#with all his fancy waistcoats and his cravats and his beautiful coats!

[goatsandgangsters]

Nikolai Lantsov Fashion: Royalty Edition

Nikolai still hovered in the doorway. He wore full military dress, a pale blue sash across his chest. The light from the parlor glinted off his medals and gilded the edges of his golden hair. He was playing the role of the polished prince tonight. But standing there, he just looked like a lonely boy who didn’t want to return to a party by himself.

[palimpsessed]

Writerly Ephemera

I was tagged by @amywaterwings @mostlymaudlin @tea-brigade @effing-numpties @captain-aralias @bloodiedpixie . This is so cool, so thanks for sharing yours! ❤️

Per Amy: We add little bits of ourselves to our writing, scattering memories and places and phrases and things into our stories. The game is to find five examples of this, of YOU, in your writing and show everyone.

I don’t really feel like I put much of my own experiences into my fic, probably because I don’t feel like I have a lot of experiences to pull from. (That’s not me being self-deprecating; that’s me never going anywhere or doing anything.) So, let’s see what we come up with!

Going to tag here. I feel like I’ve gotten to this late so I’m not sure who has been tagged. Anyway. No pressure, loves. Just saying hi. 🥰 @theflyingpeach @bazzybelle @otherworldsivelivedin @unseelieseelie @wetheformidables @caitybug @nightimedreamersworld @foolofabookwyrm @stillmadaboutpetra

1. I have put the most of myself into A Man of Letters. I have my degree in English Lit and when I was in college, I was at the height of my Jane Austen obsession. So I sort of built my degree around the development of the English novel. My senior thesis was on a book called Evelina by Frances Burney, who was one of Austen’s greatest literary influences. Evelina is an epistolary novel—told entirely in letters. I love the epistolary form, for the same reason I love dialogue and texting fics. It’s such a fun narrative technique and can reveal so much about individual characters. It’s actually a bit like the way Rainbow Rowell uses multi POV in her books. Anyway, my love of the epistle was on full display in this fic, which is ofc told in letters. —Do I share a passage? That’s like...the whole fic 😅 So, idk. Here’s Simon being a disaster as he meditates on letter writing:

Dear Penny,

As I start this letter, I already know I'm not going to post it. I know I won't be able to bring myself to do it, because of what I have to say to you. I do feel bad. It's not that I don't want to tell you. And you know I'm so much better at writing things down than saying them out loud. It's only that I feel like this would all sound better coming from me in person. I just don't think I'll be able to make you understand in a letter. I'm still trying to understand myself. And writing all of this down helps me with that. Even if I'm only pretending to write to you, it makes me feel better, to think of you on the other end. I promise I really will tell you everything as soon as we're together again.

2. Also for A Man of Letters, my fascination with Regency fashions, in particular the dandy, was a major factor. I did an art book about this, comparing how fashion has changed over time, especially in regard to gender. (I also did an art book based on Evelina, since I’m on the subject. I minored in book art. 😁) I always fancied the look of a Regency dandy, so that was my gift to Baz.

Whoever has been working their magic on Salisbury should in fact be the person to whom I offer my eternal devotion. Alas, I am left to flounder under the burden of lusting after a man who is incapable of dressing himself.

The utter and unmitigated shame.

Salisbury wore a forest green wool frock coat that set off the golden highlights in his brown locks. This was accented with a green and aubergine striped silk waistcoat that was trimmed in white piping and felt much too daring a pattern for the man. (I don't care if he was a soldier; it takes a hardier man than him by half to choose a stripe like that.) His charcoal trousers were enticingly snug, but not so much to prove lethal. His cravat and points left much to be desired, though that likely reflected poorly on his ability to keep himself in order, rather than the ability of his valet. (Good God, maybe the man doesn't even have a valet!)

3. When it came to my countdown fic, To the Manor Borne, I had Shep make a reference to Cluedo, because Pitch Manor would be perfect for a real life game. Behind that, is the fact that my family played a lot of Clue and I watched the movie a whole bunch growing up, to the point where my sister and I used to quote it to each other. This was a way to pay homage to that. He also talks about playing the game Murder in the Dark, which was one I played at Halloween as a kid. One of my cousins was dressed as a ghoul with glow in the dark face paint and we were in my grandma’s creepy upstairs. Perfect vibes.

I’ve seen the kitchen and the dining room and the library and the study and the parlor. Walking through this house is like playing Clue. (They call it Cluedo on this side of the pond, because they like to be difficult.) (That was a whole thing. Do not get me started.)

I keep thinking Colonel Mustard’s going to pop up out of nowhere and brain me with a lead pipe.

And:

What kind of games do you play with magickal friends who don't have magic? Twister? Not with the wings and tail. Cards? Baz and Penny would cheat. Or accuse everyone else of cheating if they didn't win. Murder in the dark? With these people, in this house, I knew it would turn literal fast, and also it was like ten in the morning. Hide and seek? Simon and I would hide and everyone else would ditch. Snowball fight? World War III.

4. I’ve referenced Mozart in my fics a couple of times because when I was first getting into classical music, I was listening to a lot of Mozart. My sister had a CD of some of his early symphonies, and my local classical station does “Mozart in the Mornings” which happened to fit in the exact time slot between two morning classes I had my first year in college. I’d go sit in my car with a cup of tea, and just vibe with Mozart as my soundtrack. I’ve name dropped him in both A Man of Letters and To the Manor Borne. Also, Mozart wrote 12 variations on the melody shared by Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, which is a lovely tie in. (I also had the gang sing/cast The Holly and the Ivy, which is one of my favorite Christmas carols, and by strange coincidence was playing on the radio at the same time I wrote that scene. 🥰)

"It's a songbook," I tell him, like he can't figure that out for himself. "Did you know that Mozart wrote twelve different versions of the same song?"

He's laughing. "Mozart did not write Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Simon."

"You know what I mean."

"He composed twelve variations for solo piano on the French folk melody Ah! Vous dirai-je, maman."

"Sure. Anyway, this is for the violin. For you to play."

He's still laughing, and I'm trying to figure out what's so funny, but then he kisses me again, on the lips this time, so I figure maybe I'm still doing okay.

Only one more to go! What will it be? 👀

5. Therapy! Eheheh...😅 Look, it’s no secret the gang needs it. And tbh, so do I. Haven’t actually managed to get myself to go yet, and I think that’s where a lot of my “send them to therapy” happy endings come from. I did it in Use Your Words and To the Manor Borne. I started Chamber by Chamber with SnowBaz already in therapy, and then structured the whole thing around therapy that they give to each other and to themselves. It didn’t really fit in A Man of Letters, but if it had, I absolutely would have done it. I’ve only shared from two fics so far, and since it could kind of spoil the ending to Use Your Words (tho saying this may be spoiler anyway...), here are two snippets from It’s a Kind of Magic, Part I of Chamber by Chamber.

I've been working on articulating my needs. We both have. Ordinarily, I'd be afraid of pushing him away by making demands when he's on the verge of a spiral, but my therapist insists that I can't go on treating Simon with kid gloves. If I never ask him for anything, he'll think he doesn't have anything to give.

And

When I told that to my therapist, she said that I needed to talk it out of me and she'd help me find ways to work through it all. She said I needed to talk it out with Baz, too, so that he'd know how to help me when things got bad again—that was something else she said, that things would get bad again, and that I'd need to be prepared for that. That I couldn't expect things to be easy, and just go away.

6. BONUS! I think the biggest way I include bits of myself is in the AUs I’ve chosen to write. I have three I’m planning that say a lot about me, so I’m going to talk a bit about them here. There is ofc my Scooby Doo AU, inspired in large part by the fact that I watched it all the time growing up and also, my sister continues to be obsessed with it. When we were young, my parents were doing a lot of work on their house and we’d take family trips to the hardware store. My sister and I hated it, so we’d wait in the car with my mom and she would entertain us with “Scooby Doo stories”. Other AUs I’m planning? Troop Beverly Hills—please tell me someone else out there loved this movie the way I did when I was 5. It was very influential to baby me and I remember wishing for nothing more than being able to dress like Shelley Long. So, I’m going to let Baz do it, because I think he deserves it. 🥰 Lastly, tho it will probably be the first I write, is my Cupid and Psyche AU, from when I was heavy into mythology and religion. Since these are all forthcoming projects, I don’t really have a snippet. Instead, here’s Baz comparing Simon to Eros, which is what started my brain on that particular AU.

I am lost. I barely know anything about Salisbury, but I can't help being drawn in. At one time, I could have comforted myself that I was only so smitten with him because he looks like he was sculpted by Praxiteles. That excuse grows weaker with every encounter. He's the furthest thing from a lifeless tribute to beauty in marble as one can be. There is something deep and dark and feral inside of him and I want to claw it out. I want to see it, to let it free. To taste his wildness and his pain.

[takethisroad]

Idk if you're still taking prompts but I'm tipsy and all my heart desires is Jack Rackham just fuckin. Feelin himself. Like he's got a great outfit on, gender expression is optional, he's just feelin beautiful and havin a good time. Bonus for any extra Anne being snarky/supportive, and bonus for VaneRackham because I'm weak for them, but truly anything goes

Listen, I am always taking prompts! Plus, I LOVE THIS. What a wonderful prompt! (I am also combining this with @snooksscribbles request for a “fashion-forward Jack moment” because do we not all love our favourite disaster pirate being at the cutting edge of the latest trends? We do.)

Also, this ficlet comes with its own meme.

Jack is a trans man in this. I am cis; any mistakes or misrepresentations are my fault alone.

Honestly, can we please all take a collective Moment to imagine - they’ve just come into port to refit and celebrate after their latest haul. Evening is falling fast as the sun sinks heavy beneath the choppy waves in the harbour, casting long blue shadows down the dusty streets of Nassau town.

It could be peaceful, if it weren’t for the raucous din coming from the brothel: drunken men, merchants and pirates alike hollering for ale and rum and whores; the jeering, bawdy laughter of onlookers at the gambling tables mixing with the tight high giggles of women pretending to be amused. Later, Jack knows, there will be fighting added to the mix; there always is, when the Ranger crew is ashore, no matter how recent the conquest at sea. Hallett will spit in Old Man Cooper’s drink, or Wilkins will crack one too many jokes about Price’s mum being a goat, and everything will devolve into fists and swords and slaughter until Jack goes down to do his duty as quartermaster, appeasing all the fragile egos and cleaning the mess up again.

