopid in this au just as much as in original i swear... i have yet to draw her being a dork, though

[oumaheroes]

The Missing

(Victorian Snatched AU)

Summary: ‘For a moment, they stood looking at each other in silence. Alisdair felt the stirrings of something in his chest, a sensation of things being out of place and about to fall. ‘Is he not here?’‘

Arthur is missing. With no money and no help from the law, Alisdair searches alone.  

Characters: England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales

Chapter 1

-------

Arthur, four. All quiet in the carriage on the way home from their mother’s funeral, Patrick riding up top with the driver and the rest of them inside. Arthur’s best clothes, not even that old, were still starch stiff and pristine despite the long day. He and Rhys were too young for proper black mourning attire but Arthur had treated his clothes as if they were just that, fearful of the puddles in the muddy path of the churchyard lest he dirty them. The biggest show of restraint Alisdair had ever seen him make.

Their father sat beside him, drunk. He’d been so the entire day, if Alisdair were to be more honest, but had continued to get worse throughout the service, a hidden flask on him at all times that allowed him to take secret swigs whenever he thought no one was looking. He filled the seat on his and Arthur’s side, a tense, swell of human being that hunched down to tug at his hair with his hands and rock backwards and forwards gently.

As they turned the corner away from the church, he choked back something, a sob or a curse Alisdair couldn’t tell, and suddenly he pulled Arthur into his arms to hold him close, pressing his face into his body.

Arthur stiffened and looked to Alisdair beseechingly. Their father never touched them, had never once held him as far as Alisdair had seen, but despite his displeasure Arthur stayed there quietly, looking to Alisdair the entire time.

  --------------------

It was exceptional, how the brain handled panic. How it could take even the most horrifying situation and somehow skew some sense and calm into it.

On the annex outside Patrick and Arthur’s bedroom, Alisdair turned Arthur’s teddy over in his hands, noting its damp fur and smudges of moss which clung to it- residue from the drain and its night beside it.

Patrick thundered into the bedroom behind him, breathless and echoey on the bare floorboards, ‘Anything? Al!’

‘Out here.’ Alisdair stood. The night was still early enough for the streets to retain the last of the day’s traffic, the handover of commuters travelling home to public house wanderers still ongoing. A loud cackle from a lady of the night in the distance, a siren’s song by the docks.

Alisdair held up Arthur’s bear in answer to Patrick’s question and watched understanding grow across his features.

‘Jesus.’ Patrick held a hand to his mouth and sank heavily onto the window ledge by the bed. He looked out to the London skyline behind Alisdair, scanning the rooftops as if hoping to see Arthur somewhere out there, ‘How… He didn’t run aw-?‘

‘Of course he fucking didn’t.’

‘Well, then where-‘

‘Christ! I don’t know where. If I knew where we wouldn’t be here, would we? Fucking idiot.’

Patrick buried his face into his hands with a deep moan and Alisdair turned away to look at the homes on either side of them.

All of the houses in this area were the same, a quick springing up of brick tenements to deal with the influx of population as the inner city swelled and broke its banks. Old villages swallowed up under the growing capital, communities wiped out and redone in their newly mixing masses. The new factory-worker homes all had the same design; flat annex roofs rose like stairs up the hill of street, fat bellied chimney stacks shared by two homes each. Between them all a rabbit’s warren of streets, dark and winding to the dark glitter of the Thames.

It was immense. Alisdair felt his heartbeat quicken, a fist in his throat squeezing it tight.

‘I thought he was with you.’ Patrick said quietly, head still in his hands, ‘I would never have-‘

‘Don’t, Pat.’ Alisdair couldn’t handle that conversation yet.

‘I don’t understand. He… I thought-‘ Patrick cut himself off. Alisdair heard him breathe behind him, taking shallow and quick gulps of air, ‘What do we do now?’

Alisdair shook his head mutely, looking from one narrow alleyway to another. He heard Patrick come out onto the roof behind him, the wet crunch of his feet on the gritty concrete.

‘This can’t be happening.’ His brother’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Where did he go?’

Alisdair longed for a pipe, or a drink. Something to stop the numbness in his chest, something familiar and normal to force everything to make sense again. It was a struggle to speak.

‘I think someone took him.’

Patrick reared back, ‘Piss off. From where.’

‘Here. The bedroom.’

‘… the bedroom?’

‘Arthur told me the last night.’ Alisdair forced himself to name his own failures. ‘He’d come in to me and Rhys again and woke me up. When I took him back, he told me that he thought someone was watching him.’

Patrick moved to the window, closing the pane and opening it again with one hand. It moved cleanly and smoothly in one go. Alisdair remembered closing it the other night when he’d put Arthur back to bed, the rust from the fused catch sticking to his fingers. With no lock, it was far too easy to open, and Alisdair couldn’t think of why they’d chosen to leave it like that for so long. Maybe because they had nothing to steal, and anyone who knew them or stopped to glance at the house long enough would recognise that much.

Patrick must have been thinking along a similar train of thought. He opened the window again and leant inside to finger the fused metal catch at the top. ‘He’s been glad to see me when I’ve come home recently.’ He said, standing up from the bed and wiping his hands on his trousers, ‘He’s been awake each time, like he’s been waiting for me.’

‘He told me that someone had been coming up here when you weren’t in, walking about on the roof for the last week. He caught them looking through the gap in the curtain.’

Patrick was silent. Alisdair couldn’t look at him, he didn’t want to see either judgment or pity on his brother’s face. ‘I thought he had been having nightmares, or half-heard a chimney sweep passing over. I thought that he was scared and was saying anything he thought might get me to stay. But now…’

Alisdair had meant to only relay what had happened, the facts and nothing else, but his words sounded like an excuse to him once said out loud, like an attempted dismissal of guilt. Why had he left him. Why hadn’t he kept him with himself and Rhys. The questions were already haunting him.

Patrick clicked his tongue and walked out on the centre of the annex, looking to the houses and their roofs either side, ‘That can’t be it.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

Alisdair shook his head and joined him. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had been up there. No footprints or dropped items, or note explaining the situation. Windows were unbroken, the garden gate still closed. Whether it was locked or not didn’t matter, it was easy enough to climb over and if someone had been using the roofs to cut across, that wouldn’t even factor into it. The only thing out of place, Arthur’s bear, told them nothing other than Arthur had been out here at some point. Or, had thrown his most precious possession outside, to then leave another way without it. None of those options made sense.

None of this did.

‘He’s seven.’ Patrick chewed the inside of his cheek, ‘We don’t have any money to ransom him. No one we know would want him. We have nothing worth bargaining for. And he can’t… he can’t do anything; he’s not got a trade to be used.’

There was always more to offer than money. A life could go for anything, if the right price was asked.

‘He’s small.’ Alisdair said slowly, ‘and he can read and write. It’s more than most.’

‘It’s not worth-‘

‘It could be, Pat.’

Patrick’s jaw tightened. ‘Whatever happened, someone must have seen him go. Surely someone would have noticed if he was taken, Arthur wouldn’t exactly go gently.’

Alisdair breathed in deep through his nose, then out. Damp coal fire air, the smell of late nights and winter. He looked to Patrick; his one boot still untied. He looked young, half dressed in too large a coat like a teenager again masquerading as an adult version of himself. Alisdair checked his watch, tilting it until he could see the numbers of the dial in the moonlight, ‘You need to go to work.’

‘What?’

‘You’re going to be late if you don’t go now.’ Patrick’s mouth opened, then closed, and Alisdair looked back to the dark streets on the downward slope of the hill below. ‘They’ll drop you if you miss a day. You know that.’

‘I’m not going to work.’ Patrick said incredulously, ‘Are you serious?’

Alisdair felt the bear in his hand. Rhys had been telling Arthur that he’d fix it up for months now. It still wasn’t done.

‘I can’t go to work not knowing where he is.’ When Alisdair walked to the edge of the annex, wanting to calculate the drop, Patrick came around to join him and grabbed him by the shoulder, ‘Al, for God’s sake-‘

Alisdair shook him off, ‘You’re going to have to.’

‘Arthur’s gone.’

‘I know. He is.’

‘Then-‘

‘We can’t afford you not to.’

‘Alisdair-‘

‘Think about it Patrick! Do you think I want to ask you?’

Patrick said nothing for a while. Alisdair turned away again and heard Patrick shift his weight from one foot to another. Alisdair imagined that he was doing as he himself was- looking out to the shipyard on the river where the heavy barges were waiting to be unloaded. Hundreds of men waited there each morning, hoping for the chance that only a few of them would get to be taken on. Salaried men like Patrick were lucky to know there was a guaranteed place for them with pay at the end of the day.

The tight, choked feeling in Alisdair’s throat grew. He rubbed at his neck, hand shaking.

Eventually, Patrick said, ‘Then what are you going to do.’

‘Go looking. I’ll go around the streets and ask about.’

Another beat of silence. Alisdair could feel Patrick waiting behind him still, not wanting to leave things like this, broken and splintered like glass, but also knowing as Alisdair did that the rent was due. The debts were still there, even if Arthur wasn’t.

‘Try the sweeps.’ He said eventually, ‘There’s a local few always down by the King’s Arms around this time.’

Alisdair nodded but said nothing more. Patrick left, the door closed, and Alisdair watched his head pass under street lamps below until it vanished from view.

Rhys was in the kitchen when Alisdair went inside, sat at the table with a mug of something hot between his hands. He stared into it fixedly, drawn and dazed behind the steam in the yellow flicker of the tallow candle lamps.

Alisdair stopped in the doorway, his arms across his chest. ‘Did you hear, then?’ He asked softly.

Rhys nodded and hunched over his hands, pulling the mug in close. ‘Most of it. You were loud enough.’

Alisdair opened his mouth, a habitual platitude already there, and then closed it again. ‘I’ll go out and look. You go up knock up the street and then wait here, just in case.’

Rhys sniffed and looked up, ‘Just in case?’

Alisdair shook his head and reached for his coat.

--------------------

The alleyways and streets of London twisted around and in on themselves, thin, spindly webs of spider silk between wide caverns of thoroughfares.

Alisdair moved quickly and aimlessly through the unempty night, past drunks and the homeless in their makeshift beds, their huddled bodies revealed by the islands of light cast by the gas lamps as propped in corners or on front steps. They watched him curiously, noting him immediately as out of place, and he felt their eyes and judgement follow him home.

--------------------

‘No one saw anything.’

Rhy greeted Alisdair hours later in the dark, shoulders hidden under blankets by a dying fire. He jumped up when Alisdair came in, only to sink down again into the fraying armchair when he saw that he was alone.

‘Thirty-seven was asleep with her kids, thirty-five is still that single bloke who drinks in pubs alone- he wasn’t in.’ Rhys spoke his findings to the embers as Alisdair sat heavily in the spare chair, body bone tired and numb, ‘Thirty-three and thirty-six didn’t answer, Mr Tanner’s deaf, and thirty-four is the new family from China who don’t speak English.’

‘The rest of them?’

‘No.’

‘How far did you go?’

Rhys sat back on his haunches, his expressionless profile flickering orange as he looked into the fireplace. ‘Until I couldn’t see the house anymore.’ He turned to Alisdair, his lips tight, ‘Are you sure that-‘

‘Rhys.’

His brother shook his head and picked at the edges of the blanket, ‘Twenty-eight said they heard someone scream. Like a woman, or a child.’ He said the words quietly, hardly more than a whisper as if he were afraid to speak them. When Alisdair didn’t reply, Rhys looked at him, eyes searching, ‘We would have heard, wouldn’t we? If he had.’

Alisdair slowly began to untie his boots. Rhys moved closer across the floor on his knees, ‘We would know. You would have heard, Patrick might have-‘

Alisdair tugged off his boots and stood up abruptly, ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

Rhy’s mouth tightened, lips pressing together to form a thin line. He shook his head and hunched over, fist under the blankets hard to his chest as if he were holding himself in.

Neither of them slept that night. Patrick came in to join them in bed hours later, the smell of fish clinging to his skin and hair like smoke under his bedclothes. They were too big to all fit together comfortable but he wedged himself in against the wall, Rhys in the middle like they had done years ago before Arthur was born.

Together they passed the night awake, listening to the sighs of the city until the collective church bells chimed morning.

--------------------

AN:

Okay, so I said that I probably wouldn’t flesh this AU out beyond the first chapter and I was happy enough to let it lie mean and painful vague, but the story still tugs me too much to leave it alone. I hope that you liked this and it was worth the year wait!

The comment about Victorian mourning is a small nod to a very complex and layered cultural movement in Victorian era Britain and parts of the extended empire. One easy site to read about this topic in brief can be found here, though please do some of your own research! I find it very interesting

Thanks for reading!

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Greatest Showman [Loki x Fem. Reader]

Part of the Secret Santa Drabbles hosted by @fictive-sl0th A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki's interest in musicals provides some interesting inspiration for the bedroom. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smuttish. Language. (w/c 931) A/N: Prompt: Loki loves musicals - hope you like it @wheredafandomat 💕

“Darling I had an idea, about what you said, regarding roleplay and... inspiration.” You hummed in acknowledgement, engrossed in the book in your lap as you lay tucked in bed. The proceeding silence broke your concentration, looking up to your lover leaning naked against the bathroom door-frame. You giggled, placing the book to the side. “Sorry. OK. I’m listening.” “To me? Or to him?” Loki purred, casting his eyes down to what strained upward against his taut stomach.

You smirked, raising your eyebrows and casting the duvet aside, patting the mattress. “To you, my love. Now what’s your idea?” you said seductively, running your hungry eyes over his sculpted body.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Musicals.” he quipped, waiting for your reaction. “Musicals.” you repeated sceptically, your forehead creasing. “I know you’re a fan of them but...I don’t know. I’m not sure there’s anything very sexy about musicals Lokes.” you murmured apologetically, seeing his smile broaden. “Au contraire, darling.” he purred, raising his thumb and forefinger to the side. “I shall present three options for tonight's lovemaking festivities.” He snapped his fingers, the room around you dissolving into darkness. The bed was transported to the side of a circus ring, the smell of sawdust swirling in your nostrils. You gasped as a solitary spotlight snapped onto your dark god. His face was lowered, a top hat glinting beneath the cool hue. A chorus of drums and stomps sounded in the air, voices harmonising as they bayed for their master to begin. You clenched, gripping the sheets beneath you. He looked fucking incredible.

Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for. Been searching in the dark / Sweat soaking through the floor. Loki was dressed as a Victorian ring-master; P.T Barnam, to be exact. A theatrical red overcoat sat tight on his shoulders; a gold brocaded waistcoat snug around his midriff, the same heavy thread adorning elaborate cuffs. A garish golden broach adorned his shoulder, the tight fit of his black trousers doing nothing to hide the godly cock hard beneath them. He raised his head, cheekbones flashing dangerously beneath the brim of the hat. His hair fell around his shoulders, a cream starched cravat wound intricately around his neck. Shadows cast against his exposed jawline in the circular light as he used an ornate cane in his grip to push the brim upward, revealing a coy smile. “Are you ready for the show?” he projected, spinning towards an invisible crowd that roared with applause, that velvet voice filling the theatrical space. You shivered with desire, coveting every inch of his powerful form coated in structured wool; the buckles of his overcoat glinting in the light as he turned back to face you. Suddenly the room spun again, and in a second the sawdust and empty stands were gone. In their place, a rich red curtain stretched upward endlessly; rustling in a ghostly breeze. Loki stood on a low stage as familiar music played; a piano tinkling to life in the gloom. A dark high-collared cloak surrounded his body, his face even paler than usual. Deep purple makeup coated his lips, his eyes enlarged with dramatically smokey eyeshadow. Those cheekbones sang in the low light, heavy contouring sweeping upward. In a flash, he threw the cloak backwards, making it flutter to the ground by his feet. You gasped again, hands flying to your mouth as Loki strutted down the steps of the stage in time with the music.

Why don't you/ Stay for the night? Or maybe a bite/ I can show you my favourite Obsession A sleeveless corset was laced haphazardly to his midriff, dark sparkles fizzing in the low lights against his chiselled abs. Sinful fishnet stockings stretched against those thick thighs, running down endless legs into a pair of high heels. The suspenders strapped to a belt around his hips hung against a devastatingly tight pair of leather underwear. His manhood throbbed against the fabric with every stride, teasing you as you crawled forward to rest on your knees. Begging. You could feel saliva building in your mouth as Loki drew closer in time with the music, his curls wild. He was charged with raw sexual energy as he flipped his hair, crawling atop the bed like an animal. A pearl necklace hung invitingly as he stopped at your eye level on all fours, reaching to draw a finger over your lips with one gloved hand. Your eyes fluttered shut, ready to be irrevocably fucked by your sweet transvestite lover before you felt the room shift once more.

The final option, you thought as your head spun; seeing a burgundy warmth growing behind your eyelids. You braced as something rocked beneath you, opening your eyes. Hundred of candles glowed in ornate candelabras floating in the air, shimmering water passing inexplicably beneath the small barge you found yourself in. An angelic soprano voice filled the air like a heavy scent, intoxicating your senses as flames danced on the subterranean canal.

In sleep he sang to me / In dreams he came That voice which calls to me / And speaks my name

Stone pillars towered to black nothingness above, candles dotting the air in swaying, ethereal rhythm. Your head whipped round, finding Loki looming with another flowing, more luxurious cape swirling around him. He was sombre as he steered the boat with one long oar. A high-necked shirt accentuated the angle of his jaw leading down to a tight waistcoat. Always so tight, you thought; squeezing your thighs together. The god’s hair was tied back with a ribbon, half of his beautiful face covered by a white, porcelain mask. The exposed side of his mouth was curled in a secretive smirk, enjoying every second of his theatrical endeavours. You tried to speak, words catching behind your teeth before the air was knocked out of you by another shift of magic. Loki’s lithe frame was suddenly pressed to yours on your bed, his tongue slipping between your lips as you squirmed beneath him. He thrust his hips gently against your open thighs, naked and ready to grant you anything you desired. “So, my darling...which musical anti-hero will you take to your bed this night?” he purred against your cheek, placing messy kisses down your neck as you moaned in anticipation. “All of them?” you whispered shyly, hearing Loki chuckle before the room swirled around you once again.

@lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @gigglingtigger @holymultiplefandomsbatman @muddyorbsblr @xorpsbane @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @holdmytesseract @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @mrsbarnes32557038 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @ladylovesloki @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokisgirll @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @peachyymallows @soldeloki @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @lunarnights95 @coldnique

[theboysfanfic]

Komm Zu Mir | Part 4

Vampire the Masquerade AU

Pairing: Ventrue!Homelander x f!Reader

18 + only. This story will contain smut/sex so you have to be over 18 to read it.

Warnings: 18 + due to smut in other parts of this story.

Words: 182

Summary: It's near to 9pm, will John be there? Title and all the German phrases are lyrics from the song 'Sex' by Rammstein.

Credit: Dividers by @firefly-graphics x

SpookTober2021 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

I return with a friend in tow, Liza, seeing her off to the Larson's apartment a few houses down. She closes her door and I head to mine.

I see a man standing at my door. He turns as I walk up, standing a few steps up, he greets me with a smile and an outstretched arm.

'Hi,' he says.

'Hi John.'

He looks over my shoulder, towards the house I just walked away from then back to me.

'I can wait for you. Were you waiting for me?'

I rattle my keys opening the door. 'I won't lie, I was. Give me a minute please.'

'Of course.'

I peer back over to him. 'Sorry, would you like to come in?'

I hold the door wider for him.

'Ok.'

He walks in slowly, stopping in the Victorian tiled hallway.

'Do you want to drink anything while you wait? I won't be long?'

'Maybe later. Thank you. I'll wait here.'

His face is calm, resting. He looks gentlemanly in his suit, the same one from the other night.

Pristine starched white shirt underneath.

Previous | Next

[nine-blessed-hero]

K'Rin is very firmly in 1950s style suits. Crisp leg creases, trilby, starched button-down, wingtips and pencil necktie. Think Peggy Carter from the MCU.

Rowan is sloppy late 90s/early 00s. Slogan t-shirts, varsity jackets, bootcut blue jeans with turn-ups. Xe thinks sleeveless turtlenecks and black jeans with heavy necklaces and blingy belts is the height of fashion.

Aderyn, being in a Modern AU from 2015, doesn't count for this question. She's either wearing tac gear or whatever she found in a charity shop bargain bin.

Talis the Baker is probably Victorian-esque. We're talking fancy chefs' whites, starched to perfection.

Kicks would fit a smart-casual suit that were all the rage in 2010. Plain t-shirts, slacks and blazers with blisteringly white training or canvas shoes. We're talking dotcom silicon valley types before the bust.

everyone. tell me what vintage fashion era your TES OCs belong in. i need to know this for science

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Ad Libitum I

Warnings: nonconsensual sex (series, to be warned later on)

This is dark!Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are face with the opportunity of a lifetime, however you might have told a rather big lie to get there.

Note: I promise my other series are still going. I have half chapters I’m chipping away at every day! For now I’ll post the intro to my first Victorian AU.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

‘For the consideration of one, Mister Everet Ede.

After a close and contented reading of your recent piece ‘The Oyster’s Wealth’ in Cornhill Magazine, I write you to present an offer upon your skills.

Your work does show potential and I believe, as an editor and an author myself, it would benefit both parties should I aid you in refining such talent. While your writing does prove adequate and at times, provoking, there is much a young writer might learn from one as esteemed and experienced as myself.

Under the marquee of my own publication, The Asp’s Tongue, and my name, I would extend to you an offer of residence and should it prove productive, a place upon my list of regular authors. 

It was only two years ago that my journal opted to discontinue our bursary for writers but it is in my own purview, aside from those of my investors, that young minds require honing and it is upon my own coffers that I do make this offer of sponsorship for your development as an author. 

Should you choose to accept, I would expect your arrival upon the first Sunday of June at my estate of Emerald Hills. You will come with all that is required for your education; nibs, ink, paper, et cetera, as well as any personal possessions required for daily existence. Your board will be allotted by manor throughout your residency. Aside from that, you would require only your wit and basic literary competency.

I expect confirmation of your acceptance by the last day of April so that I may have the manor prepared for your arrival. Tardiness in all matters will not be tolerated.

I anticipate a valuable and vibrant professional accord,

Lord Loki Laufeyson, Duke of Wynselm

Founder and Operator of Laufey’s Publishing’

You read the letter once more. The folds of the paper were deep and fragile, the corners curling from your repeated reviews. In the months since its delivery, you had memorised ever curlicue of its script. It was better than any letter of acceptance you’d ever received. The only flaw was the pseudonym across the top. One day, you hoped, it would be your true name that greeted you.

The coach rocked and you caught yourself against the side, jostled atop the hard wooden seat. You shifted in your stiff skirts and peeked out the window. There was still doubt. Still anxiety. You’d accepted the offer without a thought and without much explanation. 

What would the great lord publisher think of you? A woman masquerading as a writer? Well, you hoped that he might overcome the shock and uphold his integrity. It was your work he had read. It was your words which had driven him to write. So why should your sex change the merit of your skill?

There was a sinking feeling in your stomach. It was a slim hope you had, truly. You expected him to laugh you back to your measly London apartment like all the other editors you had ever dared face beyond the stain of your inkwell. Had this all been for not? Another prospect dissolved by that feminine curse?

Besides, even if you were a man, the Duke was infamously misanthropic. It was reported in the papers that he hadn’t left Emerald Hills in several years. That he had grown cynical of society, not so much as submitting a sentence to his very own periodicals. So it was with great surprise that you’d received his letter and with greater hesitation. His reputation was not one of a fond patron but rather a unyielding despot. 

Yet it was an opportunity you did not expect to ever occur again, so you leapt, without thinking, and now your fear bubbled in your chest. To have come all this way and to be told what you’d always been told. To be denied again. In the flesh, you could not be Everet Ede, you could not hide behind your pen. Perhaps his own penchant for artifice might soften his rigid spine.

The manor stood on the highest hill in Wynselm. The gates were locked and a solemn doorman appeared from a small shed to open them. You pulled the curtain shut, afraid you would be found out before even breaking the threshold. The coach rumbled up the winding and steep path and stopped just before the broad stone steps.

You peeked out as the driver stepped down from his perch. You waited a moment, watching the front doors of the manor. It seemed as if the entire place was dead. Abandoned, even. The driver opened your door and offered his hand to help you down. Though his service was the cheapest you could acquire, his manners suggested otherwise.

He unloaded your trunk as you clutched your valise. You thanked him as he set the heavy luggage beside your dark skirts and you offered him a coin from your purse. He accepted with a toothy smile.

“Should I wait and help you carry it in?” He asked.

You considered the offer. It might be best if he tarried in case you were swiftly dismissed. What would you do if you were stranded here? And yet, you were determined not to be turned away. Your best option might be to force your presence upon this man.

“No,” You answered staunchly and pushed your shoulders back. “You��ve been a great help, sir. You should hurry back to the city.”

“Miss,” He removed his hat. “Good day to you.”

“And you,” You nodded and watched him climb back up onto his seat.

He snapped the horse into action and their hooves clopped around and down the path until you could no longer see them. You gripped your valise even tighter and turned to the manor. The doors suddenly shifted and a man in a plain grey suit appeared. He pushed both open and stood aside as he waited silently. 

You heard footsteps from within, the tap of leather sols upon the wood. A lithe figure emerged from the shadows and the sunlight lit his pale skin. His dark hair was pushed back so that his curls gathered behind his head and his high, starched collar made his features seem even sharper. 

He stopped sharply at the top of the stairs and blinked at you. He peered around and squinted, slowly stepping forward to descend the steps. He stood straight across from you, a brow arched as he stared you down.

“Are you lost? I fear you sent away your valet much too soon, madam.” He said.

“My lord, Mr. Laufeyson?” You ventured. 

He frowned. “Everet is a rather odd name for… a woman.”

“My apologies for my deception but you must understand as an editor yourself, a woman’s name doesn’t sell stories, does it?” You let out a shaky breath. “Not that I think it should matter when my physical attributes have little bearing on my writing.”

“Even so, I do value honesty in my writers. Foremost. A lack of such in life might reflect deceit on paper.” He challenged. “And I am not equipped to house… a woman.”

“Women hardly require more than a man. Often less.” You countered. “You made an offer on the grounds of my work, I accepted on the same. I see no reason why it should be an issue. I am determined, would have to be to have a story published, devoted to say the least, and by your own words, a competent writer.”

“I did not… I was not aware…” He sighed. “You can’t expect-- After being so underhanded… How could… I cannot…”

He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at the man in the grey suit.

“I’ve taken two coaches and train. I’ve packed up my livelihood in this trunk, I’ve been nothing but honest other than… my true name. You cannot claim my work as ingenuine nor my intentions. I’ve come here to write.” You declared. “I see not how my sex should preclude me from these matters. Would you argue inadequacy based upon my physical stature after proclaiming me capable previously? Sir, I would argue that should suggest a lack of honesty on your part. Not mine.”

He tilted his head and his chin jutted out in irritation. His slender fingers ran the length of his jacket and fiddled with the button.

“Well, you certainly speak like a writer.” He said. “Very well. We shall see what we can mold out of you.” He gestured to the man in the grey suit. “Horace.” He nodded to the trunk. “But do not think my standards shall bend upon your favour, madam.” He warned as the man came down to lift your trunk, barely able to drag it up the steps. “Oh, and your real name, to begin with.”

You recited your name and he spun without acknowledgement. He preceded the man he called Horace through the doors and you hurried forward to grab the other end of your trunk, your valise clutched in your other hand.

Inside, the large foyer was barely lit by the candelabras in the corners. The chandelier above was dark and dusty. You struggled to keep hold of the trunk as you followed Horace. He set down his end and bid you to do the same.