But until then, he’s here. The rooms in the brothel aren’t soundproof by any means (and privately Jack thinks Max must like it that way, allowing her to keep a bead on the mood downstairs at any given time) but with the door closed and the room illuminated by the slanting rays of the sinking sun and the candles on the table, he can almost pretend. The flickering candlelight plays over the treasure trove spread across the bed. It is, if not the haul of a lifetime, at least the best haul this month to be sure. (Other men may not think so, but other men don’t have Jack’s flair for fashion.) He runs his hands reverently over the array of fabric: here, the slippery smoothness of a silk-lined waistcoat, there, the fine, airy weave of a muslin shift.

A snort draws his attention up from the pile of clothes to where Anne is holding a satin skirt like it’s a dead animal. “There’s dresses in this,” she says, in the tone of one handling something particularly gruesome or slimy.

“There are,” Jack murmurs in agreement while sizing up a burgundy wool coat. The silver thread used for the embroidery is unraveling in several places, but overall it seems serviceable enough. When he lowers it, Anne is still looking at him.

“You don’t like dresses. Don’t he know that?” Jack nods. “Why’d he give you this, then?”

"I believe he just crammed what he could into the crate,” Jack answers honestly. Then, at her skeptical look: “Darling, please let’s neither of us delude ourselves that Charles Vane would take the time to sort through petticoats and sashes during a raid.”

Anne drops the skirt. “Fine.” She stomps back over to the chair in the corner and flings herself into it, posture insolent as any man’s. Jack’s heart squeezes with almost painful fondness at the sight.

“I wouldn’t have taken it if it truly bothered me,” he says after a moment of her mulish silence. He knows she knows, but still, better to make it explicit. He wants to enjoy tonight and her and Vane at each other’s throats is not on the agenda.

There’s no reply from the chair, but the tight line of her lips eases slightly, which he counts as a victory. He turns his attention back to the clothes. Where to start?

The sun has set completely by the time Jack decides on an outfit. The candles are dripping wax onto the bare wood of the table, but their light is at least good enough to see himself by in the tarnished mirror. He twists one way, then the other, before turning to Anne. “What do you think?”

It’s quite a sight if he does say so himself. The blue silk chemise catches the light and ripples like waves with his every movement. He sheds his baldric to better admire the patterns of small flowers printed at the hems and collar; no expense was spared in this craftsmanship.

Anne has been silent. “Something the matter, darling?”

“No.” Then, a moment later: “Why’re you bothering? Getting all fancy for him?”

Jack pauses where he’d been fiddling with his favourite orange cravat. “For him? No, no this is for me.”

Anne looks at him suspiciously.

“It feels good. Sometimes one does things for no other reason than that.”

Anne stares at him a moment longer, as if parsing the veracity of his statement. She must reach a conclusion because she sighs and stands up. “It brings out your eyes.”

Jack fiddles with his rings to hide the smile her words bring to his lips. It doesn’t bring out his eyes; it does clash horribly with the yellow brocade justacorps he shrugs on. But he recognizes that comment for what it is: Anne, offering support, which is infinitely more wonderful to him than all the silk chemises in the world.

“Thank you,” he says softly. Then, as she heads towards the door, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

She nods once and is gone, leaving Jack alone in the room. He twists to the mirror again, admiring the swish and fall of the fabric, the rakish silhouette it creates. For a moment, he hears the rustling of silk and remembers the same sound, from long ago. He takes a breath and squares his shoulders, reminds himself of the years and oceans between now and then. He is not thirteen anymore, and now he has Anne, who will kill anyone who tries to put him in a dress. Even Charles. The thought is oddly comforting, and Jack whistles to himself as he takes one last indulgent look in the mirror and heads downstairs.

The sun may have gone down but the volume of the tavern has only gone up. Patrons are spilling rum and falling all over each other, turning the courtyard into a heaving mess of unwashed bodies and unintelligible voices. Jack pauses on the landing to take stock, noting the other crews that have since come in: he can see Sully, first mate of the Fortitude, cheating at cards with Joshua from the Walrus crew (he makes a mental note to be well clear of this place before Flint ever hears about it); a dozen other regulars are crowded round the bar, hoping against hope to barter for drinks on the house - more the fool they, for Max runs a tight ship.

The real focus of his attention is sitting in a grey haze of smoke off in a corner, and Jack makes his way down the stairs and through the throng of drunk, sweaty pirates with as much grace as he can muster. If he puts a bit of extra swagger in his walk, well. He's Jack bloody Rackham. He's earned it.

Charles is drinking from a tankard of rum. When he sees Jack, it hits the table with a thump.

"Evening, Charles."

A long slow exhalation of smoke. "Jack."

Jack doesn't shiver at the way Charles says his name, but it's close. He nudges at the toe of Charles' boot where his feet are propped on a chair. "Do you mind?"

In another time, in another life, if Jack were someone else, Charles might remove his feet only to kick the chair over, might spread his legs and leer, might drag Jack into his lap, why don't you have a seat here, sweetheart? This isn't that life. Charles removes his feet, shoves the chair and the rum towards Jack who takes both with a nod. He takes a quick swig of the rum, wincing slightly at the bitter burn.

Charles is still looking at him. His cigar is dangling from his fingers, slowly burning down. "The clothes fit, then?"

"Half of it was non-salvageable," Charles' fingers twitch, "but the pieces that were... Well." Jack gestures to himself. "If the clothes make the man, then I am well-made indeed."

"Huh," Charles says. And then: "You look good."

Plain. Simple. Easy. A statement of fact. It has no business sending a thrilling warmth through Jack's veins, and yet. He allows himself the slightest bit of preening. Then, emboldened by the burn of the rum and the weight of silk and brocade against his skin, "Thanks to you."

Charles has precious few tells but the way his eyes narrow fractionally at Jack's words is one of them. A heavy silence falls between them. Jack sits up straighter, squares his shoulders; he doesn't miss the way Charles' gaze tracks to the hollow of his throat.

"Fuck," Charles hisses, dropping the forgotten cigar which has burned down to his fingers. He crushes the stub under his boot heel and looks back to Jack.

"You know, nice as it is to get some peace and quiet -" Jack is cut off as a chair sails through the air to crash against the opposite wall, quickly followed by its occupant, "I was rather hoping we could do something other than sit and brood at each other all evening."

“Yeah?” Charles is leaning forward now, and Jack’s not even sure he knows it. His voice is a deep rumble. “What’d you have in mind?”

Jack plants a hand on the table, stands up. He’s warm from the rum, half-drunk on the freedom of his new clothes and the intoxicating weight of Charles’ dark gaze that hasn’t left him for a moment. He leans forward into Charles’ space and smiles, all teeth. “Why don’t I show you?”

[lostinfic]

Self Indulgent prompts, huh? I love anything with artist Rose so something with that theme. I'm not picky about the Doctor- like my current obsession is Eight/Rose, but I'm perpetually in love with Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose too so whichever Doctor you're most comfortable with.

The Museum of Serendipity

Doctor x Rose, Wilf, male OC (Original Cat)

Rated E  | 2300 words

Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I got sidetracked by research and 8th Doctor audio adventures ;)

I’m fulfilling your self-indulgent prompts

Of all the wonderful, celebrated museums in London, Rose’s favourite was an anarchic collection housed in a crooked Georgian house in Marylebone. 

From ground floor to attic, over four storeys, shelves and frames lined the walls of every room, following a seemingly incoherent design. Part cabinet of curiosity and part celebration of beauty in all its forms, the collection was curated by an anonymous— and eccentric, Rose liked to imagine— philanthropist.

Its name, the Museum of Serendipity, summed up how the collection was put together. Or perhaps it indicated how this museum could be found: by sheer good luck, as it was not advertised anywhere. Rose herself had stumbled upon it by accident last September, when looking for a shelter from the rain. Quite a happy accident, since her art teacher had asked them to visit a gallery for their first assignment of the semester (she’d earned extra points for originality).

Despite few visitors, it remained open from morning to evening. More often than not, the elderly greeter slept in his rocking chair by the door, leaving Basil the cat in charge.

Its location near Regent’s Park, made it a perfect destination for a drawing session. On a beautiful spring day like today, Rose would walk along the paths of the park and draw the flora and fauna in her sketchbook. Then make her way towards the museum. Other days, after a long time indoors, she would enjoy the park’s fresh air and time to reflect on the latest collection piece she’d discovered.

Since her childhood, art had been a way for Rose to travel, around the globe and across time, a way to see the world through other people’s eyes and to share her own vision. A way to exist beyond the Powell Estate. The Museum of Serendipity transported her like nothing else.

Although she enjoyed the morning sun, she didn’t linger in Regent’s Park, too eager to get there. 

The elderly greeter was listening to the radio in his small front office. 

“Hello, Wilf!”

He jumped to his feet with an energy that belied his years.

“Ah, Rose, luv. Alright? How’s school?”

“Got another assignment to complete for art history class. By the way, mid-term break is coming up, if you fancy a holiday, I could cover your shifts here for a few days.”

He would be doing her a favour more than the other way around.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “We got a new piece came in.”

New pieces were simply added to the exhibition wherever a space was available. As they walked to the drawing room, Rose tried to know more about the museum.

“Who brought this new piece?”

“John did, just this morning.”

“John?”

“Yeah, John McConnell , the mailman,” Wilf said. “Here it is.”

On the mantel lay an artifact shaped like a metal glove without fingertips. Or a pan flute.

“Looks like something from the future,” she joked.

“Modern art, then,” Wilf said. 

He left her to look at it a while longer. The pattern that covered it, both engraved and raised all at once, looked like scales. Rose pulled her sketchbook out of her messenger bag and drew it. Texture study. 

Basil, the museum’s Abyssinian cat, greeted her, rubbing himself against her legs. She petted his long ears and ruddy coat. She followed Basil out of the room, and wandered the now familiar corridors and staircases. Her hand trailed along the faded floral wallpaper and oak paneling. The smell of candle wax and pine wood polish always hung in the air.

There was one painting in particular Rose always came back to, in the third floor library, just above a loveseat that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Ahead of her, Basil jumped on the loveseat and looked at her expectantly.   

Rose pulled up a chair to sit down, the museum was almost a second home now, she had no qualms moving furniture around.

With a dreamy sigh, she let her eyes roam the large canvas. It depicted a dozen people in elegant Edwardian clothing, visiting an art exhibition. She was transported back in times, it seemed. Back to la Belle Époque. Late 19th- early 20th century, in France. Among women in high-necked waist shirts, carrying white lace parasols and men wearing mustaches and straw boating hats. The era of Moulin Rouge and absinthe, of the first movie, of bicycles and Marie Curie, just to name a few.  The era of Gustav Klimt, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Renoir, the artists whose work Rose had first fallen in love with. The painting itself blended elements of Art Nouveau and Impressionism (as she’d described in her second assignment).  

But there was one character in particular that commanded her attention again and again. There, in the upper left corner. The painter had done this trick which makes it look like the subject’s eyes are on you wherever you stand in the room. Though unnerved at first, Rose now tried to master this technique. Countless time she’d drawn his thick, curly brown hair, the soft contours of his jaw, his blue eyes, the creases that bracketed his mouth. And that smile, a Mona Lisa smile, the hardest trait to capture. 

His clothes also offered many details to work on: the sheen of his satin cravat, the velvet of his jacket, the pattern of his waistcoat. 

At first, she only tried to capture his likeness in various mediums, but over time she tried to sketch his profile, his back. She depicted that gentleman in various poses and actions. He had taken a life of his own. What was he doing there that day? What was his relationship with the painter? Why was he looking at her like that?

Basil meowed. 

“Alright, don’t be jealous. I’ll draw you first, you beautiful boy.”

“Thanks, it’s a new jumper. Do you like the colour?” said a man with a northern accent.

Rose started. He was leaning against the door, looking at her, with the smallest hint of a smile. 

He picked up Basil and sat down on the loveseat, laying the cat on his legs crossed at the knees. Rose held back a quip about the similar size of their ears.

“Well, go on, then,” he said, indicating her sketchbook with his chin.  

“Hold on, are you the director of the museum? Or the curator?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

At a loss for a reply, Rose simply got to work. 

If Basil wasn’t running away, then surely this man posed no threat. Just a lost, slightly odd item, like everything else in the Museum of Serendipity. Including herself.

His face offered such striking features to draw, that bold nose, those sharp cheekbones. The cropped hair revealed the shape of his skull and the collar of his sweater, a beautiful neck. A face for charcoal, she thought, to capture the lights and darks of him, in loose, almost intangible strokes. Charcoal and dry pastels, she amended, she had to recreate the infinite blue of his eyes.

They chatted about everything big and small: cats, galaxies, her doubts about art school and his hopes for the future of humanity.

Time flowed differently when she was creating. In that moment more than ever. A sort of appeasing, melodic hum filled her mind, and everything, but her subject, faded away.

When she traced his eyes, she was surprised to find in them a spark, as if he knew her. 

She looked up at him, and he smiled. “Hello,” he said.

Before she could think of a good way to phrase her question, he stood up and looked at the sketch over her shoulder. He gave an appreciative nod.

“We need someone to do a painting of the museum,” he announced. “Are you free to do it?”

“A painting? Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m serious. Great big canvas. Like this one.” He pointed to her favourite painting of la Belle Époque.

“I’ll need money to buy supplies,” she said, to test his good faith.

“Of course.”

He grabbed a tin box in a nearby bookcase; it was full of cash. He handed her the stack of pound notes without counting. Almost as if he was ignorant of their value. “Will this do?”

Rose nodded dumbly. She resolved right away to only spend a reasonable sum. 

“I’ll come by next Wednesday afternoon,” she said.

“Perfect. See you, then, Rose Tyler.”

She spent the next few days in a state of disbelief. Her mind constantly replayed her encounter with the blue-eyed man. Several times, she opened her sketchbook to look at his portrait. The fondness it aroused in her took her breath away. She found herself doodling both him and the gentleman in the painting, over and over.

She bought a load of art supplies, but kept the receipt in a secure place in case she needed a refund.

On Wednesday, she arrived at the museum with a knot in her stomach. Wilf greeted her, as usual, but he was wearing a smart new uniform.

A moment later, the blue-eyed man skipped down the stairs, two at a time, and welcomed her with a bright smile. He introduced himself as the Doctor, just the Doctor, and Rose went along with it— after all, it wasn’t the weirdest thing about him.

He’d set up an easel and a canvas in the third floor library. She barely paid attention to his directives, she was distracted by the number of visitors in the museum, more than she had ever seen.

“Is this a prank show thing or what?” she asked.

“Why would it be a prank show?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you said it. Why a prank show?” he repeated.

“‘Cause to get that many actors and props, it’s got to be on telly.”

“That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a tv show,” he said. 

“But— why?”

“It’s the museum’s anniversary. We are interested in collecting unique pieces, and what’s more unique than Rose Tyler’s first commissioned artwork?” 

“Maybe the last,” she mumbled.

“It won’t be,” he said, stating a fact rather than paying a compliment. “Coffee?”

The Doctor knew something she didn’t, and as irritating as it was, it incited her to stay and fulfill his request.

She laid a tarp on the floor below the easel, spread out her brushes and palette knives, picked the colours. 

Basil, of course, wanted to be part of the painting. He lay down in the sunniest spot, on the window sill, looking ever so regal.

As she prepped the canvas, her brain ran ahead of her with ideas to best infuse her art with feelings this room evoked. Warm earth tones, old leather bound books, a thick Persian rug, but also glass cases to keep people away, artworks by undisclosed artists, mysteries all around. Inviting and distant all at once. Much like the Doctor.

She scanned the room for him. He stood in a corner of the library, surveying. As she traced his silhouette, she noticed the similarity, in his posture and smile, with the fascinating gentleman in the Belle Époque painting. She made a mental note to ask about that too.

Hours passed by, Wilf kept her comfortable with cups of tea, snacks, a stool, opening the window, closing the window.

Everyone had left. The sun had set. Only the Doctor and Basil remained in the room with her. 

The artwork wasn’t finished, but it had everything she needed to continue another day. Yet, she didn’t leave. She didn’t want to. She stood there, wringing her paint-splattered hands waiting for something, anything, from the Doctor. 

“I want to show you something,” he said. He took her hand and they both stood up on Marie Antoinette’s loveseat. “Look closely.”

Now inches from the Belle Époque painting, she saw it like she never had before. It shimmered and shifted. Like those 3D images you have to cross your eyes to see. She blinked. Looked closer. And drifted through the canvas.

Rose gripped the Doctor’s hand tighter. Behind them, there was no library, only a blue door. And in front of her, the painting had come to life. No— they weren’t in the painting, they were in Paris of the 1900s. Around her, people chatted in French, cigar smoke wafted to her nose, and through a window that wasn’t on the painting, she could see the brand new Eiffel tower.

The gentleman that had so fascinated her was there too. Thick hair, bright smile.

“Rose, we meet at last,” he said.

His voice sounded exactly like she’d imagined. She didn’t know until now that she’d imagined his voice.

“She’s all yours,” the Doctor said.

Rose didn’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here to bring you back to your own timeline.”

He disappeared through the blue door.

The other man linked their arms together. A feeling of safety washed over her. He was a stranger and yet not at all. As if to reassure her further, an Abyssinian cat sauntered by.

“Is that Basil?” Rose asked.

“In a fashion. Cats have nine lives, as you know.”

“And you, Doctor, how many have you got?”

The Doctor smiled. “Ah, you figured it out, clever girl.”

That didn’t mean she didn’t have a ton of questions, but for now, she only wanted to soak up the magic of it all. 

The Doctor showed her around the room. They mingled with the other visitors, admiring the artwork on the walls. Rose couldn’t stop grinning.

They stopped in front of a painting depicting another gallery, in another museum, in another era.

“Can we go through there too?” Rose ventured.

“Yes, but wouldn’t you like to see Paris first?”

“We can go out?”

“Of course. You know, my friend Claude has been pestering me about visiting his garden. Nice fellow, this Claude. Mind you, he’s a tad obsessed with water lilies.”

[clockworkouroboros]

Notevember day 3 // Comfortably Strange

It’s hugely comforting to Fitz that the TARDIS has a garden. He isn’t sure why, it just is. Maybe it’s the mundane familiarity of such a place—after all, he worked at a garden shop before the whole business with his mum and everything.

The TARDIS garden, like everything else about the TARDIS, is massive and magnificent. Fitz could probably walk in it for hours without coming to the other end. And, despite the familiar scents of dirt and plants, there are so many things in this place that are unfamiliar; alien flora growing alongside apple trees and geraniums.

He tries bringing Sam here shortly after he discovers it. It’s a beautiful place, and he wonders if, under slightly different circumstances, Sam might possibly be interested in him. Circumstances that don’t include aliens and evil and the end of the world.

But Sam refuses. She’s at least somewhat gentle about it. Fitz has already figured out that Sam doesn’t often do gentle. But when he asks her if she wants to come with him to see the TARDIS garden, she sets down her book and, with a small smile, tells him that she’s rather tired, and she’d prefer to finish the book. Fitz hopes the smile means she’ll come with him some other time.

When he arrives, the garden is just as warm and familiar and strange and exciting and comforting as it was when he first discovered it. He doesn’t understand how it can be all of those things at once, but it is. Just because he doesn’t understand it doesn’t mean he can’t accept it.

The garden is very much like a greenhouse, accept the sky above looks like a real sky, and there’s grass and weeds alongside the other plants. Fitz kneels down over one of the rows and begins pulling out the weeds and grass. It’s something to do, something he didn’t have to do at his job, but something that still brings to mind taking care of plants.

It’s really strange that he’s doing this, he realizes as he works, humming a Beatles tune. He hates plants. Gets annoyed even taking care of a cactus. He only worked at the garden shop because he needed a job, and even then his mum had had to beg. But right now, it’s comforting. Familiar. He’s on an alien spaceship-slash-time-machine. He needs the familiarity.