“Madam, please, I will get proper help,” He waved to the lord of manor, already halfway up the staircase. “You might leave your valise and both will be deposited in your rooms.”

“Thank you, sir,” You said before you turned to hurry up behind Lord Laufeyson.

“Your rooms are in the north wing, mine in the south. You needn’t venture very far from your own. I have a maid in the kitchen who will set out meals and Horace oversees our maintenance and the cleaning servants when they are present.” He began. “You will only be required in the bureau where you will take your lessons.”

“Yes, my lord,” You felt completely out of place. You weren’t used to such an immense house, let alone such a prestigious host. 

“Sir will do just fine,” He corrected. “Do you type, madam?”

“No.” You admitted. “I hand write my stories and they are often transcribed by the journals.”

“Mmm, well, then we should add that to the schedule.” He remarked. “I have written out your daily itinerary as you will find in your rooms. “You will wake at six, take your breakfast by the next hour as you will be expected at seven for your first lesson. Lunch will be at noon, you will be permitted recreation at three, tea the following hour, and we shall add typing practice to your evening exercises.”

“Sir,” You said as you followed him.

“This is the bureau where your lessons will be,” He opened a single door. “That…” He looked to the pair of doors at the end of the hall. “Is the library. It will be unlocked during your recreational hour though you might visit the gardens if you choose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you attend college, madam? I understand they offer schooling for women now.”

“No,” You answered plainly. “I finished public schooling and the rest I did upon my own.”

His eyes strayed in his thoughts and he hummed.

“Well, that sort of discipline is promising, I suppose,” He said. “And you are… unmarried?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, to be expected. A husband shouldn’t allow a wife to live unaccompanied with another man. And yet, an unmarried woman should not allow herself the same discrepancy,” He remanded. “There are proprieties which must be attained. You understand?”

“Sir, I am not wholly unaware of our social bounds. I’ve travelled to write. I haven’t any interest in men to this point and I highly doubt this circumstance should change that.”

He gave a half-chuckle before he caught himself.

“I always found you urban poor had trite mouths,” He sneered. “The factories do allow for unfortunately low association. You lot do sell your morals for a penny.”

“I see no immorality in work,” You argued. “In fact, the poor can rarely afford immorality.”

He looked at you, sternly.

“Let me show you your rooms and you might accommodate yourself to the arrangements,” He gestured you back down the corridor. 

Again, you trailed behind him. The walls were lined with portraits, their frames powdered with dust and canvas washed out with age. He must’ve lived a rather small existence in this immense place. 

He stopped before another door, his fingers wrapped around the handle then he recoiled. He reached into his jacket and slipped out a key with a black ribbon threaded through its loop. He held it out to you.

“These are your rooms. Keep the time. It is late. At four I expect you to take tea in the dining room. The cook should have it upon the table by then.” He watched as you reached to take the key. “When you are finished, our first lesson shall commence in the bureau. Come prepared with a manuscript in hand. I trust you did not come without forethought, especially considering… well, I shall excuse you to acquaint yourself with your quarters.”

He bowed his head, his spine rigid and straight. He sidestepped you and you listened to his hard soles on the wooden floors. You turned as his silhouette disappeared around the sparsely lit corner, the glow of candles flickering along the columns of the rails that overlooked the foyer.

You unlocked the door, your hands unsteady as your nerves remained riled. You’d overcome the first obstacle but this man seemed greater than any challenge you’d known before. Stiff-lipped editors, boastful male writers, dismissive reviewers; you’d faced every kind of foe. 

You shut the door softly behind you, the click made you jump. You were pleasantly surprised to find it the room with the least dust. The windows were open and the curtains were freshly pressed and hung. The bed matched in its tidiness and the roll top desk against the wall was faced with a leather-cushioned chair.

The afternoon sun streamed in enough to light much of the room. Tall candelabras stood on four feet in the corners opposite of the bed. An oil lamp sat on the desk and a smaller candle holder sat on the table beside the bed. A small stool with an embroidered cushion was nestled in the corner and a chair in the French style peered out the far window.

You turned and faced the vast portrait of a man and woman. The former was silver-haired and staunch in his bearing, the woman was seated and gold waves were confined atop her head as a few ringlets framed her face in a style favoured by the previous generations. You tilted your head as you admired the artistry. It was almost as if the elegant couple was truly there before you.

A knock came at the door and you went to it. Horace was there with the man who had opened the gates. They dragged in your trunk and placed your valise at top with overly cordial ‘my lady’s’ in your direction. You wanted to snicker at the undeserved address. You thanked them and they refused a coin from your purse. You were thankful for that as you hadn’t many left.

You took your valise to the bed then returned to the trunk. You unbuckled the straps that held your trunk closed and tossed the lid open. The monstrosity was older than you. You’d bought it used. The lining was torn and most of it gone. You took out the stacks of paper sheathed in leather and rolled up the lid of the desk. You left them there and unpacked your pens and inkwell.

You sat and allowed yourself a breath. You tried to calm yourself. You slowly unwound the strap of the first folder and shuffled through the leaves. There was the story you’d written about the widow left homeless by her dead husband’s gambling debts. The other about the officer who finds himself by a foreign people. 

Then there was that one which you had yet to show any. The one which told the story of a woman; a fraud; a liar. She pretends to be a true lady but is found out. She is tried before the county though she never stole nor harmed anyone. Tried upon her birth and nothing more. You tucked that one away and set aside the one about the widow. Nothing so novel but good enough, you supposed.

You reached to your belt and checked the watch that dangled from it. Like the trunk, it was previously owned by another. It made you want to write a story, a fantasy of its former owner. Of how the initials etched into its back had come to be near indiscernible beneath a series of frantic scratches.

3:37. You recalled Lord Laufeyson had said tea was at four. Not much longer. Barely enough time to ready yourself for his frigidity. Oh yes, he was the very modicum of Victorian temperance. How very dull.

[midnightprelude]

Underneath the Bough, Ch. 9

Summary: Family. Legacy. Respect. Dorian bartered away his freedom and independence to purchase them when he’d resigned himself to walk the path his father had designed for him. His shackles chafed, even as he toed the line diligently, marrying a woman he loved but couldn’t be in love with, having a son he was mortified of disappointing- It was almost enough to build a life from, until disease rendered both his son and his marriage feeble. A visit from a mysterious doctor threatens to turn his household, his world, and his heart upside-down.

NOTE: This is a Halward “wins” AU (in the Victorian era, where homosexuality is still outlawed in the UK), where Dorian is pressured into marrying, having a family, and continuing the Pavus legacy and the consequences of that choice. As such, one of the major themes is societal homophobia, so be aware before reading.

Fandom: Dragon Age Rating: Mature Word Count: 42k Pairings: Dorian Pavus / Anders, Almila Pavus/Anders, Dorian Pavus/Almila Pavus Chapters: 9/? Read More: From the top; Ch. 9

Excerpt below the cut!

They listened to the engine of the train rattle to quiet as the passengers swarmed from the cars. The station transitioned from quiet to raucous, fruit sellers hawking wares and children waving newspapers and newsletters and-

He’d cut his hair.

Dorian watched the doctor step from the train, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Gold brushing just above his shoulders, but trimmed. Organized. And the suit was new; cream colored and starched and only mildly wrinkled from travel- The man was akin to raw stones put through a tumbler to emerge glinting.

Change for the better, Dorian thought, a tentative smile trying to force its way onto his face. Days felt like months; time was tricky that way. Time and space and transition. He hadn’t spoken to the doctor since they’d been there, like that, since he’d touched the man’s cheek to feel the scruff beneath his fingers that had rubbed his lips raw and-

[livenudebigfoot]

ravenous to know what you'd do with John/Cassian in a Historical Bookshop AU

i screamed in my own home, such was my delight at this dynamite concept.

OK, for starters we have to go to the pristine and beautiful well of “John Wick restores antique Victorian children’s books as a hobby and they cut it from the movie because of COWARDICE”.

We are now Victorian as heck. Starched collars everywhere. Everyone has a mustache. But we’re still in NYC, so I guess it’s like...the Industrial Revolution?? That time, but America. In the wake of his wife’s death, a retired Jonathan Wick is left alone to anonymously tend his bookshop. It is a little shabby, a little sad, but John finds structure in his work, bookbinding and restoring rare volumes, and he and his two dogs* while their days away peacefully but very boringly. 

That is, until Cassian arrives at the shop, on a mission from Lady Gianna D’Antonio to acquire some rare volumes for her collection. He’s surprised to run across John, who he recognizes from the bad old assassin days of yore, but way too stoic to register that surprise. They proceed to RP a very polite store owner/client conversation that serves as a smokescreen for John to plead with Cassian to keep his mouth shut, and for Cassian to agree. John sells Cassian the books he’s looking for. They shake hands. It is a lingering handshake.

The D’Antonios are avid collectors of art and literature, so there are many places Cassian might go to acquire items on their behalf, but if he’s in town, he never misses an opportunity to stop by John’s bookshop. He browses shelves for hours. He lingers, reading in the aisles, turning the pages mechanically while watching John out of the corner of his eye as he like punches holes in paper and meticulously mends broken book spines. He will, on occasion, ask John an unnecessary question about a book, purely to prompt another bizarre coded conversation so that they can casually reveal how they’re doing and feeling. John probes about Cassian’s reading preferences and lends him books (you know, so he has to come back). Cassian reads them all avidly, even if he doesn’t like them, purely so he can discuss them with John later (but the discussions are all like, “Did you enjoy it?” “I found it....edifiying.” [20 minutes of meaningful staring]).

Cassian returns to New York, checks in at the Continental, and is surprised to find a message from John waiting for him at the front desk, saying that John has a book he needs to give him. Cassian immediately heads to the shop even though it’s after closing, because this all feels...off. Also, he has to return a book (and tell John what he thought about the book?) (and talk to John??). When he arrives, he finds carnage everywhere. Multiple assassins: dead. Bookshelves: destroyed. John: OK, but bleeding a lot. The dogs: totally fine, because I say so. Cassian’s like “can i invite you to join me at the continental this evening” and john’s like “[weakly] sure.” But he grabs a book before he goes.

Cassian takes John and dogs to the local Continental and patches him up in his hotel room to avoid having to call the hotel doctor and attract attention. John explains that he ordinarily would not throw down in this fashion over a stupid book, but these guys were absolutely planning to kill him over it regardless. It is a book of shady provenance, given to John by an assassin who asked him to pass it, securely, to Gianna. So John, of course, got in touch with Cassian for help with that because Cassian is both Loyal As Heck and Competent As Heck, but then mystery assassins showed up and John had to do them all a murder.

A new wave of assassins pursues them to the Continental which a) rude and b) yeah the dogs were kind of a giveaway, so Charon is now on dogsitting duty and Cassian&John must murder their way through a giant pile of assassins while making their way to Gianna with the message. And it’s Victorian times so they gotta get to Italy by fucking boat or train or zeppelin or some shit. So many setpieces!

And, listen, i’m not here to plot anything other than burgeoning sexual tension but it turns out that the book is an encoded message from an agent of Gianna, warning her that her brother Santino was planning to assassinate her and take her place at the High Table. That agent, knowing that Santino’s people were onto them, put the message in the hands of John Wick, knowing that he is good at murder and also good at heart, and would be able to get the message to her without being very murdered himself. 

When it comes time to turn the message over to Gianna, John urges Cassian to take all the credit and leave him out of it. Cassian, who is also Noble As Heck, balks at this. Summoning all of his ability to speak emotionally, Cassian asks John if he’s happy with his bookshop. 

John asks, in return, if Cassian is happy with the D’Antonios.

The two part ways.

Cassian presents the message to Gianna and she gets the jump on her brother, eliminating him and securing her place at the table. Cassian should feel a sense of satisfaction, but he doesn’t feel much of anything at all other than like...the ache of loss.

John hops a boat back to NYC, spends the entire voyage grimly staring out to sea, goes straight to the Continental and pays Charon an exorbitant dogsitting fee, and goes home to clean up his bookshop. Finally, he can rest. But he’s not happy.

One day, Cassian comes to the shop and he drops off the book he was supposed to return to John originally, which has been in his coat pocket the entire adventure and is now waterlogged and charred and generally enfuckened and Cassian’s like “please allow me to compensate you”

and John’s like “no need. it was a gift.”

[45 minutes of charged staring]

Cassian’s like “my work calls me to [Far Off Location]. I admit I would prefer to remain in the city for a time.”

[An additional 45 minutes of charged staring]

Cassian’s like “well, i’ll be going” and he goes in for that lingering handshake but instead John grabs his wrist.

And John’s like, “if you ever grow tired of your work, I could use some help around the shop. someone i can trust.”

[45 years of charged staring, because they’re married now]

theeee end

* Daisy is fine because I say so, Other Dog is also there, also because I say so.

[waterchestnut123]

Ch 5  | To Catch A Turtle Dove

Fandom: One Piece Setting: Victorian AU Genre: Action, Adventure, Humor, Friendship, Romance. Pairings: Law/Nami Rating: M - Mature (for language, drinking and alcohol, death and some moderate gore, other adult themes)

Read on AO3  /  Tumblr Chapter Index < Prev  |  Next >

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Chapter 5: Grandeur

The carriage trundled smoothly through the thin layer of snow coating the road, lights from the distant castle twinkling in the falling darkness. She was rather quickly nearing the castle, her carriage one of many in a long line of others far finer than her own. With trembling fingers she surreptitiously smoothed the fabric of her pale blue gown as she stared out the window. It was almost show time, and for the first time in years she felt the grip of pre-performance anxiety.

She stared down at the small lump in her lap that was her gloved hands resting beneath her ankle-length fur-trimmed cloak. Her brow furrowed as she focused on her breathing. In—out; in—out. She could do this. She had prepared tirelessly for weeks: memorizing the castle’s first floor layout late into the night with Robin at their small kitchen table; practicing the finer points of the waltz with Sanji on the cleared tavern floor.