“Don’t you just love this place?”

Fitz jumps. He also lets out a very undignified yelp, but he hopes that it’s gone unnoticed. He spins around, hand going dramatically to his chest, to see the Doctor walking up. Whereas Fitz had opted for an old t-shirt and jeans to work out here in the dirt, the Doctor is still in full Edwardian-esque fancy dress: green velvet coat, silken cravat, patterned waistcoat. The fact that the Doctor doesn’t look like a total idiot in those clothes just goes to show how odd he really is. He looks at home in them. Fitz realizes with a shock that already he’s comparing the Doctor to this garden: strange and familiar, comforting but unnerving.

“You scared the life out of me,” Fitz replies, hand still on his chest, over his heart.

The Doctor kneels down next to him, engaged in the act of pulling grass out of the row of tomatoes. “I’m sorry,” he says, and like everything else he says, it sounds truly genuine. “I thought you knew I was there. Oh!” he cries suddenly. “You’re pulling out the marigolds!”

Fitz studies the leaves of the plants he’s pulled up. The Doctor is right, he concedes. The leaves on some of these plants look suspiciously like marigolds. “But this is a row of tomatoes, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yes, but the marigolds and tomatoes go together!” The Doctor cradles a limp, uprooted marigold in his hands, as if he could breathe life back into it.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz says guiltily. He shouldn’t have come in here, he decides. He should have known it would end badly. He’s uprooting the Doctor’s garden. He’s barely been on the TARDIS a day and he’s already destroying stuff. He’s just waiting for the Doctor to tell him to pack his bags and leave at the next place they visit.

But the Doctor shakes his head and sets the marigold down gently. He blows a strand of curly hair out of his face. “It’s alright,” he says. “You only pulled up a few. And you didn’t know.”

Fitz grins slightly, more relieved than anything else. “Thanks,” he says weakly. “I thought for a moment there you’d kick me out.”

The Doctor looks shocked. “For this?” He gestures with one hand at the garden. “I didn’t even plant this! The TARDIS knocked it up sometime in the last century, I suppose, based on the size of those trees.” He considers it. “Or she could have given it some full-sized trees if she really wanted to.” He shrugs, then remembers Fitz kneeling on the ground next to him. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. It’s much more difficult to get kicked out, I promise.” His eyes are a startling, intense blue.

“Thanks,” says Fitz. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Doctor beams. “Wonderful! Now, have you seen Sam anywhere? I needed to talk to her about the Bug, she was doing some maintenance work on it and I’m not quite sure where she put it…”

Without even realizing it, Fitz slumps. Of course the Doctor just wants to know where Sam is. Fitz has only been here a day, but the feeling that he’s an intruder is already growing. “I think I saw her in her room last,” Fitz says dejectedly. “She was reading.”

The Doctor looks like he wants to hug Fitz, but at the last minute, he doesn’t. “Thank you!” he exclaims instead, and rises to go find Sam. But before he goes, he looks over his shoulder. “Fitz?” he calls.

“Yeah?”

“Welcome to the TARDIS.”

[sweetlangdon]

Red (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: This is for a prompt I was given! Part of the Roommate series. 

Warnings: None, just fluff.

Word Count: 1k

Over the years, you’ve become more okay with fancy work parties and mandatory social events and other special occasions. You never found much joy in getting dressed up to socialize—the only incentives being free cocktails and food—and would, most of the time, catch yourself daydreaming about curling up with the cat and some awful movie at home.

But that was before. Before Michael. Before his artfully cultivated sense of style repeatedly threatened your credit cards and bank account. Before that ring on your left hand.

It’s through Michael that you’ve discovered an appreciation for what fashion can do. And you have to admit, his influence has been a much-needed improvement to your once pathetic wardrobe. You can afford it now after that raise, and the upgrade is worth every cent. Even if it’s just to see the looks on your coworkers’ and friends’ faces when you and your fiancé make your grand entrance at social gatherings.

Oh, yeah. You know very well what Michael’s presence does to people. You think it’s the Antichrist thing—a little bit of magic mixed up with Michael’s natural charm and beauty, a dangerous combination if there ever was one. It used to make you jealous, the way their eyes would glaze over with shameless lust at the sight of him; mouths agape, eyelashes fluttering, chests heaving, these fucking people clamoring all over each other for his attention. You often wondered why, how Michael would ever chose you when he could have anyone. 

But that was before. Before Michael knew what you meant to him, and he to you; before promises were made and kept sacred.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

You see him at the edge of your periphery, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, one leg crossed over the other. He’s been there for a while, watching as you finish up your makeup under the harsh lights. Leaning over the sink with an array of tubes and palettes and bottles scattered, organized chaos spread across the counter. You’re barefoot, heels left carelessly in the hall outside, your gown rustling with each movement. It’s one of the most expensive dresses you own; designer, flowing black organza skirts and sparkling silver crystals arranged on the bodice like a sky full of glittering stars.

“Oh, I already did,” Michael drawls, head cocked to one side. He holds up the Polaroid in his hand, shaking it for emphasis, the rings on his lithe fingers catching the light.

“I hope I’m not making a weird face.”

“No more than usual.” Michael’s smirk deepens.

You shake your head and put the cap back on your tube of lipstick, setting it aside so it’s not lost in the organized chaos on the counter. Your breath catches at the sight of him in his completed outfit for the first time, and holy fucking shit, you can’t believe you’re engaged to someone so effortlessly gorgeous. Michael let his hair grow out over the past eighteen months and it’s perfect—cascading like gold silk, reaching just a bit past his shoulders. It suits him, you think, and you can’t believe how much older he looks, how much time has passed since he was nothing more than a stranger to you.

He’s dressed in his usual black—it’s a fancy work gala, so you followed his example this time. A tailored black waistcoat, pants, and shirt, with the red jeweled cufflinks you bought for him, and a black silk cravat that you’re pretty sure only Michael could pull off. But your favorite part of his ensemble is the long, black coat he’s wearing, the one with the bright red lining on the inside. It’s so…elegant. He looks like some kind of Gothic figure from a dark romance novel, and again, you’re wondering how the hell you ended up here, months away from taking his last name as your own.

“Come here,” you tell him.

“Why?” He gives you that head tilt again.

“Just come here, Langdon.”

He does, pushing off the doorframe, closing the distance between the two of you until you can feel the warmth from his body melting into your exposed skin. He smells divine, like spices and citrus and a hint of soap from the shower he took earlier. Michael wraps his arms around your waist, that smirk still playing across his lips, and it takes all of the restraint you can summon to stop yourself from leaving a trail of red lipstick over his jaw.

You gather up an eyeshadow palette from the counter instead. “Close your eyes.”

Michael tosses a skeptical look your way, and it makes you laugh. You can practically see his thoughts flitter over his face without him saying a word aloud.

“Trust me?”

“You know I do.”

Michael’s eyes finally flutter closed, leaving him at your mercy. You’ve never been more aware of his hands at your waist than you are now, fingers absently toying with the skirts of your gown, waiting for whatever you’re about to do to him. Michael’s trust isn’t given to just anybody.

You choose a vibrant red and set to work, carefully dusting it on Michael’s delicate eyelids, keeping most of it to the corners, edging close to his nose. It’s relatively simple, but bold enough to make a statement, to offset the amount of black he’s wearing and complement the red of his coat. And, of course, your lipstick.

“All right.” You set the palette aside. “Done.”

The red is striking against his ice blue eyes. It makes his gaze even more intense, you think, and you feel whatever restraint you managed to pull together start to unravel at the sight of him. You know it’ll garner a lot of attention. More so than Michael’s usual crowd of admirers, blinded by their fleeting and passionate infatuation.

“What do you think?” you ask him.

Michael stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and you turn your head to watch him, too, both of you now matching in elegant black and red.

“It’s perfect.” His focus is back on you again, his grin bright and genuine, eyes sparkling. “Thank you.”

“They won’t be able to stop themselves from staring at you now.” You almost regret it.

Almost.

“Let them.” Michael leans in close, his breath ghosting along your cheek before his nose brushes yours, his tone barely above a whisper and so sinful that you want to dig your nails into him for being such a damn tease. “You’re the only one who matters to me.”

He finally kisses you.

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @yourkingcodyfern @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @rainbowrosesjas @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo  @batgirlbride  @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @langdonsrapture @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @langdonscurls @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon   @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @satansapostle @monsucre @ritualmichael @fernshorrorstory @queencocoakimmie @bluelancesredswords @theharvestgirloffire @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies

[hj-creates]

Our Secret- Chapter 4

Link to previous chapters is here-

Philip and Thomas finally get the alone time they have been craving. (The read more cut only works on the desktop version for me which is cool but doesn't let me add a link. Jfc, Tumblr get your shit together.)

*****************

Philip watched as the last of the others left.  He sprang out of his chair and locked the door.  He turned around and saw Jefferson looking out one of the large windows, admiring the fading light of dusk.

Philip came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Thomas’s waist and let them glide slowly up the other man’s chest. His long fingers flexed over the silk-covered skin and he tilted his head up to whisper in his ear. “Finally. I thought they would never leave.”

Thomas took one of Philip’s hands in his own and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss to his wrist. “You must learn patience, Philip.  The anticipation makes everything so much sweeter.”

“Are you kidding?” Philip snorted out.  “I’ve spent the last hour in agony, watching the clock and trying to hide my arousal.”

Jefferson turned around with a smirk.  “Is that so little Hamilton?”  His fingers skimmed down Philip’s shirt and rested on the waistband of his breeches.

Philip took his hand and, without breaking his gaze on Thomas guided it lower. “Not so little.” He purred.

Thomas couldn’t stop the soft moan the spilled from his lips. “You locked the door?”  Philip nodded.  “Good.”  He loosened the cravat around his neck and tossed it to the side. He started to unbutton his shirt then drew the curtains closed.  Philip shirked off his waistcoat and yanked his shirt over his head. Thomas inhaled sharply at the perfection that was suddenly revealed to him. The younger man had to the audacity to chuckle at his reaction and Thomas was swiftly in front of him.  He placed the tips of his fingers over Philip’s mouth. “You’ll have to be quiet, you know.”