Closing her eyes, she reviewed her character and back story once more in her mind, reciting lines like a mantra.

She was Bellemére Devrie—niece to Dorland Devrie, a prominent merchant in the capitol. She was visiting from Goa for the winter—for she had never seen a Flevance winter before and was eager for the experience—when the Lord’s invitation arrived unexpectedly by messenger. Her Uncle and Aunt fell ill just before the ball, but not wishing to deprive her the exceedingly rare opportunity to see Castle Trafalgar in the snow, encouraged her to attend despite their absence. She was a sweet and demure young woman of 20—a tad naive, but eager to see new things and engage in new experiences.

Opening her eyes, she smoothed out her features and allowed herself to slip into character.

She could do this.

All too soon the carriage was pulling up to the gate house, the muffled sound of scuffling feet on snow dusted earth prompting her to turn her attention to the window. A young man with half-moon glasses and messy orange hair sticking out awkwardly from beneath a bowler hat stood beside the carriage door in a crisp wool coat, eying her expectantly.

“Invitation?” he queried automatically, steam puffing from his lips.

Wordlessly she extended her silk gloved hand through the close of her cloak, offering him the envelope through the window. He took it and lifted the invitation from its confines before raising his gaze to eye the interior of the carriage.

“And the rest of your party?”

She smiled softly, willing her heart to slow.

“Fallen ill, I’m afraid,” she said sadly. The man nodded, returning her envelope through the window.

“Welcome to Castle Trafalgar, Miss Devrie. Please enjoy the festivities.”

She nodded as the driver’s reins snapped loudly in the cold, opting to leave the curtain open as the carriage continued on up to the circular drive. That was the first hurdle successfully crossed.

Castle Trafalgar was large and imposing against the fresh dusting of snow which surrounded it. Made of dark stone, four circular turrets marked each corner of the structure, rising four stories above the ground. A line of servants stood at the foot of a short flight of stairs leading up to the castle—a large set of of tall, intricately carved and polished wooden double doors serving as its entrance.

As her carriage pulled up to the front of the castle, she steeled her nerves. Time to put on the performance of a lifetime. She took a breath, slowly releasing it as a servant approached the side of the carriage, pulling the door open with a click and standing rigidly beside it to allow her debarkation.

Putting on an expression of wide-eyed excitement, she hugged her cloak around her shoulders, grabbing her fan and purse from her lap and lifting herself from the cushioned seat, nimbly stepping down from the coach with the aid of a proffered hand from the servant. Her feet hit the cold stone with a muffled click.

She had to suppress her instinct to thank the man—there could be no thank-you’s tonight, at least not to people like him; not if she were to pass as a high class lady. Instead she kept her eyes forward, daintily lifting her skirts as she followed the flow of people into the brightly lit castle where the music of a string orchestra drifted through the open doors.

Ascending the wide stone stairway, she could feel warmth radiating from the interior as she neared the doorway, music and laughter growing louder upon her approach. Stepping over the threshold, she couldn’t help the way her eyes widened in genuine amazement as she took in the magnificent sight of the foyer.

Meticulously crafted wood-paneled walls rose two stories high, a sparkling crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling like a work of art. A large, semi-circular staircase rose in grand fashion before her at the opposite end of the large room, burgundy rug running up its length and polished wooden bannister gleaming in the light. A short staircase descended beneath it, leading to a modestly sized parlor with a roaring fireplace at its far end.

Dozens of finely dressed men and women in coats and cloaks and hats milled about the foyer, quite a bit more finely dressed than she. While her bodice was quite lovely—elaborately beaded with small, clear crystal beads in swirling patterns atop pale blue silk, her skirt was plain—pleated and simple with relatively little adornment. She wore simple white silk gloves which came to rest just above her elbows, and had opted to keep her hair simple as well: styling it in a partial updo—hair braided into a bun at the back of her head, with a small selection of tight ringlets falling from it to her shoulders.

Many of the other women present were drowning in flower motifs and lace and bows, with flowers and diamond-studded pins adorning their hair. It was clear that this would be the social outing of the year if not the decade, and most women, it seemed, had dressed accordingly. But the relative modesty of her ensemble suited her purposes just fine. She wanted to fit in with the crowd—which she did, but also to remain as unremarkable—and unremarked upon—as possible.

Before she could fully gather her bearings, still oggling the polished marble floor and magnificent staircase, she was being approached by a finely dressed servant who offered her a polite bow.

“May I take your cloak or purse, madam?”

Nami blinked, shaking off the glittering trance and forcing her attention to the man. Turning, she offered him a soft smile.

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

With cold fingers she pulled back her hood, careful not to disturb her hair which she had spent many tedious hours styling, and untied the large bow at her chest allowing the man to gently pull the cloak from her shoulders. He then slung it neatly over his arm.

“And your name, Miss?”

“Bellemére—Bellemére Devrie.”

“Very good, Miss Devrie. Your items will be available from the coat check when you are ready for them, simply provide your name to one of the staff and they shall be fetched for you. Please enjoy the party.”

He gestured briefly to the far left side of the room—towards a set of open double-doors, inside of which lay row after row of racks filled with coats, hats, purses, and cloaks. A string of attendants stood before it, and Nami watched as the man turned for the room with purposeful strides.

The man failed to indicate where she should go, but her rigorous study of the layout and the steady flow of guests down the center stairway was clear enough suggestion; so she followed, allowing herself to hide within the crowd as she descended into a sparsely furnished parlor, then turned left and up a short flight of stairs into the ballroom foyer, beneath another set of intricate semi-circular stairs, and through yet another set of large double doors into the ballroom.

Her feet traded rich burgundy rugs for smooth parquet and once more she found her feet slowing to a stop, eyes growing large at the sight which greeted her. She knew the Trafalgars were wealthy—all the Lords of every Province were wealthy; but her thefts in the well-to-do districts of the capitol had not prepared her for such lavish grandiosity.

The ceiling rose two stories high, an intricate mural painted upon an inlaid ceiling. Large marble pillars supported a narrow second floor balcony which edged the ballroom, elegant wrought-iron railing topped by a polished wooden bannister. Ten foot tall floor-to-ceiling windows faced the front of the castle on the left side of the ballroom, draped in fine sheer curtains with large arrangements of poinsettias and ivy sitting upon small circular end tables between them. The parquet was smoothly lacquered, its geometric pattern intricate and grand. Delicate crystal chandeliers as large as her bedroom in Robin’s apartment hung at intervals from the ceiling, the flames of tall taper candles flickering against the crystal causing it to sparkle and glitter like diamond.

In the corner to her left, upon a raised wooden dais sat a small string orchestra, elegant music echoing through the massive room as a handful of enthusiastic couples waltzed through the center of the dance floor. A selection of velvet benches and chairs were arrayed in the opposite corner to the musicians on her right, and tables draped in neatly starched white table cloths with elegant poinsettia centerpieces were surrounded by carved high-back wooden chairs, situated in clusters at the far end of the room where two doors opened out onto a balcony.

So this was the kind of wealth power possessed.

She was pulled from her trance by a gentle bump to her shoulder, a young man with a lady on his arm pausing in his stride to turn to her.

“My sincerest apologies, Miss! Did I hurt you?” he inquired with utmost concern, the young lady stopping and turning to her with a gentle smile.

“Ah—no, I’m quite alright,” she recovered quickly, gently shaking her head as she turned to the man and offered a smile. The girl, it seemed, had taken note of Nami’s wide-eyed wondering gaze as she looked to her with a knowing smile and elegant nod of the head.

“It is quite grand, isn’t it? I have always wondered what Castle Trafalgar looked like—and now we have our chance to see!”

“Quite,” Nami agreed, the sentiment genuine.

“I’m Jacqueline, by the way—Jacqueline Daine; and this is my brother Phillip,” she introduced.

The young man reached for her hand, gently lifting it to his face and allowing his lips to linger on her knuckles longer than she knew to be strictly appropriate.

“Charmed to make your acquaintance,” Philip offered with a suave smile. Nami smiled demurely, anxiously waiting for him to release her.

“It is lovely to make your acquaintance as well,” she offered, carefully avoiding giving her name. The less anyone knew about her—false backstory or no, the better. If either of them were bothered by her lack of return they did not show it.

As Phillip released her hand, Jacqueline leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially.

“I am absolutely dying to meet Lord Trafalgar—so few people have ever seen him outside the castle; certainly not since all that fuss 8 years ago with the succession. Rumor has it he is quite handsome!” she shared enthusiastically, “Though… if that is true, I cannot fathom why he is still unmarried.”

“Is he?” Nami inquired with feigned surprise, eyes glancing about subtly, seeking an excuse to depart their company.

“Oh, yes—it’s grown into quite the scandal of late. He turns thirty this spring; can you imagine—thirty and unmarried! How does he expect to carry on his line?”

Though Phillip had seemed for all the world utterly disinterested in his sister’s gossip, this comment pulled him into the conversation.

“Well I, for one, would be quite alright with Lord Trafalgar remaining unmarried and allowing the custodianship of Flevance to transfer to another noble family—ours, for instance,” he added with a touch of humor and a wink in her direction. Jacqueline gently swatted him.

“Hush, Phillip! Don’t let anyone hear you saying such things!” she chastised, spreading the blades of her fan and airing herself lightly as a flush rose to her cheeks.

“Besides,” she commented smoothly, “There is still Lady Lami. It’s always possible he may choose to name her his successor, and we all know how many suitors have thrown themselves at her feet. A husband and children are certainly in her future.”

The ballroom had filled up during her impromptu conversation with Jacqueline and Phillip, and a convenient lull had suddenly appeared in the conversation. While she found the rumors surrounding the Trafalgars of potential aid to her plans tonight, she was not eager to make friends and had other more important things to attend to.

“It was a delight to meet and speak with you both, but I’m afraid I must excuse myself,” she said suddenly, offering them both a demure smile and a curtsy.

Jacqueline looked a bit put out but recovered quickly, Phillip taking her hand once more, bowing.

“It was a delight to meet you. When you are ready for your first dance, I would be quite honored to be your partner,” he commented smoothly, and Nami forced a light laugh from her lips to appear appropriately charmed. Jacqueline simply giggled.

She turned and made her way slowly back the way she had come, through the double doors of the ballroom—but instead of proceeding straight into the parlor she turned and made her way up the stairs to the second floor balcony.

Though occupancy of the ballroom had already grown quite a bit, guests were still arriving and butlers had only just started to move about the floor balancing trays laden with champagne flutes. She had, by her estimate, about a half hour before all the guests had comfortably settled in the ballroom, and another hour before the crowd had grown properly inebriated. That gave her an hour or two to complete phase one of her plan.

Every thief knew never to pickpocket or burgle an alert or wary target; and alert and wary was what these people would be until the ball was in full swing. And once the champagne began to flow and guests were on their second and third drinks, their guard would become significantly lowered; that was when she would begin pocketing goods. But before she could do that, she needed to case her targets first: to familiarize herself with the guests, the stationing of butlers and servants—assess who was flaunting their wealth the most and would make the best marks, and remain as invisible as possible while doing so.

And the relatively empty balcony would serve as an excellent vantage from which to begin.

Slowly, quietly, she walked the circumference of the ballroom, eyes trained on the milling crowd as the room filled to capacity with ladies in voluminous gowns and men in sleek black suits. She could tell even from this distance that almost any gentleman would make an excellent mark. So distracted were they already by the low necklines and alluring lift of the ladies’ bodices, it would be criminally easy to swipe every valuable on their person after a drink or two.

Her eyes darted to the tables at the far end of the room, several of which had a purse or two left behind as women were lead out onto the dance floor. She smiled. The abandoned purses were also on her list.

Satisfied with her initial assessment, as her circuit of the balcony came to an end she descended the steps once more and made for the ballroom floor. Time to analyze her marks up close.

She made her way slowly, methodically, through the finely dressed crowd, eyes darting over each woman’s jewelry, listening carefully to snippets of conversation as she went in the hope it would hint at the various guests’ level of attentiveness.

In a way, it did; for coming from the lips of every lady she passed was constant, endless gossip. It seemed Jacqueline wasn’t the only woman curious about and eager to meet the mysterious Lord Trafalgar.

There was no end of speculation as to the nature of his solitude here at the castle. Some thought him simply inanely private, while others suspected him of illicit activities. There was speculation as to why he was still unmarried when all the rumors suggested he was dashingly handsome. Some claimed he was cruel, others claimed he was uninterested in women—which strangely seemed to excite the ladies further, and yet still others believed he simply did not intend to father children—instead passing succession on to his sister. By the time she made one full loop around the floor she was dizzy with speculation. But she had learned one thing: none of these women would see any of her thefts coming.

Feet beginning to ache in her formal boots, she decided on a brief break, moving towards the long wall and taking a comfortable seat atop a plush velvet bench, spreading her fan to air herself gently as she pretended to watch the dancers, instead tuning her ear to the conversation flowing around. One particular group of young ladies walking by were in the middle of an animated conversation when they stopped near her, huddled together a short distance away and perfectly within earshot.

“I know father would never approve, what with his reputation, but… I intend to win his heart, tonight,” one young woman stated with boastful certainty. The girls around her giggled.

“Oh, how exciting! My cousin, the future Lady of the Province!”

“Have you met him yet?” another asked enthusiastically. The boastful girl frowned.

“No—I haven’t seen him or Lady Lami about,” she said sadly. The other girls looked put-out as well.

“Do you know what he looks like? No one I know has ever met him before.”

“No—I was simply looking for a man wearing a sash in the Lord’s colors.”

Another girl, one who had been quiet throughout much of this exchange, finally spoke up, voice soft. “Do you think… do you think there is any truth to the rumors? About why he is unmarried?”

The boastful girl scoffed. “Of course not! The Lord remains unmarried because he chooses, and no other reason.”

“But… what about the duel? Father says he cut—”

“Uncle wants the custodianship, so of course he believes the rumors,” the boastful girl interrupted with certainty. “But we all know that will never happen—he is fourth in line and simply bitter about the fact.”

The soft-spoken girl sighed quietly, sounding thoroughly defeated. “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded.

“Of course I’m right,” the boastful girl said gleefully. “I will be the future lady of the province, after all…”

Nami sighed quietly. Gossip, gossip, and more gossip! She had heard quite enough rumors by now—they were starting to repeat themselves. Ignoring her tired feet, she rose from her seat, making to continue on with her scouting from the other side of the room. However as the music from the last set wound to a close, another song did not follow; and by the time she was halfway across the floor she heard a tinkling sound coming from the balcony, and the sudden hush of voices throughout the room. Glancing around she noticed everyone looking up and followed their gazes. As she caught sight of what had everyone’s attention she came to a sudden standstill.

Two people stood at the rounded extrusion from the second floor balcony at the mouth of the staircase: a lovely young woman with light brown hair dressed in an elegant lavender gown who looked to be around Nami’s age; and a tall, handsome man with smoothly combed raven hair and neat sideburns who looked to be about, well, twenty nine. But it was not their striking features nor sharp golden eyes which caught her attention first—no; it was the gold sashes with black trim, and the snowflake shaped pin attached to their shoulders and the snow leopard pendant hanging from their hips.

It was the Lord and Lady Trafalgar—in the flesh.

The Lady offered the crowd a dazzling smile, gently tapping a knife against her champagne flute once more. The lord, however, looked utterly impassive, hands clasped behind his suit jacket. As the crowd began to hush and turn their attention to him, however, his posture suddenly shifted. The cold formality melted away, and in its place was a stern yet friendly authority, speaking in a deep, soothing voice over the crowd.

“Thank you all for making your way through the snow to visit our humble home,” he began with just a hint of a smile. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves. I won’t take up too much of your time. As this gala was my sister’s doing, I shall allow her to formally welcome you to tonight’s festivities.”

He took a small step back then, allowing attention to fall upon the charming, fairer-haired young woman. She lowered her champaign flute, smile wide and glittering like the diamonds which encircled her neck.

“Thank you, Law,” she said fondly before turning to the crowd, “And thank you all for coming! I know we Trafalgars tend to keep to ourselves—and yes, we are aware of the rumors,” she teased with humor, offering the crowd a subtle wink which elicited amused laughter from the guests, “But I assure you that our privacy is merely a matter of circumstance and distance—especially in the winter months when we get snowed in here at the castle.”

With all eyes on the charming Lady of the house, few seemed to notice as Nami did the way in which the Lord’s eyes scanned the crowd with a searching, scrutinizing gaze. Her brow furrowed as she watched him. It was as though he was… looking for something, or suspicious of the crowd as a whole. Odd, though she supposed there was quite a bit of mystery surrounding him if the gossip she had overheard tonight was any indication.

No sooner had her thoughts begun to circle him than his eyes stilled in their sweep, cutting over the crowd to fall directly upon her. For a moment their gazes locked—sharp, piercing golden eyes boring into her own. She felt panic rise within her, her cheeks heating under his scrutiny. Flipping open her fan she quickly rose it to her face, fanning herself as casually as possible while quickly shifting her eyes back to the Lady and hoping the fan would cover at least some of her features. She could feel the burn of his gaze still upon her, but she forced her eyes to remain focused on the Lady. With any luck, he would assume her to be simply another of his admirers, caught starry-eyed gazing.

After several tense moments, she felt the Lord’s eyes leave her, and she let out a relieved breath. Lady Lami was still speaking, and by the time Nami could shift her faculties back to the smiling woman she was finishing her speech.

“It has been far too long since we have had the opportunity to gather and celebrate in the company of Flevance’s most esteemed families; and so in the spirit of maintaining the ties between our houses which have long made this Province great, I decided we were quite overdue a winter gala. So please, enjoy yourselves! Eat, drink, dance, and be merry!”

With a wave of her hand in the direction of the orchestra the music started up again, and polite clapping began to spread throughout the crowd. The Lady offered one more dazzling smile, the Lord returning to her side and offering a charming yet subtly devilish smirk. Beside her, Nami heard several young women swoon.

Never before had she wanted to roll her eyes so badly.

As the Lord and Lady turned for the stairs behind them, young women and young men unsubtly rushed towards the entrance of the ballroom, where the pair would shortly be making their entrance. Nami, however, turned in the opposite direction, heading for the outdoor balcony at the far end of the room. She was loath to stand out in the cold, but the Lord’s eyes on her had unnerved her. Though it was unlikely he knew she was not supposed to be in attendance—especially from such a distance, it nonetheless struck her as wise to spend some time outside of his view until he became so overwhelmed by the mob of enamored young women he forgot her entirely.

As she approached the two sets of double doors, a servant standing in between them reached for a stack of folded knit blankets, offering one to her.

“Would you care for a blanket, madam?”

Nami felt relief flood through her as she accepted the proffered garment and slung it diagonally over her shoulders, wrapping it tightly about her and crossing her arms against her torso. Then, she stepped out into the cold night air, missing the brief but thoughtful glance thrown her way by the Lord from across the room.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

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[deripmaver]

💉 drugged (for the whumpy prompts)

~3000 words, Victuuri

Additional tags/warnings: Omegaverse, brief Victor/Other, Victorian era, neither yuuri nor victor do the drugging lol, mentions of prostitution

See if you can guess what kind of AU this is ;D

Fog rolls in overthe streets of the East End, over the cold, empty shipyards andpockmarked pavement. The dirty gas lamps shine eerily upon it, fadedrings of light that keep the dark cloaked figures in shadow.

It’s the kindof fog that chills down to the bones, the kind that demands a cozynight in, a book read by warm lamplight – which is the kind ofevening Victor Nikiforov had intended to enjoy, but then-

He shakes hishead, long, silver hair falling in ghostly cascades down his back. Hehasn’t put in the normal effort, dressed himself up to the normaldegree of perfection, for his job tonight, but that hardly mattersnow. His job is what’s put him in this situation in thefirst place.

The conversationstill echoes in his head, painful like the clanging church bells thatwake him up in the morning, like a subtle punishment from on high.

Anger flashesthough him, sharp as the surgeon’s scalpel, and he grips his chestas though that’ll stop the pain of it.

How dare Yuuri,when he was the only one who had bothered to help him – a pooryoung immigrant, lost and alone in a dangerous part of town as thesun began to sink below the horizon. A newcomer from Japan, one ofperhaps three omegas admitted to medical school in London, and Victorhad taken him in for the night, given him comfort and a bed and a hotmeal-!

When he hadhelped Yuuri, remembering how hard to was when he had arrived allthose years ago, barely speaking the language, taken in by a plumpomega woman who expected him to work for his room and board.

The anger is goneas quickly as it came, though, and in its stead all Victor feels isexhaustion, a dull ache. He slumps back against the dank wall,resting upon a stack of boxes.

“Ah, Yuuri!” Victor cooes,“You are making friends! I am so happy for you.”

Yuuri fidgets, bright red, staringback at the retreating forms of his classmates – at thedisapproving curl of their lips. The only other omegas in theprogram, Victor knows, and not nearly as remarkable as Yuuri. They’rehigh born, their Alpha sire’s pulling strings to get them intomedical school – though Victor figures he can’t complain toomuch, not if they’ll have even a little more empathy when handlingomega anatomy.

“I, ah, actually… Wanted totalk to you about that?” Yuuri mumbles, not meeting Victor’sgaze.

Victor frowns. The others aregone, now, and though he can still feel their disapproval, it’sbeen a long time since he worried what other people thought of him.

“Yes?”

Yuuri swallows. He’s very red,his hands are shaking in the way they do when he’s too afraid tosay something directly.

“They, um,” Yuuri begins,“It’s been – it’s been hard for me. I never really fit in,here, it took everyone so long to realize I even spoke English –I,” he pauses, “There are only a few other foreign students, andthey’re all alphas, and they want nothing to do with me. Now, theother omegas will sometimes allow me their companionship, but theystill see me as so different from them.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says, slowly,“What are you trying to say?”

Yuuri swallows. When he speaks, itsounds as though he’s carefully considered every single word. “Howdo you feel about me coming to visit you, only? And in the east end?”

Victor feels like Yuuri haspunched him in the gut. Still, his voice is steady as he responds,“You don’t want to be seen with me.”

“It’s not that,” Yuurimumbles. Lies. “They just don’t understand you – like theydon’t understand me, and I don’t want them to think-”

“Think what?” Victor hisses,cutting him off, “Think that you might actually like me? That youwould willingly spend time with a-”

“Victor, don’t,” Yuuripleads, putting his fingers over Victor’s trembling lips. A few ofthe pedestrians’ eyes flit to them as they walk past, a fewscholars look up from their books, outside the university library.

Victor laughs, angry,hurt, cruel. “Why not? I’d wager I’ve had half these alphas inmy bed, or their fathers, at least. They know who I am. I know who Iam, and I’m not ashamed of it. I didn’t become the most soughtafter whore in all of the east end, all of bloody Londonby being a coward. Not like you.”

Yuuri steps back.He’s trembling all over, his eyes fill with frustrated tears, andfor a moment Victor regrets everything he’s said – he wants totake it all back, to take Yuuri into his arms, to say it’s alright,whatever he wants, so long as they can stay friends.

He can’t, though.He won’t. Yuuri is the first person who has looked past what he didat night, who wasn’t a sneering high-born omega or a lustful alphafull of superficial flattery and a wife at home, who saw dog-loving,literate, sensitive Victor.

And now. Anotherdisappointment.

Yuuri whispers, “Thenail that sticks up gets hammered down. That’s what they said to meat home, when I didn’t just want to bond and breed for a richfamily. It’s what I’ve been fighting my entire life, and I’m sotired. I’m not saying this to push you away from me-”

“And yet,” Victorsnaps, “You’ve succeeded.”

Yuuri’s mouth snapsshut. He looks down, picking at the threadbare sleeves of his dress,lips trembling like he was terrified that this might have been theoutcome. Yuuri still can’t wear English fashion comfortably, it’sclear in the way he stands, awkwardly, how he pulls at the starchedcollar of his dress.

“They’ll throwyou away, Yuuri,” Victor says, knowing the cruelty of his words.“When you’re not poised enough, when your accent isn’t rightenough, when they pick away the veneer and see something inside youthey don’t like.”

Yuuri doesn’tspeak. He stares at the ground, worrying his lower lip, tinted pinkwith the lipstick his new friends likely insisted he wear.

“Don’t do that,”Victor whispers, before he can stop himself. “You’ll just makeyourself bleed.”

Yuuri stares at him,eyes impossibly wide, watery with unshed tears. “I don’t thinkyou’re a whore.”

Victor steps back. Hesighs, hating how he understands why Yuuri doesn’t want to be seenwith him, hating how much it still hurtsto be rejected like this. “But,” he says, softly, “I am. Andeveryone knows it. And you don’t want to be seen with… Withsomeone like me.”

Yuuri still doesn’tsay anything. Victor knows him, knows he’s upset, knows that thegears of his mind are turning faster than his tongue can catch up –but Victor’s afraid, too, afraid to hear Yuuri say that he’sdisapproved of him this whole time, but was simply too polite to sayso.

He turns, so Yuurican’t see the tears that well up in his own eyes, and says curtly,“Perhaps you shouldn’t come by this Friday evening. I wish youthe best, Yuuri.”

“Vitya!Surprised to see you out tonight – it’s been a while since you’veworked a Friday.”

Victorsighs, looking to the side. “Needed the extra money,” he says,clipped. He really doesn’t want to talk to Chris, not tonight.Chris knows about Yuuri, and he’ll be damned if anyone is going toget any information about Yuuri’s absence from him. “I’m goingto take a walk.”

Chrisfrowns. “Are you sure? Me and some of the others are in a groupover by the pub. Just to be safe, we don’t know if he’s out theretonight.”

“I’llbe fine,” Victor mumbles, waving him away. He doesn’t have theenergy to think about him tonight.

Chrislooks like he might object, so Victor turns on his heel and wandersalong the docks, past rowdy pubs and shivering omegas with theirskirts rucked up. They huddle together for warmth and safety, staringat the alphas intently as one of them gets picked off, taken to aback alley or their rooms for a quick fuck.

Someone’sbehind him. Victor whirls around, staring at him hard, unable to stophis body from tensing – but it’s just an alpha, with dark browneyes and a tweed suit, weighted down with a heavy bag of something.

“VictorNikiforov,” the alpha breathes, “The loveliest whore in all ofLondon. What luck that I happened to run into you tonight.”

Victordoesn’t respond to that. He certainly doesn’t feel likethe loveliest whore in all of London – he feels like a washed-outrag, fraying with overuse, a stone’s through from being tossed outwith the day’s rubbish.

Rejected.

“Imust say,” the alpha continues, “You look even lovelier inperson. The way your hair reflects the moonlight, the soft white ofyour skin.”

Hereaches out, softly, hesitantly. Victor feels himself lean in alittle closer, letting the praise wash over him. The alpha toucheshis cheek tenderly, like he’s made of porcelain, his thumb pressingjust a bit harder as he caresses down to the pouting pink of hislips.

“Youtruly could be a porcelain doll,” the alpha whispers. “The jewelof anyone’s collection.”

Anyone but Yuuri’s,Victor thinks, bitterly.

“Thejewel of yours, perhaps?” Victor says, coquettish, batting hispainted lashes prettily.

Thealpha grins, wide and toothy, smelling of mint and tobacco andsomething sharp. “Oh, youhave no idea how much I desire you.”

Victorfights the urge to roll his eyes. He’s heard that dozens of times,each one as superficial as the last.

“Shallwe?” The alpha purrs, releasing his scent into the air. It doesnothing for Victor, not like Yuuri’s, so sweet, like the scent ofpure sunshine – but it always makes the alphas feel better to dothis. Victor releases some of his in return, lazily, and is surprisedwhen the alpha’s pants don’t tent immediately.