Philip kissed the digits pressed against his mouth. “I know.” He replied, seemingly unconcerned.

“I daresay it won’t be easy.  Not with you teasing me all damn day.”

Philip feigned innocence. “What do you mean?  All I did today was try to learn all I could about you.  From you, I mean. So much lovely governing.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Jefferson pretended not to be amused. “And how many times did you pretend to drop something and slowly pick it up?”

“Oh, I’m very clumsy.” His eyes glittered. “My apologies if it flustered you.”

“Flustered me? I damn near had to cancel my meeting with Secretary Pickering just so I could have time to… compose myself.”

Philip’s smile grew wider. “Well now we are finally alone together.  You can release that pent-up libido and have your way with me.” He draped his arms around Thomas’s neck and pressed himself wantonly against the other man’s frame.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “You are entirely too forward. One would almost be tempted to question your upbringing.”

“And you are entirely too verbose.” Philip’s thumbs stroked Thomas’s jawline. “I didn’t squirm through hours of meetings and policy discussions just to engage in verbal discourse.”

Jefferson bit down on his tongue. He feared he had underestimated his intern.  Why had he been so foolish to imagine himself as the one wielding control? The lad was dangerously close to making him stutter, his thoughts all scattered in a haze of lust and this endless, aching need to taste and touch every inch presented to him.

And so he did; taking a step back, he slowly undid the rest of his buttons and let his shirt fall to the floor. He unfastened his pants and they pooled around his ankles.  He dropped to his knees and relieved Philip of the rest of his garments as well.  He placed a trail of kisses up the younger man’s stomach and all the way to his shoulders. He scraped his teeth gently over Philip’s throat and let his tongue caress the soft spot under his ear.  Philip whimpered and Thomas was quick to cover his mouth with his hand. “Must stay quiet.” He peered into the other man’s eyes and his gaze reflected a deep, fiery longing that made Philip shudder.

His hand reached for Philip’s and he led him to his enormous office chair. As he sank into the plush cushion, Philip straddled his lap.  He reached into the top drawer of his desk and grabbed the bottle of oil he had purchased special for this occasion. He coated his hand and both of their cocks with a sharp hiss as he tried to remain silent.

He took his time and made sure his lover was ready and comfortable before sinking his length deep inside. Philip opened his mouth as if to cry out and Thomas shushed him preemptively. To be honest, he was having a hard time not making any noise as well; every thrust brought a new wave of pleasure that in a more private setting would have him bellowing out profanities.

Philip rolled his hips slowly, gripping him tight, as Thomas stroked him expertly. His long fingers teased lightly and he swiped his thumb over the already slick tip then stiffened his hand and stroked faster.

He attempted to last as long as he could but after hours of torment and stolen glances he soon had to admit defeat and let his ecstasy wash over him.  He pressed his forehead into Philip’s flesh, hoping his soft skin would muffle his cries of libidinous euphoria. He stayed there and tried to catch his breath.

It was Philip’s own hands that lightly came to rest on Thomas’s cheeks, lifting the older man’s face to look at him. He was smiling softly and Thomas thought he had never seen a more beautiful creature in his entire life.

Satiated in a way that he hadn’t been in years, Jefferson sat back and let his eyes flutter closed as Philip placed soft kisses on his neck and collarbone.

He tangled his fingers in his lover’s dark curls. “Oh Philip,” he breathed out. “You are a prince among gargoyles.”

Philip laughed softly, not out of derision, only affection. “Surely your post-coital bliss is exaggerating my physical attributes.”

“No, my love.” Thomas forced his head up to meet his stare. “I have been bewitched by your beauty for some time now.” Philip shook his head as if he disagreed and Thomas felt a pang in his chest.  He stared at him and his voice was tender, “You doubt the veracity of this?”

Philip looked up at him from under his long, dark lashes and Thomas didn’t wait for a response.  He gripped him by his waist and sat him on his desk. He trailed light kisses up his thigh and when his lips finally caressed Philip’s erection, it elicited a loud, long moan.  “Shhh…” Thomas hissed at him. “If you can’t remain silent, then I’m afraid I’ll be forced to stop.”  He neglected to mention he had absolutely no intention of letting Philip leave his office without tasting all of him.

His swirled his tongue around the base before closing his mouth around him, massaging him with his lips and lapping at his hardened prick.  His tongue darted at the slit, savoring the arousal that had already started to leak out. He tightened his mouth around the tip, bobbing his head up and down his shaft as Philip’s hands knotted in Thomas’s hair, pulling and tugging as he struggled to not cry out his release.

His hips lifted off the desk and he grunted through gritted teeth as he succumbed to the rapturous gratification and erupted between Thomas’s expert lips.  He shook and collapsed in the other man’s arms, resting his head on his shoulder.

After a few moments, Thomas spoke softly. “We should probably get dressed now.”

“I suppose.” Was Philips’s weary response.

“Before you leave, I’d like to go over some rules.” The other man didn’t say anything, so he continued, “Everything between us must be contained here in these offices.  You are never to come to my home unless I have invited your entire family.  You mustn’t show up unannounced or on any days other than workdays.  It must always look like you are here strictly for work.”

Philip had crawled back onto Thomas’s lap and was nipping at his throat.  “You mean I can’t tell everyone that you’re my boyfriend now?” He teased.

“No.” Thomas grimaced. He gently combed his long fingers through Philip’s hair.  His eyebrows lifted and a wistful expression spread over his face.  “Though I wish you could.  I wish I could take you out to fancy dinners and out riding in the countryside.  I wish I could spoil you and mostly... I wish I could share my bed with you.  Spend hours teasing and pleasuring you.  An entire night of just you and I.”

“That sounds nice.” Philip’s eyes were half-lidded as he gazed into the dark eyes of the other man.

Thomas impulsively kissed him again. “I know the arrangements aren’t ideal but you have to understand there are many who would love to see my downfall and-“

“You mean my father?” Philip smirked.

“Well, Alexander and I have our political disagreements, but I don’t think he is plotting my demise or hates me or anything.”

“Oh no.” Philip chuckled against Thomas’s chest.  “He definitely… well, nevermind.”

Jefferson smiled and stroked his hair. “Yes, let’s not discuss him further. I wasn’t even referring to him specifically.  There are always rumors swirling around about me. I never remarried after my wife died and that was… hmm, almost twenty years ago.  I have to be discreet about certain carnal appetites, wouldn't want to start all the gossips' tongues wagging.”

Philip placed a warm kiss on Thomas’s throat.  “I like your tongue wagging.”

The older man placed his hands on either side of Philip’s face and tilted his head up to look at him.  Thomas’s eyes were half-lidded and he absentmindedly licked his lips.  “You…” he drawled out, “are a very salacious young man.”

As if to prove his point, Philip ground his hips on Thomas’s lap, reigniting the desire that had momentarily subsided after their climax.  Thomas moved his long fingers to Philip’s thighs and squeezed hard.  “It is long after nightfall, kitten.  Surely they will be missing you at dinner.”

Philip shrugged.  “It wouldn’t be the first time I got home after everyone went to bed.”

“Yes, but it would the first time you would be late after spending all day with me.”

Philip relented grudgingly but not before placing another searing, bruising kiss on Thomas’s lips.  He disentangled his limbs and slowly got dressed, knowing he was the focus of his instructor’s lustful gaze.  He opened the office door and waved goodbye.  “See you tomorrow, Mr. Jefferson.”

“Adieu, Philip.”

[elles-choices]

Chapter 4: Here Comes The Bride (MC x Mr. Sinclaire)

Book: Desire & Decorum

Summary: Their wedding day has arrived. Mr. Sinclaire cannot wait to see his wife to be. Clara cannot wait to become his wife. Will everything go according to plan?

Pairing: Mr. Sincaire x MC (Clara)

Words: about 2650

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Choices by Pixel Berry

Note: This mini series called “Marrying you” is about the final preparations for MC and Mr. Sinclaire’s wedding, their wedding day and night and their honeymoon… I hope you guys enjoy it :) Thank you for stopping by.

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Chapter 1: The Last Fitting (Marrying You, MC x Mr. Sinclaire)

Chapter 2: Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue  (Marrying you, MC x Mr. Sinclaire)

Chapter 3: The “S” Question (Marrying You - MC x Mr. Sinclaire)

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Clara’s life has changed completely since the death of her mother. One moment she was struggling, knowing that she was loosing the most important person in her life and she would be alone in the world; the next, she was being told not only that her father was alive, also that he was an Earl. 

In the same day she left her childhood home to move into Edgewater, she was introduced to him — the man she is a few moments away from marrying. After everything she had gone through with her stepmother, becoming the Countess of Edgewater was the biggest honour she could ever achieve - some thought. To her though, the best was still to come for nothing compares to becoming Mrs. Ernest Sinclaire.

———————————

Clara watches carefully her image in the mirror. Although she had seen herself in her wedding gown before, this Wednesday morning everything looks more magical for her wedding day has finally arrived. 

She hears a knock on the door and soon the Dowager Countess entered her room. „Dear, the carriage is ready to take us to the church“, she inspects Clara’s hair, pulled back into a messy braid embellished with tiny little white jasmine blossoms and secured with Briar’s blue ribbon. She smiles by the sight of Clara, „You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen, Clara“.

Clara turns to her grandmother and hugs her tightly. „Would you help me with my wedding charms, Lady Grandmother?“, the Dowager Countess looks into her big green eyes and smiles as Clara hands her the diamond bandeau tiara, she giftet her not long ago. 

„The things with tiaras, dear, is that they tend to move around“, she looks in her bag for something, „Ha! Pray, take a seat… your great-grandmother taught me this trick. All you need is a needle and almost invisible treads“, she looks carefully at what she is doing, while Clara wonders if this will really work. „Perfect! Pray, move your head quickly from one side to another“, Clara does as asked and her grandmother smiles satisfied with her work, attaching her veil to her hair. „So, what are the other charms?“.