Apparentlyhis flattery was just that. Victor normally wouldn’t even entertainthis man – his suit is cheap, the leather of his back peeling andcrackling with age. He has such high standards for his clients,  now,requires luxury and money upfront, requires sweet wine and tender kisses.

Hestill stings from Yuuri’s rejection, though. He’s ashamed howmuch he appreciated the tender touches, the sweet words, how hisspirits rose just that little bit from the compliments. It might bevanity, but Victor has always been sensitive. He had little choicebut to become a prostitute, and it’s only now that he gets anypleasure from it, since the shower of praise from his clientsoutweighs the condemnation from the rest of the world.

Victortakes the alpha’s gloved hand and leads him back to his apartment.

Thealpha is quiet as he touches him, peeling the layers and layers offhis body with surgical precision. Victor bats his eyes and bites hislip, letting his silver hair cascade down his body tantalizingly.Each warm kiss against hiscollarbone and throat sends pangs of sensation down his body.

“What’syour name?”

Thealpha doesn’t answer, lipswet and sloppy all over Victor’s chin and cheeks.This time Victor actually does roll his eyes. Fine, that’s fine. Heprobably has an omega and pups at home and doesn’t want Victor torat him out.

Histeeth graze the smooth expanse of Victor’s neck, hesitating justover his scent gland, his tongue going out to lick lazily at thesensitive spot.

“Don’tyou dare bite,” Victor gasps, feeling a twinge of arousal despitehimself.

Thealpha pulls back, his expression unreadable. Hishands go to Victor’s thighs, slipping just barely beneath his thinshift. Victor smiles, softly, bashfully, hands clasping over thealpha’s.

“Doyou want to take this off of me?” he whispers, breathy.

Thealpha nods, eyes alight with intensity, with fire. Victor pushes upto allow the alpha to pull the shift over his head – then lies backonto his bed, body splayed out and legs spread. He stared, the alpha– he stares, and stares, and Victor feels as though he can barelybreathe,suddenly struck with how the alphais looking at him.

“Whatis your pleasure, sir?” Victor murmurs, running his thin fingersover his bare chest, resting them teasingly on his pink nipple.

“Iwant,” the alpha says, choked, “Let’s play doctor, tonight.”

Yuuri’sface pops into Victor’s head again and he flinches, visibly.

“Ah,”Victor laughs nervously, belaying the pangs in his chest again,“Perhaps – something else? I can be whatever you like –schoolgirl, maidservant-”

“I’mafraid,” the alpha booms, suddenly looming over Victor, thighsclenching around Victor’s hips and holding him still beneath hisbody, “I really must insist.”

Victordoesn’t bother to hide his scowl as the alpha goes to reach intohis bag. In the back of his mind, though, he feels a twinge of fear –play doctor could mean anything from the innocuous digitalpelvic examination to somesadist who wants to use cruel instrumentation to probe inside of him.

He’sbeen in this situation before, though, and despite his slight frame,he is not weak – and in any case, carries a blade just beneath hispillows.

“Turnaround, darling,” the alpha murmurs, kissing the nape of his neck.

Victorrolls onto his stomach, lifting his hips up and wiggling them backand forth. He peers at the alpha, probing into his leather bag.

“Nopeeking,” the alpha teases, touching Victor’s lips.

“I’mafraid,” Victor parrots back at him, trying and failing to hide thebiting note of sarcasm, “I really must insist.”

There’ssilence, stillness. Tension builds, and Victor’s fingers creepcloser to the knife beneath his pillows, a sudden fear pooling in hisgut. He remembers, then Chris’ warning, why it wasn’t wise to beout alone tonight, but surely the brute butchering whores wouldn’tlook so slight-

Thealpha grabs Victor’s long, silver hair, slamming his face down intothe mattress. Victor yelps, fingers shooting out to reach beneath thepillows, and suddenly there is a stabbing, burning pain in the scentgland on his neck.

Victorscreams, hand clenching desperately on the handle of the knife, andhe rips it out and lunges forward-

But.

But,suddenly, the knife is so very heavy in his hands. It’s like lead,dropping heavily, harmlessly onto the mattress, slipping like sandfrom his trembling fingers.

Victorwhimpers, scream cut off, and the sound swims through the air asthough he’s underwater. His hands, so heavy, so weak, come up tohis neck, grasping uselessly around the syringe pumping somethinginto him.

Hetries to push himself off the bed, away from the alpha, watching inamusement as he struggles. His feet his the hard floor, but they’releaden weights, and he tumbles to the ground as the room collapsesaround him.

Tearswell up in Victor’s eyes as he whimpers, pitifully, still trying toremove the syringe from his neck even as his body twitches, naked andvulnerable on the floor.

“I,”he stammers, tongue as heavy as the rest of him, “Wha-”

“Hush,”the alpha soothes, running his fingers through Victor’s hairtenderly, softly, “Hush now, my darling.”

Hethumbs away the tears falling from Victor’s eyes, and his facemorphs and blurs as Victor’s vision goes black.

The killer clearlyhas some kind of medical background, some knowledge of omega anatomy,both male and female.

Yuurihad said that. He was trying to find out who this monster was, tryingto keep Victor safe, and now-

Victor’seyes flutter shut, body limp, useless, save for the frantic,terrified, rabbit pulse of his heart.

Hewasn’t even supposed to be out tonight.

[wolveswithhats]

writing wip game

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you or interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it! 

The titles weren’t interesting so I vainly just posted some excerpts from a grab bag of more recent stuff. If I did everything it’d honestly probably go on for pages. I have a lot of unfinished stuff (pretty much...exclusively unfinished stuff dfjkdjfkg). Like a decade’s worth.

Tagged by @ackbang​. TY TY, MY DUDE. If you see this and you’re a writer, consider yourself tagged. Like for real. Only not tagging because I can’t remember who writes fanfic and who doesn’t.

Looooooong post below.

ling ling the goblin king (ling + lan fan, fma)

"lan fan did it," the prince says, and for a moment she feels a flare of anger and betrayal over his deception. 'it wasn't me, i didn't do this. i didn't kill anyone.' but the prince is bending at the waist, low enough that that his tail of hair brushes the dirt, and she realizes his lie is for her benefit. "thank you, m'lady. i owe you my life."

her mouth feels dry, face hot from exertion and the burning gaze of her older peers. "d-don't do that," she stutters, and she's not sure if she's referring to the lie or the bow.

"you dare give me orders?" but there's no heat in his voice, eyes crinkling with humor as he rises to his full height. she has no idea how he can look so amused with a hole in his shoulder, covered in the blood of a man he just killed. he grins lopsided, teeth crooked and painted red. the sight is altogether ghoulish.

limb choppy choppy (lan fan + greed + ling, fma, part of the revival au)

And Greed is stilling his struggles, catching his wandering hand in his own, running comforting circles with his thumb over Ling's blood-smeared cheek. “Hey, you little pissant, this is nothing, piddly kids table shit. Remember that time that one Central soldier tried to gut us? Right down the middle, like splitting a sausage. Goddamn crimson tide. I thought we'd never get the blood out of that coat. Now that was an injury.”

“T-they took my arm.”

“Yeah, and who needs one of those anyway? Gonna get you all sorted, get you one of those shiny metal ones, like your girl Lan Fan here. Guess the adjustment period takes a bit, a year or three, but bet we could expedite the process with proper motivation. I'm thinking sandwiches.”

He laughs, or something approaching as much, a soggy intake of air. She's struck with an unexpected wave of jealousy, that it's Greed that's offering reassurance and intimate personal jokes. A former homunculus, a former demon, a watery imitation of a man. Creature comforts from the creature. It should be me, she thinks, though she has nothing to offer beyond promises of protection, and even those feel like falsehoods after all that has happened here. Comforting platitudes are beyond her. What could I ever say to make this better?

lets get lit fam (greedling + ed, fma)

wobbly-legged, too uncoordinated to walk. almost stumbles into a line of trash cans at the mouth of the alley, but ed hooks his elbow and steers him away. "what the hell were you thinking? we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."

it's not an accusation he's fully equipped to grapple, not when he's still so bleary from sleep—and some other pleasant, dizzying sensation he thinks might be inebriation. he's never woken up drunk before. he's never been drunk before period. "what'd i do?"

"not you, ling. you would have gone straight for the food menu, not the liquor list. i'm talking to the dipshit you share a mental occupancy with. greed, what the hell?"

"was just a few drinks," ling slurs, but it's not his words, or his voice, and wow he's never been so aware of his own tongue before.

solid citizen (ling + greed, fma)

"geez, kid, you're certainly in a mood." so he was reading his thoughts, just fantastic. he look he gives him is withering, but greed pats his shoulder, almost condescendingly, pitying for sure.

"you're plenty fine, kid. i'll give you the ears, but you're top shelf in the looks department otherwise. if you were ugly, i'd tell you straight up. i don't lie. this here," he points to his own face. "is ugly. nothing like my old human face."

it's a bated response, he knows, and he doesn't really feel like playing, but greed did make a passing effort to make him feel better. "human face?"

he beams, dreamily, which is an impressively soft expression to pull off a mouthful of razors, and ling is suddenly reminded of the mythology of the man fawning over his own reflection. surely greed can't be that vain? "yeah i was a real stunner. fucking gorgeous." or maybe he could, apparently, what did ling know anyway.

wreckage (vincent, re-l, ergo proxy)

When she makes it back to the Rabbit, chest burning and damp with exertion, Vincent has already stripped Pino of her overalls and laid her across the table. Cooling fluids draining, frayed wiring spooling out of her gashed torso, sprawled like a tiny metal Tityos. Her left arm is snapped off and dangling at the elbow, her eyes glassy – glass, literal glass – staring at the ceiling. Broken doll parts. Just another disassembled AutoReiv, but this isn't like that at all, because Pino isn't just another AutoReiv. She's like Iggy--

It's almost too much for Re-l to take. Hand over her mouth, breathing sharp through her fingers in short repetitions. Tries to steel herself, to be calm and assertive, because one of them has to be, and Vincent-- Vincent was awkward and mousy and sensitive, Vincent who spilled his cereal and tripped over his own feet and housed an ancient being of unspeakable power in his lanky boy-frame. But his god-strength was of no use here, drowned under the weak, simpering, overpowering grief for something that was no more human than he was.

do NOT worry about meryl (vash + wolfwood + milly, trigun)

milly caught the hurt. naive, for sure, but shrewd. "oh, we'd never think that of you, mr. vash. it's just our job as representatives of the bernadelli insurance society to mitigate any and all damages from the humanoid typhoon, even the rumored ones."

wolfwood: "bernadelli employing a little insurance of their own, eh?"

milly nods. "if we had to pay out claims on every false report of mr. vash's wrongdoings, we'd go belly up in no time!"

caught up on the word 'wrongdoing', growls, "you make it sound like i'm doing any of this on purpose."

"it's just sensible. your name has a lot of weight, vash."

grumbles: "yeah, i'm aware."

"and that's why meryl was so insistent on following up on this one, even knowing it wasn't really you. so many people drag your name through the mud, and it just doesn't seem fair at all."

his name had long since been dragged, strangled and shot, left to rot under a flock of buzzards circling its carcass in the heat. There was no saving it. still, the intent was kind, if not bewildering. "you...were trying to protect my reputation?"

milly looks at him like he's insane for thinking otherwise. "well, yeah. we've come to think of you as a friend, mr. vash, and that's what friends do.”

baby scrub (locke + rachel, ff6)

offers his hand and a single word: "lock."

her faces scrunches distastefully at his uncouth greeting, but she's not sure what else she was expecting from a dirty street boy. "lock?"

"with an e," he adds, as if that clarifies anything.

"that can't be real. you just made that up."

"all names are made up," huffs locke-with-an-e, looking impatient with her slow uptake on this odd world of his. "and i never said it was real, but it's all you're going to get."

spike bday (spike + dawn, btvs)

“if I show you something, you need to promise not to say anything. not to the watcher, or your sister. not to anyone, right?”

even through her tears, she nods, curious. spike's always good for skirting just outside the limits of good taste.

“I'm serious. spool your intestines out your nose, string 'em up like christmas garland. I mean it.”

“colorful threats of bodily dismemberment, I get it.”

hands her a faded yellow tintype. a young man, twenty-five or thirty maybe, a riot of disheveled curls, glasses, frumpy suit. not an unattractive man, but a timid one, uncertainty written into the slanted bow of his shoulders. he had the weedy air of someone who spent a lot of time duct taped to flag poles, or whatever the victorian equivalent would be. did it count as a twirly if you were dunked into a chamber pot?

a rebellious counterpoint in wrinkled tweed to the hard, starched lines of victorian decorum – interesting, but not very relevant. and a little disappointing, if she was being totally honest. spike's anecdotes usually had more flash and gore. “I don't get it.”

he's exasperated, fingers twitching like he's ready to snatch it away, and he tucks his hands under his arms in an awkward self hug. she takes in the hard set of his jaw and the...flush of his cheeks? god, she didn't even know vampires could blush. it had to take some serious breaking of undead physiology to ping that level of embarrassment, and something beyond that even to flap the unflappable spike. he hisses impatiently. “would you just—look at the face.”

and she does, tilting the little photo to and fro in the dim of the crypt. unassuming man-hermione with hair that cannot be tamed. sharp cheekbones and dark heavy brows under the rims of his glasses and suddenly she sees it—him—the angular planes of his face coming into sharp relief, like a camera finding its focus. “oh. oh my god! this is you. holy crap, spike. you look....”

“normal,” he finishes for her, and something in her stomach swoops and clenches, stones in a pond. “mundane.”

“i was going to say like a megawatt dorklord, but we can use your word instead.” she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. he snorts, amused and embarrassed.  

“i was a poet.”

she tried to envision anything beyond smutty limericks carved onto the wall of a bathroom stall.

“were you ever published?”

“i was a shitty poet,” he amends, grimacing.

boston au (spike + dawn, btvs)

bodily kicking a dumpster, sending it careening into the street with a rusty scream of metal. a hydrant follows suit, ripped from the sidewalk. caps off his tantrum with a boot to the side of Angel's GTX, but even the size-10 crater marring the passenger door of the angelmobile did little to ease his frustration.

“better?” dawn asks, when he drops bodily into the driver's seat with an aching sigh, anger dissipating. she looks so tiny and forlorn, knees drawn to her chest, picking at a cigarette burn in the upholstery. two years ago she'd have been a ripe treat, poor little lost lamb. now the idea twists his gut, her sorrow palpable, proprietary, under his skin and in his veins.

“no,” he grunts, staring out impassively at the aftermath of his outburst. water spurting from the sidewalk, skip spilling out into the road. half a dozen cars along the block chirping in a chorus of wailing alarms. and angel in the foyer, something vaguely resembling pity etched across his massive cavebrow. fucking wanker.

...

“we go back to sunnydale then. try again. badger the scoobies until they agree to help. we'll figure this out.”

“i don't want to.” quietly. barely a whisper.

“to figure it out?”

“to go back.”

“dawn...”

“there's nothing there. they're not going to help because i'm nothing. it's an ongoing memorial to my own non-existence. can we not go back? can we just keep driving?”

“where?”

“I don't care. away.”

thinks about leaving sunnydale. thinks about what he's leaving behind. shitty memories, regrets, lost love. he has a small collection of personal effects; records, first edition books, family heirlooms that cannot be replaced, a hundred years of mementos of his whirlwind romance with dru. wonders if he can ring up clem, ask him to send a care package once they get to wherever they're going. looks at dawn in her clearance-rack pajamas, realizes she has lost everything. she has no belongings, no family, no remnants left as evidence she even had a family. nothing but him and her, here, in this moment.

it's just stuff. it's surprisingly easy to let go.

he drives.

taco hell  (spike + dawn, btvs, part of the boston / unravel au)

Right where her window was supposed to be, a swirling doorway of light ringed in licking green flame, spilling out into....a fast food restaurant?

"I think it's Taco Bell," Dawn said, pinching a tissue to her--aw hell--bleeding finger. He took inventory of the spell books around her, the scrying bowl, and the ashy pentagram burnt into 70s shag weave of her bedroom carpet. So much for their security deposit.

"You opened a hell dimension to Taco Bell?"

She craned her head to squint at the pimply teenager manning the register, oblivious to his cross-dimension spectators. "I think it's just a regular Taco Bell. I don't see any dragons or shrimp people or anything."

"Not all alternate universes have shrimp people."

"I know that. You know, it actually looks like the one downtown, across from the KFC? On Kellner? Unless the Kellner Street Taco Bell is a Taco Hell. I've been reading up about liminal spaces, where the fabric between realities is weakened. Maybe it's a hot spot, and all the employees are actually like, octopus centaurs. How would we know? Not like I'm going to crawl over the counter to check, you know?"

"Well, now's your chance to ask Squiddly Diddly here what he's got going on downstairs." Slack-jawed employee finally cottoned on to the door to another universe in the restaurant lobby. Dawn awkwardly waves. Poc Ock waves back, bewildered, before the portal collapses in on itself in a burst of white light.

"It stopped bleeding." she holds up her finger.

-- 

(I don’t think anyone would, but as a precaution: please don’t reblog these to the Herald. They’re sloppy and incomplete and mixed in with a bunch of other fandoms so it’d just be really weird. THANK)

[sxbxb8]

repost bc I don't like how reblog hides the continuation

[nettlekettle]

Beyond The Veil: A Spiritualist AU based on @gothyringwald‘s prompt for the @gradencetrickortreat challenge “Victorian AU. Credence is a medium/spiritualist. Graves is a sceptic”  * November 1899. “My paths are in the fields I know and thine in undiscover'd lands.” From the very beginning it’s clear that Credence is a singular case. The young man is starkly different to all the spirit mediums Graves has exposed as frauds - those thieves who manipulate the desperation of the grief-stricken. It’s an unassuming night and an unassuming setting – a frost touched night in November, the lamp-lit parlor of a wealthy host, the typical gaggle of society ladies and gentlemen that make up the circle. He expects the willowy girl who served the refreshments to take the chair. She seems the typical sort  - dainty, bird-like, with large saucer eyes. She has a fitting name too, Chastity, all holiness and light. The kind of name which pleases the hopeful bereaved. And yet, it’s the son who steps forward. He approaches the chair in a slow, resigned way, sits, folds his hands in his lap, and begins. Credence slips into his medium trance without any theatricality – no puff of smoke nor gibbering lip. One second he is lucid, the next suspended between conscious and subconscious states. His head tips loosely to the side, and a dark lock of hair falls into his eyes. “Credence?” asks Chastity firmly, “Are you ready to begin?” “Yes,” Credence replies in a low tone, “She is with me.” “Who is it that guides you?” asks one woman. “It is my little sister, Modesty” Credence offers in a soft voice. A little sister huffs Graves’ thoughts How perfectly chosen to play to human sensitivity. Yet despite his brain’s protestations, a tiny whisper of doubt whistles through his mind, for there’s an earnestness in Credence. His dark feline eyes are arresting when they alight on Graves’ own. There’s a searching curiosity in his gaze which seems to pierce both mind and soul. * January 1900. “Would breathing thro' his lips impart the life that almost dies in me?” A horrible gurgling noise bubbles up from Credence’s throat. He chokes and splutters fitfully.The other attendees gasp and titter. Graves feels Credence’s pain as a pang in his own chest. Credence shakes, his body knocking heavily against the back of the chair over and over and over and over in a creaking, rapping melody. Theseus’s deep voice booms suddenly from Credence’s slack open mouth. “Percival.” Graves feels sick with shock, and shot through with yearning longing. His dear Theseus! That dear voice, last heard more than a decade ago in an army medical tent, weak and failing, is now clear as a bell. Distinct. True. “Percival.” “Thes,” he murmurs softly, half to himself. “Percival,” Theseus’s voice intones, spewing forth from Credence. “Let me go.” “Theseus, please” Graves hears his own voice say, pleading unashamedly, reaching for Credence’s trembling hand. “Let. Me. Go.” Theseus half-shouts. The table rocks violently on its feet, sending a glass of water flying, shattering against the floor. Credence’s body convulses in the chair, cold sweat staining his starched white shirt under his arms. He wheezes hollowly, a horrible dry rasp. With a final shudder he collapses, a mouthpiece discarded. * May 1900. “Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt.” Italian sun plays across Credence’s face, and his skin is warm when Graves presses a kiss to his temple. Credence sighs a little then, expression tenderly sad as he looks at the rows of marble tombs which inhabit the Cimitero degli Inglesi. “I never asked them to come to me,” Credence says guiltily out of nowhere. “I never wanted it.” “- and yet, you did not shut them out.” Graves replies. They walk in silence through the graveyard, clusters of purple spring flowers around their ankles. Credence trails his fingertips over crucifixes and urns and angels. “I have been thinking lately,” Credence confesses, “that my Summerland will be Florence, with you by my side.” “Will you be able to find me?” Graves finds himself asking, “when we are but spirits? I will surely die before you do, my darling.” “Yes,” Credence answers with absolute certainty, “my soul will recognise its beloved, even beyond the veil.” 

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 14

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, Victorian Fic. 
Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ credits go to the lovely ladies at Tom-Hiddleston-Imagine.Tumblr.com. Link to the imagine here…. http://tom-hiddleston-imagines.tumblr.com/post/158156795440/gif-lokihiddleston-imagine-thomas-spying-on-you
 Chapter number: Chapter 14 Author: Punk-in-docs Triggers/warnings: Angst. Sadness. Feels. This one, will break your heart. I was intending to save this til the very end, but I think it needs to be in the middle. To propel the story forwards a bit. Get the tissues ready, lads/lassies… It’s bout to get hella sad.

~ A Year and a Half Ago ~

Oakhampton, though it was a country sanatorium, was a grand old ruin. A place time seemed to have forgotten since the turn of the twentieth century. It had echoing halls, drafty windows and ancient decor. It looked as if some forgetful hospital staff member had mislaid some equipment in a grand home. Mistakenly leaving it behind.

Vianne sat. In her armchair, angled to look out the window, down over the gardens that winter had dulled in colour, and slaughtered. Everything looked grey, to her eye. The windows weeped condensation. And she was sat too far away from the fireplaces warmth to feel the benefit of it, heating up her high ceilinged, drafty room. Of which the crown moulding paint was starting to chip away, and the floorboards were freezing, and terribly loud. It’s coldness, lack of character, cracked skirting and eerie silences reminded Vianne very horribly of Allerdale.

She couldn’t do much as it was. Of course, Oakhampton had courses for their patients to enjoy. Knitting. Embroidering, still life, and watercolours. But she held little desire to sit out of doors in the freezing cold painting landscapes, or a bowl of fruit atop a pedestal.

Instead, she sits. She stares at the gardens. And she just about exists.

A nurse came in every hour or so, to check on her. Offer her a cup of tea, or something cheering from the kitchens. With that friendly smile they seemed paid to keep on their faces. She always politely declined. On some days they left a cup and saucer of tea at her side anyway. Still she let them grow cold.

She grew too thin, the doctors said. Warning her. She wished good riddance on it. On the child that never should have been. They’d warned her she was at serious risk of being undernourished and not being healthy enough to carry the child. Or give it the sustenance and nourishment it needed. She merely sat silently as they explained it to her. She didn’t want to care for this baby anymore. This damned, annoyance of a thing that cost her a husband and a marriage. Some days. She hated it. She truly did.

She paid little attention to all the aches and pains of her newfound condition. The swollen ankles, the constant backache. The stomach churning nausea, the cravings that were rampant both night and day. She could hardly bear to move sometimes. She just sat in that chair and toiled her days away. Growing weaker, and thinner.

Sometimes she cried, out of nowhere, the sadness, and the loneliness, seized her all over again. The doctor diagnosed it as no more than hormonal mood swings. But she knew the roots of it went deeper than any mood.

When she wept. Her hands went to cradle the sizeable pregnant bump that was now her only remaining admonition of her Thomas. And she wept til there were no tears left. She didn’t know if she hated it or loved it.

Hector had visited last month. And had promised to do so again soon when his workload wasn’t so strenuous. He’d brought her well-wishes, comforting smiles that concealed his evident speechlessness about her obvious condition, and a brown paper, bag full of fresh grapes, as if she were an invalid. Which, when she was in this place, she supposed thats what she now was. And that was how the world now saw her. It was all that she was reduced to. The sad, tragic, spinster, alone and burdened with child.

Nowadays she felt like half of a whole.

A hopeless, useless vessel. Only fit to be filled with despair and anguish. She hadn’t felt human in such a long, long time. She felt no more than a carrier for lost hope and the next Sharpe heir.

She, naively, thought her pain had passed. With each day. It grew foggier, distant, and less acute in her mind. But then one rainy, cold, winters day, just like all the others, the pain begins anew. And it was more potent than any she’d felt before.

She had moved to stand, getting up to replace a tattered book on the windowsill shelf. Thinking how rotten it was that all her first edition, leather bound, favourites she’d had to abandon, and leave behind in Cumbria… When a sudden flare of pain bursts through her abdomen. Causing her to stumble forwards and slam her hand to the wall to steady herself. She gasped. Loudly. Knocking the end table over as she staggered. She hears the porcelain teacup that had been sat there, break and smash on the dark floorboards below. But she can’t afford to care about that now…

She dreaded feeling the sudden rush of hot fluids dripping down her legs. A terrifying signal that her child was ready, and wished to make it’s entrance, kicking and screaming into the world. She didn’t feel ready. She grasped at her belly, sobbing as the first ripple of pain flared up through her body. She sobbed a benediction to god. Doubling over. Tears dripping from the corner of her scared eyes. The pain so potent already it was making her toes curl.

She tries to call for a nurse, crying before the pain interrupts her once again. She doesn’t let out more than a strangled choke. Thundering footsteps barrelling into the room signify that someone had heard her cries of despair.

All of a sudden, pairs of hands grapple her arms, and shoulders and pull her upright. She is manoeuvred over to the bed. Clinging hard onto the palm of whichever hand offered itself to her in comfort, gritting her teeth through the pain.

She is flattened to the crisp, eiderdown of her single bed. The bronze bedstead rattling into the wall as she is settled with a jarring thud onto the mattress. Panting and breathing hard as she helped the nurse strip her of her gown, down to her chemise, and pulling on a starched, white nightdress over her head, instead. Saving the gown from all the trials of childbirth.

She’d lost count of how many times the mind numbing pain swells in her body. But before long, she is sweating, cursing and groaning. Shouting the chipped, flaking, ceiling down.

No one had told her the pain would be as great as this. She cries more when she realises that she had no one to pre-warn her how great the pain would be. She felt like her body was being split open from the inside out with a blunt knife. Gouging out her innards. Fiery agony searing her guts like hell itself. The doctor is sent for, and arrives. And administered her a sip of laudanum for pain relief. But all that seems to do for her is to make the pain hazier.

She writhes on that bed. In agony. For hours, that felt more like years. Gritting her teeth through it all. Huffing and panting. Soaked to the bone in perspiration, red cheeked, exhausted. Crying because of the pain and then because of the tiredness. Tendrils of hair stuck to her neck and cheeks. And all the while she panted, puffed and pushed. And worked her way through the excruciating labour pains.

And, worst of all, Now more than ever, visions of her ex-husband found their niggling, devastating way behind her closed eyelids. She wanted him. Here. By her side. Clutching her hand. Or pacing outside, treading the halls, like a dark, dashing panther. Awaiting the news. Or waiting to hear the baby cry. She screws her eyes shut through the contractions. And when she opens her eyes. She dies all over again when she discovers he isn’t there. She knew, his sins were great. Indulging in an incestuous affair with his sister, killing, murdering, seducing, and then slaughtering women at their will, and all just for riches. And at Lucille’s bloodlust leisure. When she found out about their affair. She was both unbelievably livid, yet utterly destroyed at the same time. She felt her heart shatter when she heard. And what she heard them discussing after, it made her wish she had carried on drinking the poisoned tea. So she could slip away and die in her own pit of shame. Hating him for what he’d done. Damning him to hell as she went there herself for ever allowing herself to love such a man as he.