„Mr. Parsons borrowed me her pearl bracelet, it is beautiful, is it not?“, her grandmother smiles and nods putting it on her delicate wrist. Then, Clara turns to her dressing table, where Mr. Sinclaire’s gift lies waiting for this day, „This one is from Mr. Sinclaire. I have not seen it yet…“, she opens the beautiful wooden case to find a diamond encrusted collier with a huge emerald in the center of the pendant, matching her engagement ring. „Oh, Ernest…“, she smiles touched by how thoughtful he was. 

The Dowager Countess is amazed by the sight of it. „My dear, this collier is beautiful! Mr. Sinclaire has a quite exquisite taste — Well, I should not be surprised since he is marrying my granddaughter“, smiling to Clara, she takes it from its case and gently places it around her granddaughter’s neck, fastening it on the side. „Now all you need is a lucky sixpence in your shoe and we can head to Church.“, she hands it to her granddaughter and they leave her dressing room.

————————————

On Clara’s arrival, she could hear the bells of the church ringing, a sign that the wedding was going to start very soon. She looks at Annabelle, Briar and Miss Sutton, each one wearing white as participants of the bridal party and she smiles with teary eyes „Do not start crying, Clara or you will make us all cry and puffy eyes is not a look we wanna wear today!“, Annabelle hugs her friend, then brushes away a couple of tears from Clara’s face. She gives her a reassuring squeeze of the hand and gives her the bridal bouquet —a mix of wild flowers and white roses; Mr. Sinclaire had picked them from his garden the day prior to the wedding. „Much better…Are you ready?“, Annabelle smiles and Clara nods, leaving the carriage and heading to the vestibule of the church, where Mr. Sinclaire and his groomsmen were waiting.

Mr. Sinclaire seems very tense — he paces from one side to the other looking constantly at his pocket watch. His best friend, James Banks, one of the groomsmen, smiles and lays a hand on his shoulder, „I do not think I have ever seen you this nervous, my friend. I believe there is still time to run away“, he whispers jokingly. Suddenly he looks at the door excited „Or not… Your bride is already here. And may I say, you are a very lucky man, Ernest“. Mr. Sinclaire turns slowly to the doors of the church and as he sees Clara entering, he feels as if his heart stood still for a moment. Their eyes lock and she smiles as he heads to her. He is completely bewitched by her beauty, nervous like a school boy trying to talk for the first time with the girl he fancies.

„I… hmm… There are no words that could describe your beauty today, Lady Clara“, he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles never taking his eyes off her. 

She lowers her glance shyly, „You looking dashing as always, Mr. Sinclaire“. He is wearing a navy blue frock coat with a white waistcoat, a folded cravat and grey trousers. Mr. Sinclaire rises her chin up, so their eyes meet again and tries to lift the veil of her face for a short moment, when he hears the Dowager Countess clearing her throat.

„I believe this is not the proper time for that, Mr. Sinclaire. And if you want to get married today, I recommend you get in line, so the procession can enter the church“, Mr. Sinclaire blushes self-conscious of all eyes looking at him.

He looks at his bride and whispers, „I love you, sweetheart“, before leaving to take his place in line.

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

Close friends and a few distant relatives of both parties were already waiting for the ceremony to commence. The first groomsman, his best friend, entered with Annabelle, the first bridesmaid. The  others followed together with flower girls and ring bearer. Mr. Sinclaire walks down the aisle together with the Dowager Countess upon his arm. Clara had decided to do this walk alone as a sign of her grieving -- she was still sad that her parents were not there, however, she could feel their presence somehow and this brought her some comfort. 

Upon her arrival at the altar, she hands Annabelle the bouquet, then, takes her place upon the left of Mr. Sinclaire, in front of Bishop Monroe — her Grandmother standing by her right side. Mr. Sinclaire lifts her veil seeing her clearly for the first time today. He caresses her cheeks with his thumbs quickly, a gesture she really appreciates.

„Dear Beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to witness and celebrate the union of Mr. Ernest Sinclaire and Lady Clara, Countess of Edgewater in holy matrimony. With love and commitment, they have decided to join together as husband and wife. At this moment, I would like to share a passage from the holy book with you: 

‚Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and can understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have faith, that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I give all I possess to the poor, and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up;  does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.’

These two persons present come now to be joined, therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully join together, let him now speak or else here after forever hold his peace“, after a long second of silence, Bishop Monroe smiles, „After reviewing that there were no impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, I do now ask: Ernest Alexander wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness, and in health? And forsaking all other, keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live“.

Mr. Sinclaire looks at Clara and smiles: „I will“.

„Clara Marie, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love, honour, and keep him, in sickness, and in health? And forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?“ 

She smiles at Mr. Sinclaire: „I will“

Bishop Monroe looks at the Dowager Countess „Who giveth this woman to be married unto this man?“, and she gives Clara’s hand to him, who hands it to Mr. Sinclaire.

Mr. Sinclaire looks into Claras eyes, smiling and repeats Bishop Monroe words, "I, Ernest Alexander, take thee, Clara Marie, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forth, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance: And thereto I plight thee my troth“.

Clara hold his gaze whilst Mr. Sinclaire caresses her knuckles: „I, Clara Marie, take thee, Ernest Alexander, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forth, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love, and cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance: And thereto I give thee my troth“. 

Bishop Monroe blesses the ring -- Mr. Sinclaire takes her hand in his and repeats after the Bishop: „With this ring I thee wed: with my body I thee worship: and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.“, he puts the ring on her finger and kisses it. After a last prayer, the Bishop joining their hands together declaires: „Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Ernest and Clara have consented in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands: I pronounce that they be man and wife together“. Annabelle hands Clara her wedding bouquet, lifts her gown’s train and Mr. Sinclaire, Clara and two witnesses follows the Bishop to the vestry to enter the marriage lines into the parish register book. 

Mr. Sinclaire signs proudly his name and Clara giggles as she signs her new name for the first time: Clara, Countess of Edgewater, Mrs. Ernest Sinclaire. As they leave the vestry, Mr. Sinclaire escorts Clara outside the Church and into his carriage. 

In the minute their carriage takes off to Edgewater, Mr. Sinclaire sits by Clara’s sides and without any other word he kisses her passionately, something he wished he could have done as soon as he laid eyes on her this morning. His hand cups her face, her hands caressing his strong arms — it was a special kiss, the first as husband and wife. It was fiery and demanding, there was nothing holding Mr. Sinclaire back anymore — she was his and he was hers. His lips leave hers and he looks intensely into her eyes „Mrs. Sinclaire… there is so many things I wish I could have told you this morning, however, the most important of all, I want you to know how blessed I am for having you as my wife. I cannot wait to start my life with you… to tell you everyday how beautiful you are and how I appreciate everything you do. I cannot imagine another day without you by my side, Clara“, before she can say anything he presses his warm lips against hers once again.

——————————

Upon arriving in Edgewater they head to Clara’s room for a moment alone whilst their guests arrive from the church for the traditional wedding breakfast. Clara shuts the door behind her and smiles, „I do not think you have ever been to my chambers, Ernest“, she walks to him and brushes her lips against his cheeks, „Would you please free me from this veil?“, she turnes around allowing him to take a look at it.

„I cannot say I have...“, he does as she asked, then lowers his lips to her neck, kissing his way to her shoulder. His hands pulls her towards him, „You look stunning... I know better than starting something I cannot finish, however, you are irresistible, my Lady“, his hands moving from her waist to her thighs. His touch sends a shiver down her spine.

Clara turns around, she crosses her arms behind his neck and pulls him closer, „You have been able to resist me for the past seven months, what are a few more hours of waiting?“, she caresses his cheeks.

„Eternity…“, he chuckles, „However, we only have a breakfast to attend to, some socialising to do and in the afternoon I will not be going home alone. I will hold on to this thought!“. He kisses her gently „Will you dance with me, love?“, his eyes are sparkling and his smile is broad.

Clara giggles and blushes „Mr. Sinclaire, I thought you hated these kind of activities. Also, there is no music we could dance to“, she lays her head on his chest, her hands holding him.

„I would not say that I hate it, I just do not enjoy it as much as the others. However, I would enjoy it with you… here… right now. We do not need music, we have each other and that is all we need“, he lays his hands protectively around her. She looks up to him and he gazes upon her. For a while, they move their bodies slowly in a rhythm only they know. He twirls her around, dipping her, then he leans forward, staring at her big green eyes. Clara feels her heart skip a beat, her face turning to a light shade of pink as he closes the distance between their lips, kissing her for a second and then pulling her back up. „I would love to forever dance with you, my love, however we should go and celebrate with our guests“, Clara nods and they leave the room.

—————————— 

The weather is so lovely that tables were setup outside. Into the afternoon, after receiving congratulations, having a lavish breakfast with their guests, cutting and boxing the wedding cake for the attendants, Mr. Sinclaire takes Clara to her new home: Ledford Park.

He stands with Clara and Briar in front of Clara’s chambers: „Miss Daly, would you please give me a minute alone with Mrs. Sinclaire?“, Briar nods and Mr. Sinclaire guides Clara into her new room. After shutting the door behind him he holds both of her hands in his: „Before I leave you alone with Miss Daly, is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you would like to do today? Ride somewhere, for example?“, he kisses one of her hands.

„Thank you, Ernest. However, the weather is changing and it will soon rain. I would rather spend sometime alone with you…“, she blushes looking at the floor.

Mr. Sinclaire smiles and kisses her cheek gently, whispering: „There is nothing else I would rather do, love“, his strong arms surround her into a gentle hug, „I will light the fire in our marital chamber’s fireplace before I go freshen up. This door will take you to our room“, he points to the dark wood door with golden knob behind Clara and kisses her forehead „I love you!“, he heads out throwing one last glance at her before leaving.

--------

Read more: 

Marrying you: Chapter 5: “Ever Thine, Ever Mine” (NSFW — MC x Mr. Sinclaire)

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[xo-mchanzo-blog]

ridiculous

am i too late to join this fandom? i uploaded this to ao3 the other day but here it is on tumblr too. fandom: ace attorey rating: teen pairing: wrightworth summary: Phoenix Wright agrees to download Tinder and go on a date at Maya's insistence. When he gets there, though, his date isn't there- but Edgeworth is.

“You should date,” Maya tells him, peering at him from over the edge of her book. It isn’t long after Christmas, and she is wearing a ridiculous pink bobble hat in the office.

Nick laughs at her. “I don’t have time to date. And I don’t want to date.” That isn’t entirely true, but it is easier than telling her the truth- that he can’t help but compare every man he sees to Edgeworth. If he is honest, it started the first time he faced his old friend in court.

“It’s winter. It would be nice to have someone to cuddle up to, talk about law with.”

“I don’t know how many people would want to talk about law, Maya,” Nick replies seriously.

“I can think of someone… he has silver hair…”

In an attempt to distract her from this line of thinking, Nick agrees to download Tinder to his phone. They spend the afternoon swiping through pictures of men. One in particular has silky silver hair and serious eyes. His profile says that his name is Sam.

“He looks just like-” Maya starts.

“He looks very attractive,” Nick interrupts, blushing.

“You should send him a message,” Maya suggests.

Usually, Nick would have objected to this. But he's thinking about Edgeworth, and how lonely his apartment has been feeling recently, and how he doesn't want Maya to seriously figure out the depth of his feelings for Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. So he fires off a message to the silver-haired Sam commenting how attractive he is.

To Nick's surprise and fear, he receives a message back mere moments later. Maya makes him read it aloud to her. “ Phoenix, you have quite beautiful eyes and a truly lovely name. May I take you out tonight? Oh no, Maya. What should I do?”

“Say yes, you dummy,” Maya laughs. “Suggest somewhere fancy then go home and make yourself look presentable.”

Nick almost objects to her suggestion that he doesn't already look presentable, but he glances down at his creased suit and sighs instead.

Hours later, Phoenix Wright, defense attorney and nervous social mess, arrives at the nicest bar he could remember the name of. It's cold and dark, the air heavy with the promise of snow, and he foolishly forgot his coat. However, he is wearing a very nice navy sweater and black jeans, and he feels that even Maya would have to agree he looks smart.

Sam agreed to meet Nick at 8pm and it's currently ten to. Nick enters and is pleased to find that it is quiet; only a few tables are occupied, soft music plays and the bar is illuminated by golden candlelight. It's very romantic.

He's actually feeling quite pleased with himself when he spots a man sitting facing away from the door, his broad back bent slightly as he pores over the book he is reading. He has a neat, silky silver haircut.

He does look like Miles , Nick thinks to himself, and that pleases him far more than it should. But then the man turns slightly as he takes a drink from his glass of red wine and Nick feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. Shit. It is Miles.

How typical. He can't be caught on a Tinder date with a man who looks just like Edgeworth by bloody Edgeworth himself. The prosecutor is ridiculously intelligent, and any hope Nick has of hiding his feelings from his old school friend and current courtroom rival will be dashed.

He considers fleeing. His whole body is tensed, poised for fight or flight, but he takes a deep breath. Edgeworth is engrossed in whatever he is reading. He won't even notice Nick.

So Nick crosses carefully and quietly to the bar, walking right past Edgeworth, who doesn't even look up from his book. Nick even gets a briefest hint of Edgeworth's aftershave as he passes and has to resist the urge to sigh.

Once he reaches the bar, he makes a promise to himself that he won't turn around and look at Miles. After all, humans have a strange ability to feel eyes burning into them. He is fairly confident that if he ignores Edgeworth, Edgeworth will continue to be unaware of his presence.

He orders a beer quietly and messages Sam to let him know that he has arrived. Then he stands facing the row of spirits on the shelf behind the bar awkwardly, suddenly wishing he could turn around. This is fairly dull. He tries to focus on what charming and dashing things he can say when Sam arrives.

Time ticks by, and Nick checks his phone to see that it is 8. Sam has seen his message, but not responded. Nick feels the first hint of unease about his Tinder date, but forces himself to put his phone in his pocket and concentrate on staring at the wall of spirits. He takes a nervous swig of beer.

He checks his phone again. Ten past. No message. Sam isn't coming.

He feels foolish and hurt. He swallows the last of the beer and turns to leave.

Edgeworth is staring at him.

The prosecutor is wearing reading spectacles which are ridiculously attractive. His dark eyes peer over the rims at Nick, and his face is unreadable. Nick feels the blood rushing to his cheeks- really, this is the last thing he needs now- and raises a hand in greeting.

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow.

Sighing, hating himself, he crosses to Edgeworth’s table and sits down opposite him. “Hey,” he manages weakly.

“Wright. Why were you staring at the spirits for almost twenty minutes?”

Nick's face is burning. “I… um…”

“You were trying to avoid me,” Edgeworth deduces crisply. When Nick doesn't deny it, he leans back slightly, and for a moment hurt is naked on his face.

“No…well yes, but not because…” Nick feels himself losing his train of thought as he stares into Edgeworth's dark eyes, and he flushes and looks away. “I don't mean to be defensive -”

Miles groans.

“- but I have sent you several messages since the trial asking if you are okay and if you want to hang out, and you haven't even replied, so don't start looking hurt at me.” Saying the words aloud makes them hurt again. After the trial, Nick had wanted to be there for Edgeworth, but the prosecutor had disappeared from his life.

“That's hardly the same. Not replying to your messages isn't the same as seeing you in a bar and ignoring you.”

“I wasn't ignoring you. I was very aware of your presence.”

The two men mull on the words which Nick so carelessly blurted out, the words he wishes he could shove back in.

“Then why…? Oh.” Bloody Edgeworth. He's figured it out. “You're here on a date.” His expression is suddenly sour. He probably finds the idea of someone lusting after Defense Attorney Wright disgusting.

Nick is scarlet. His hand rests on the back of his neck awkwardly. “I was. He… didn't turn up.”

Edgeworth exhales. He is giving Nick a ridiculously intense glare. Then, to Nick's eternal shock, he springs to his feet. “I'll buy you a drink,” he informs him, then heads to the bar.

Nick watches him go in amazement. It's wildly out of character for Miles. He notices that his old friend is still wearing his shirt and trousers with an impeccable waistcoat, but his cravat lies abandoned on the table. Nick tries his very best not to stare at Edgeworth's large, strong body.

He turns to the book on the table to distract himself. It's some miserable-looking Latin tome, classic Miles, but when Nick tugs it closer to get a closer look, something smaller and colourful falls out.

Manga. Steel Samurai manga.

He's still laughing when Edgeworth returns to the table and places a glass of beer before him. Edgeworth looks from his laughing friend to the manga on the table and blanches as he looms over Nick, looking for a moment as though he might just bend down and kill him.

It's bloody attractive.

“If you tell anyone, I'll ruin you,” Edgeworth says darkly, taking his chair. “I am, however, pleased to see you smiling despite the trauma of being stood up.”

It's impossible to tell if he is serious. “Thanks.”

“Have you known him long?” Edgeworth asks. There's an edge to his voice. He's probably never had a conversation like this with anyone. Nick feels mildly grateful that he is at least attempting it.

“Not at all,” Nick says. The whole situation is becoming oddly surreal: sitting opposite Miles Edgeworth in an intimate bar, discussing his inability to attract a mate. “I only started speaking to him this afternoon on Tinder.”

Distaste is clear in Edgeworth's eyes now. He takes a delicate sip of wine. “It is indeed his loss, Phoenix,” he says softly.

His tone is at odds with the expression he is wearing. Nick isn't used to hearing Miles use his first name, and something about it makes his spine tingle pleasantly. He feels emboldened by the intimacy.

“Would you like to see a photo of him?” Nick asks. He's playing with fire now, the beer and a half he has consumed spurring him on.

Miles frowns slightly, but inclines his head, apparently dedicated to his role as a good friend after a tragic date abandoned.

So Nick hands him the phone, loaded with Sam's serious eyes and soft silver hair. His heart is racing as he watches his courtroom rival look at the clear evidence he has been presented with. Edgeworth swallows visibly, and he looks up at Nick before looking back down at the picture. His brows are scrunched, the way they are in court when Nick has presented him with some surprising twist.

“He looks very…” Miles speaks, and the words are strangled. Oh, shit. Nick has disgusted him. “This is what you find attractive?” Miles asks finally, meeting Nick’s eyes.

“Yes.” Nick is scared to move, even to breathe. “Very much so.”

The tip of Edgeworth’s tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip. It’s obscene, really, how much it thrills Nick. “Wright… Phoenix… I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your messages,” Edgeworth says in a rush. “It’s just that after you helped me I needed to get my… feelings in order before seeing you.”

“Your feelings?” Nick is leaning forward, the urge to reach out and touch his old friend almost unbearable. Something amazing is happening here.

Miles closes his eyes. “I tried to tell you, back when we first met again. That you had… burdened me with feelings. I lost my nerve at the last minute.”

“Miles, be clear. What feelings are we talking about here?”

Edgeworth doesn’t answer his question. He reaches up to remove his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose. “Truly, it is a miracle that you ever blunder your way through a case, Wright. The evidence is clear.”

Nick frowns. “I blundered my way through saving you well enough, so don’t start.”

Edgeworth surprises him with a soft smile. He reaches across the table and tentatively curls his fingers around Nick’s hand. Nick gasps at the contact.

“I was thinking about you,” Miles says. “Tonight. That’s why I came here. I was at home and couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was infuriating. You infuriate me. You plague my thoughts.”

“Truly romantic,” Nick says drily. But it is romantic. He is struggling to resist the urge to visibly melt.

“And then,” Miles continues, as though Nick never spoke, “I smell your aftershave on someone walking past me. And it’s you. It’s you, looking lovely, standing staring inexplicably at the bar for twenty minutes.”

Nick can’t speak. His heart is thundering, his fingers trembling beneath Miles’.

“You are ridiculous,” Miles says. He leans closer. “Ridiculous, Nick. And I love that about you. God knows I’ve tried not to.”

“Again, very romantic,” Nick says, finding his voice.

Miles’ face is before his own now, the two men leaning right across the table. “I thought you… well, I couldn’t see how you could see me in that way.”

“Miles, I can’t stop seeing you in that way.” Nick grins. “God knows I’ve-”

Miles kisses him, and suddenly they are all tongues and teeth, Miles’ hands coming to cradle Nick’s face possessively. Nick’s fingers find that silky hair, finally, and bury their way in, messing up the usually neat prosecutor. Their mouths work furiously, and Nick delights in the taste of Miles, which is wine and something wicked. Distantly, he thinks that this must be some sort of dream, but it is really happening; his rival is currently dipping his tongue wantonly into Nick’s mouth.