Actually. That should be, for enduring all that, and still, loving a man such as he. She still loved him. And she hated it with the fury of a thousand burning suns. Because she simply didn’t want too any more. She couldn’t do it. Yet her stupid, idiotic heart was invested and she could not withdraw it from him for the life of her.

She thought about his laugh. His smile. The profile of that handsome face masked in deep concentration when he was fixing things. The peppermint and engineering oil scent that clung onto his clothes, that she could detect when he drew near. That ravens hair and how it shone in candlelight. That set of piercing eyes, that saw right through her. That immovable, unflappable attention span of his that never missed a thing. And yet… It had missed her concealing the greatest secret of all.

All of it torments her when she screws her eyes shut and curses his name for putting her in this predicament.

It is not so much the labour pains she could hardly stand, but rather the broken fragments of her miserable heart that is causing her the most agony of all. Knowing that after all this pain, she would have nothing to show for it. Hector had assured her it had all already been prearranged.

After the pain stopped. She’d have no reminders of Thomas Sharpe to cling too anymore.

Labour moves along at a glacial pace. She stalks the room like a caged beast. Grunting her lungs out. Clutching at the nearest hard object when the pain came again. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take it. The torment seemed to be never ending. Both the physical and emotional.

She cries out so many times that she couldn’t do it. She wants to give up. She doesn’t want this child. Or that she wants to die. She wants to be dead and buried rather than have to go through the excruciation of pushing one more time. Wiping away her tears, quickly, before the nurse saw them, at the irony of her making such a wish. Considering she had uprooted her entire life, derailed a marriage, and risked ruination trying to preserve the exact opposite.

She had lied. Tricked. And threatened her way out of a marriage. And in turn, had been lied, tricked and cheated on. What kind of a mother could she be to this baby? What kind of a father did they have? Not even half of a decent one they deserved. No child should be brought into the world with a mother as wretched as her, with an absent father to boot. Absent by her own doing. Which only makes her cry harder. She had pushed him away, and now she had to deal with the consequences. Dire as they were.

She reflects on this as she grits her teeth through a yell as she bows her head and clutched onto the bedstead with sweating palms, as she stood. The kind nursemaid rubbed soothing circles on her back. Telling her what an excellent job she was doing. How good she was being.

Vianne bit her tongue. So she didn’t shout out in a sob that she was doing the absolute opposite. She was doing a cowardly, despicable thing. Carrying the burden of this child all on her own without even telling her own husband she was expecting. She was sure there was a space in hell reserved entirely for her, for that sin.

“Damn you..” She sobs through another stab of pain. “Damn you…” She cries. Head slumping onto her hands. And she’s not entirely sure who it is she’s damning. Either herself, or the memory of the man she loves, as his face haunts her mind.

“Damn you to hell.” She weeps. “I hate you. Thomas. I hate you. For doing all you did to me. And yet I still love you. You bastard… I can’t stop. I can’t stop loving you… I want to stop.” She cried, wailing in her agony. To a very taken aback, bewildered, nurse.

She starts crying all the harder. Wailing all the more. Letting the sadness tear her apart just as the strain of labour was. She finds herself wishing for things she never thought she would.

She wish she’d stayed at Allerdale Hall… She wish she’d let them both just torture her and kill her. And subject her to every kind of pain, suffering, and torment imaginable…. Because then atleast, her small mercy would be that she would be free of the crushing, excruciating guilt of having Thomas’s baby without him even knowing she was expecting one… She wanted to be dead. She wanted to curl up and simply rot away… She doesn’t deserve to cling onto the painful curse, and tragedy that was now her pitiful excuse for a life. She realised she didn’t want the baby she’d fought so hard to keep.

The pain was reaching it’s peak now. And Vianne was entirely certain that she was being set on fire from the inside out. She is coaxed on her back again. Legs spread, pulled wide apart, and writhing on her back in agony as shock waves of pain pour freely and frequently through her. The midwife issues instructions and murmurs of encouragement, telling her when and how to breathe and push. Vianne sobs. Shaking her head. Screaming aloud that she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to do it. She yells and screams at the top of her lungs. Hot tears searing her cheeks.

But then it suddenly stops. As if someone had muffled all sound from her ears. She pants, and her eyes snap open when she hears something else, whining and pitchy, shrieking and fussing…

Because now, it appeared it was someone else’s turn to do the crying instead.

She sees the nurses wrapping a small bundle of blankets right around a squirming, furiously, pink, newborn. It’s face gnarled and swollen as it cried. The ugly sound it made piercing her ears. But she cannot take her eyes from it. It’s dainty ears pinned back, like moulded pink pastry. And she makes a noise of utter, guttural longing when she sees it has sticky tufts of dark, ink black, hair, like it’s father. Its skin was viciously red. As if it had just been harshly scrubbed all over with a scouring brush.

Vianne is enchanted from her first look, and when the soft, warm and worming, little thing is placed in her arms, she seems to snap into life, placing her arms around it. She cradles the baby to her chest. Watching it protest as it’s tiny, starfish hands grappled into the air, reaching for it’s mouth or it’s eyes. Which when they peeked open, she can see they are the darkest grey, almost black. The ear splitting shrieks stop once the baby catches the familiar scent of their mother, close by.

She strokes the child’s sticky head. Not bothering to hold back tears at seeing it had her ex-husbands colouring. She cries. And though the midwives, doctor and nurse smile as they think it is in hormonal, overwhelming joy. It was actually because she knows in that minute, that she’d never love anything more devotedly than this baby she held in her arms.

But come tomorrow, she’d have to let them go. Never to see them again.

Her eyelids start to droop. And her breathing gets shallower. Her heartbeat slows. Before she can register that her body is growing limper and weaker, she just knows she wants to rest her eyes for a good long while.

She feels the small, warm bundle lifted from her grip. Voices rouse around her. Ordering, shouting. Rushing in panic. She feels hands jab between her legs again, pulling and tugging. She doesn’t feel the pain, isn’t able to see the blood, gore and trial of the second unexpected circumstance that was now unfolding.

She hears nor feels any of it. Not a single thing.

But as her head sinks back to join with the pillows behind her neck. She sighs, and then comes the comforting tug of sleep.

She drops off the precipice of consciousness, into dreams. And it was alarming how comfortable she became, with the idea of never awakening again.

~

When she does regain consciousness, she does so slowly.

She gently peels open her eyes. Reunited with the familiar, peeling, ceiling letting her know she was still at Oakhampton. Her eyes adjust to see it was now light outside once more. Daylight sliced in through a thin crack in the heavy curtains. Daggering across the end of her bed.

She blinks. Tasting the foulness of her breath, and her eyes feeling stuck, as if having been glued together in her rest. Her head was pounding relentlessly with the kind of potent ache that made her eyes water.

When she tried to move her body, the flare of pain makes her gasp in a wordless cry. Her voice hoarse from dehydration. Her throat was sore and tender. She didn’t even possess the strength to moan aloud in pain. She felt black and blue all over. And from the waist down, she aches in a foul way she never knew she could ache. And the tightness she felt was the bandages and dressings that bound her lower body.

She felt like her entire form had been to hell and back. And then she scoffs in dry amusement. Because in her previous life, she’s not all entirely uncertain she hadn’t been. Only hell wasn’t brimstone and fire. It was snow. Snow and bitter arctic cold, along with a dark, rotting house, and oozing clay the colour of blood.

When she gains enough strength to summon her arms into use. A soft clinking makes her look up, only now realising that the back of her hand was tethered with a thick tube. She winces, glancing up to see a blood bottle, and other antibiotics being fed into her helpless body via a drip stand.

Her free hand fumbles for the bedside. Which it finds, and her fingers graze the soft, flimsy paper of a greetings card.

She looks over, and groans, gripping it in her weak fingers, she plucks it and brings it closer. Through blurry eyes, she sees the front reads ‘Congratulations’ in a sickening calligraphic hand. Swirled with watercolour flowers, and depicting an insipid stalk, dangling a bundle of joy from it’s beak.

Her heart hardens, and more tears come before she realises she was sobbing. Glancing around the room again. She notices then, a most painful absence… No noises. No cooing, or shrieking. No bassinet or baby crib. No feeding bottles, clothing, or linen…

Or Baby.

She flips open the card, reading it’s contents. It was from Hector. Who told her that after giving birth, she’d suffered severe blood loss, and had consequently been unconscious for four whole days as a result.

He also assures her that it was the kind thing to do. That as she recovered, the matter would be swiftly dealt with. And she should try and put aside feeling and emotion, to understand that she’d be a ruined, fallen woman forever if she had decided to keep them. They had gone to a good place, to happier pastures. And as soon as she recovered. He would be glad to see her restored back in London. As if nothing had changed.

But nothing could be further from the truth...

When she comes to the last line, detailing sparse details regarding the sex and weight of the baby, she let’s the card slip from her fingers. Fluttering to the floor. She cries for the Nurse. For her child. Sobbing. Wanting to ease her pain, ease her loss. But they can do no such thing.

They hadn’t told her that she’d had Twins.

Hector had had them named similarly after her departed parents, Julia and Artmeis. Her Baby Boy, weighing in at four pounds, one ounce. Was christened, Arthur Earnest-James. And Baby Girl, weighing in at three pounds, two ounces. Christened as, Juliette Earnest-James. Her babies. Hers and Thomas’s children. Ones that she’d never meet.

~

@frenchfrostpudding @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog I’m sorry. 😁 this is the weepy chapter. Hope you still enjoy.

[fitnessonpointtk-blog]

Diet For Weight Loss in seven Days

The earliest reference point: All common things aside from bananas. Your initial day involves all the natural item he desires. Solidly planned to eat up AN intemperate live of lemon on the principal day. significantly watermelon and melon. If the foremost remote purpose usage of traditional things simply watermelon and melon your possibilities to lose one.3kg within the main day area unit extraordinary.

You are fixing your system to the going with enterprise. Your merely wellspring of food area unit new or canned. Natural things area unit nature’s optimum sustenance. they provide all that you just might have to continue with a robust life.

Day Two: All vegetables. you’re inspired to eat till you fill it with all of the vegetables you’ve got to cook and moreover the free au gratin. there’s no limitation on the complete or type you’ve got to choose. For your uncommon sugar, you’ll begin day 2 with AN large warm potato for breakfast. you’ll incorporate a bit oleomargarine patets if you need.

Day 2 begins with advanced starches to affix AN estimations of oil. This taken within the morning for imperativeness and equality. The take once on the second day contains basic vegetables that area unit sans calorie and provides vital supplements and fiber values.

Day Three: a mixture of results of the dirt to choose her as you wish. regardless of the whole, any size. nevertheless no bananas. there’s no potatoes nowadays.

Day 3 discards the potato since you get your sugars through natural things. Your system is at the present organized to start to seethe excess pounds. you’ll regardless craving nevertheless it’ll begin to fade by the fourth day.

Day Four: Bananas and milk. nowadays you’ll eat eight additional bananas and drinkable 3 glasses of milk. this can joined with an interesting soup which may be crushed in confined sums.

Fourth Day, bananas, expend and bear the strangest sounds and worst, or not? Besides, we’ve a stun. You probably won’t eat all of the bananas that area unit allowed (8 more). In any case, for those of you World Health Organization have lost metallic element and metallic element that has been missing 3 days. can|you’ll|you may} begin to ascertain lost searching for pastries and you’ll be surprised however basic these days will go.

Fifth Day: nowadays is that the day supper. The chief .. weight diminishment diet for seven days there affair! nowadays you’ll eat meat and tomatoes. Eat 2 sections of three hundred grams of ground cut sandwich. Bon even ground cut sandwiches. Merge tomatoes have dinners with vi complete. On the fifth day you must construct the live of beverage for one cubic decimeter. this is often to purge your game arrange of excretory product harmful that you just can create.

The fifth day, ground cut sandwich and tomatoes. Minced meat is for iron and proteins, and tomatoes area unit for absorption and fiber. the maximum amount water as you’ll to clear your structure. nowadays you’ll notice exhausting pee. live of meat systematically is comparable to five hamburger. you need not feel that require you to eat all that meat … the foremost compelling allowed. In any case, you irrefutably got to eat six tomatoes.

Day Six: Beef and vegetables. nowadays burger and vegetables while not restriction. HA wear heart.

Day Six is the same man with the fifth day, iron and macromolecule from farm creatures’ meat, vitamins and fiber from vegetables. immediately your structure is completely organized to urge additional slender. you must equally see large changes within the method they give the impression of being Sote differentiated and therefore the principal day.

Day Seven: nowadays your sustenance involves chestnut rice, natural item squeeze and every one in every of the vegetables that you just got to exhaust.

Seventh Day shuts the task sort of a nice (cigarette doesn’t surprise t’mira) that’s wont to complete the Victorian dinners, aside from that a good deal additional useful. promptly you’ve got your system in check and it ought to many thanks for the flushing and cleansing you’ve got given.

Weight drop-off diet for seven days finish here in lightweight of the actual fact that here completion up the seventh day.

[sxbxb8]

This was supposed to be a cute valentines art, but then I started redrawing the whole thing to fit the current canon story, and now it’s a Starch victorian (timeline is still ambiguous lowkey) AU where March is chronically ill and Stelle takes care of her as a good rich wife 😔 their marriage initially wasn’t because of big love, but just bc of Stelle’s desire to help March get out of the abusive household and their stupid “medical” practices. This is all kinda gothic too in my mind, and people gossip that Stelle is also abusive or a freak for marrying a very ill person… yeah I have a lot of ideas but I haven’t even finished this piece yet 😭😭😭