Gasping, they break apart, staring at each other with wide eyes.

“I had no idea you felt that way,” Nick says.

“I refer you to my earlier comment about you blundering your way through cases, Wright,” Miles says, with mock resignation. His eyes glitter, and the surprising humour makes Nick melt. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

Nick laughs despite himself. “Ridiculously attractive, apparently.”

“You are lovely.” Edgeworth’s eyes glaze over. “The first time we faced each other in court, all I could think about was how handsome you had become.”

“All I could think about was how terrifying you had become.”

Miles barks out a laugh. “Terrifyingly attractive, apparently.”

He isn’t wrong. Nick cocks his head, looking at Edgeworth with something delicious uncurling within him. “Maya wanted me to find someone to cuddle up with and talk about law,” he says.

“We could talk about law. It seems to me that you are desperately in need of some pointers-”

Nick kisses him to shut him up. This time is gentler, more affectionate.

“I could get used to that,” Nick says, when they draw apart.

“I’d like it if you did,” Miles replies. “Watching you is liking watching a hurricane, Wright. You're a literal disaster, but you're a force of nature. I had a taste of what it is like to have you on my side in the trial. I want that to be permanent.”

Nick is ecstatic, but he forces a frown. “It's hardly traditional to ask someone to be your boyfriend by calling them a 'literal disaster’, Miles.”

“Boyfriend,” Miles repeats. “Is that what this is?”

Nick finds himself smiling.

[born-under-a-black-moon]

In Spite Of Being Good | 6/4/1813

As usual of late, Selina hadn’t joined him. They’d not precisely quarreled——hadn’t quarreled nearly so much these past few weeks——but he thought he might’ve preferred it if they had. Most anything, he thought, would’ve been preferable to her sullenness; that was something he couldn’t stomach. Today, she’d not wanted even to get out of bed, and he’d found that he resented her so much for it that he hadn’t contested the point. He was sick and tired——sick and tired of going everywhere alone, and of sleeping by himself most nights. Of finding excuses to go from home because he couldn’t stand to be there. Of suffering all of the restrictions of marriage without any of its benefits——you’ve a wife, so keep your hands off. But, ah——your wife won’t have you. she won’t even companion you out.

For one reason or another, and likely more than any because there had now been contention between them for so long, he was feeling especially bitter and unhappy over all of this tonight. Mingoose wasn’t his first choice of spots to get away to, to pursue distraction and to while away his time, but he rarely turned down an invitation, and rarer still passed up the opportunity to enjoy himself. The more so to spite the misery——half in anger, half in anguish, and feeling he would mentally suffocate otherwise——bearing down on all sides of him. If nothing else, it was happier than home. Not quite the same, admittedly, since Horrie had married and gone——he’d not been the brightest of any bunch, but he had been amusing company. Regardless, he’d no intention of wasting the evening.

Of course, he’d flirted outrageously. Danced in what most would’ve considered too close proximity with a few tolerable looking young ladies (No great beauties here tonight, unfortunately). If anything, Selina’s moods and treatment of him inclined him to the more. Always did when she was like this, but not without a worm of guilt in the satisfaction it brought him. There were times when he wanted very much to hurt her deliberately——times when he felt he didn’t give a damn, and times when he felt badly he’d so much as entertained the thought of wounding her. And, of course, times when he resented his conscience for that.

The fact remained, he was lonely. Damnably lonely, and bitter about it all. And there was a part of him compelled to do it, however perversely, simply because she insisted that he was already, even if she didn’t accuse him so outrightly of it now. Why bother, he couldn’t help but to ask himself, when she thought the worst regardless? There were days when he rationalized one way, and days when he rationalized another. It won’t make any difference——it could always be worse——it’s what she deserves——it’s cruel and it’s wrong, as a matter of principle if nothing else——to hell with principles, she’s wronged me, she’s hurting me——that doesn’t excuse your wronging her, hurting her——and back again, defeated, asking himself what difference it made, really.

He’d had a lot of wine. Of course, he tended to overindulge in most cases——but tonight, circumstance had further induced him, and he’d not drunk as happily as he was generally inclined to. Now, he had reached a point where, through drink and through distraction, he’d for the most part succeeded in convincing himself that he no longer cared about any of it. His spirits had risen, though not without a certain scornful edge.

As always, he was well turned out, in black save for the scarlet of his waistcoat, and of course, the white of his shirt, stock and neckcloth. But the evening had taken a toll on his appearance. He’d danced hard, sweated and split the seam of his coat—–though the tear was a very small one——below one arm. He’d also slopped wine on his cravat shortly before the dancing had started, and gotten a spot of it on his cuff while dabbing it away. His hair was, by now, disheveled and sticking to his forehead, but it always tended towards untidiness, so this marked no great change in his looks. In any case, he could not have cared less.

It was well past midnight, but he didn’t know by how much. He’d just given the slip to a group of much older ladies on holiday from London——too old for his liking, and not much to look at, but they’d rather fancied him and his humor in spite of themselves, and he suspicioned he could’ve had the lot of them on their backs before the night was out. Not that he would’ve had a one; still, there remained some base gratification in the knowledge. Indeed, he’d found that he’d not at all minded planting himself in their company for a few minutes——in spite of the stale mix of powder and sweat and cloying perfume carried to his nose by the incessant beating of their fans——for the way they had swooned over him and fallen easy prey to his flattery, all of which had been grossly exaggerated, and concocted purely for his own amusement.

He’d been about to ford the crowd to refill his glass when he spotted her——a girl, peering around the door of the room adjacent the one he was in, where most of the guests had been mingling all evening. She was youngish——early twenties, perhaps——and she was staring at him. He thought that he’d seen her before. Not tonight, but he knew her from somewhere, he was sure. Was she a local? He thought not. Not with a pretty face like that, or he would’ve been able to better put a name to it. Perhaps in from London, with one of the old biddies whose company he’d just departed.

It struck him as a trifle odd that she was looking in from a room he knew to be essentially unoccupied; a little parlor, if memory of his previous visits here served. Perhaps she was simply timid, or waiting for someone, but regardless, it was strange, since the night was more than half over and he didn’t recollect having seen her for the first part. He certainly would not have overlooked her, especially in the present company, where attractive women were lacking so sorely. And she was very attractive, if somewhat conservatively dressed from what little he could make out. Not that he had any quarrel with girls who covered up. Apart from the rare disappointment——and this was usually, in the least, amusing——it made the reveal all the more gratifying.

As he looked on, it occurred to him that she was, in fact, staring rather shamelessly. It struck him too that there was something a little odd about her eyes. They were very pretty, but seemed somehow to be open too wide; or perhaps that was simply a consequence of the length and intensity of her looking. God only knew how long she’d been at it before he caught sight of her. His lips twinged a little at the thought. Certainly, she was admiring him, and he imagined hadn’t realized he was now looking her way, given the absence of any change in her expression. He’d half begun to smile back at her——looking forward to the embarrassment he fancied would color her cheeks when she realized he’d caught her in the act——when she retreated around the corner, and disappeared from sight.

He frowned a little at this, but the disappointment was not prolonged. Why should it be, when he could just as easily give chase? Intrigued, and having already exhausted himself of the company of most of the other guests——the Trenegloses were not known to throw together the most stimulating or prepossessing of crowds, which was a pity, as it seemed the least they could do when none of them were particularly stimulating or prepossessing themselves——he started across the floor, still holding in one hand his near empty glass. It crossed his mind that he might refill it before he went after her, but he was sincerely interested and didn’t want to risk losing her, whether out the door——it was getting late——or in the crowd, or to any fellow she might’ve been with.

It would have gratified him immensely——far more than another glass of Madeira, partial though he was——to spend the remainder of the evening in company of a girl so comely. If she had indeed come from London, they would be able to swap stories of the place. Perhaps she would even allow him a few liberties. A little touch here, a little squeeze there; the more so because it was getting to be that time of night when most everyone who wasn’t starting home or dozing was casting off their inhibitions.

Having picked his way through the crowd, he now rounded the corner she’d disappeared behind, and was pleasantly surprised to find her still standing there. He came to a halt, but her back was to him——she didn’t turn around, at which point he fancied she’d not heard him come in. Given the laughter and chattering of the people in the room adjoining——the music had died down with the dancing, but there remained plenty of noise——this did not surprise him. Standing now at her back with eyes narrowing, he took advantage of his unobserved entrance, and began to look her over.

She wasn’t especially tall, and the skin of her arms was alluringly peachy and fair. She was smartly turned out in a dark red frock, with a thick ribbon about its elevated waist, evincing an enticing slimness of figure. It was his first instinct to picture her unclothed, and this picture was a pleasing one. By contrast to the neatness of her dress, he thought her hair a little untidy; she might’ve been dancing as enthusiastically as he had, only he was certain he’d not laid eyes on her before. Not on this night, anyway. And perhaps not ever. One of the consequences of having known so many women was that they often looked alike.

Whatever the case, he liked the look of her——especially her hair, which for some reason, appealed to him for its untidiness. His lips curled, and suddenly, he found he very much relished the fact that he’d come on her unawares, and was now eyeing her without her knowledge. Of course, it had already occurred to him that she might have been keeping out of the throng because she was timid——and now her back was to him, he might risk startling her all the more. As such, he took care not to begin too loudly, or in any but his most casual manner. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed giving her a little fright, provided it wasn’t enough to put her off him. Some women, of course, were very up on their dignity, and didn’t take to that kind of thing well.

There was no telling yet what sort she was. And that, as always, kindled in him a flicker of excitement.

“Not dancing, m’dear?” He slanted a brow, eyes set upon her with a quiet intensity, idling his glass in her direction as he spoke. “I’m sure I should’ve given my right hand for the pleasure——if only it would not have impeded my having the pleasure——had I seen you on the floor.” His smile was crooked, his tone silky and sly, the sound of his voice a little huskier than usual for all the vigor he’d expended, and all the wine he’d drunk.