francesackerley

[francesackerley]

Hey y’all!

I’ve been pretty quiet on here as I figure out what next steps look like to me. As someone who’s 6th grade birthday party was going to see Pride & Prejudice on stage, I’ve reached an unexpected conclusion: I have big time regency burnout. I have worn my fill of lacy gloves, sipped more tea than is healthy and waltzed to my heart’s content. I’m ready to tuck Lady Ackerley into a bed with with her strange but loving American husband and fine silk sheets and go splash around in a different creative pool.

On a practical level, I’m done actively writing here and proud of what I’ve accomplished. If you have a loose ends with Frances or Amelia you need tied up, please feel free to dm me and we can hc things offscreen for you to reference as you move your character forward. 

All of you are entitled to a dose of gratitude from me. We’re all real people with real lives that pull us in a hundred different directions. I’m very thankful for everyone in the group who let this group and me have some of your valuable time and creative spirit. Frances’s world felt more real and tangible because of you, which made things a heck of a lot more fun for me. I often think who I am as a writer is an amalgamation of all the people I’ve written, so if I’m decent at all it’s a credit to the writing partners I’ve had over the year. Thank you for being patient, ignoring my typos and love of commas, and letting Frances come play. 

But I also owe a few particular thank yous, so forgive me as I get long winded— 

A big thank you to Annie, who has gifts I’m continually impressed by, chief among them a drive that makes it possible for her wonderful ideas to become a reality. It goes without saying that this beautiful version of London with all its mayhem and mishaps wouldn’t exist without you. Thanks for taking a chance on a Tumblr stranger.

A thank you to Cal, who is so very good at making people feel at ease and building camaraderie. More pertinently, she was a dream partner in the slowest slow burn that ever slow burned, which ultimately allowed us to tell a sincere, organic emotional story I’m really proud of. So much of writing successfully with someone else is trust, support and chemistry ooc, and I got stupidly lucky you were willing to do that with me.

To Wally, who deserves the award for most players messaged and the fastest writer I’ve ever met. There isn’t a single player who passed through this game who wasn’t greeted by you. It was a kind, important practice that made people feel included, and you deserve to be lauded for it. If that wasn’t enough, you’re an incredibly talented writer and I would like to read everything you tap out on a keyboard at the speed of light. Writing with you made me better, thanks for letting me learn from you.

There were many Greer cousins, but Alex was the first one who got it, who took a hard look at the Fitzlore I had built and treated it with such thoughtfulness and respect. I’m immensely appreciative to you and Margaret for the way you met me and Frances where we were at, and I’ll forever be daydreaming about the Greer cousins sitting under parasols somewhere, lovingly sniping at each other. Thank you to Laura for her discretion and her very Tony happy-to-go-along-with-it attitude. I said “can you keep an Adelson sized secret” and you said “Emmeline’s tarot cards point to yes”. Thank you to Vee, who is vocal with praise in a way all writer’s need when the craft feels like pulling out your own teeth. You speak to your partners in a way that makes them go “hey, I may actually be halfway decent at this whole writing thing?” RPing is about how you conduct yourself ic and ooc, and your kindness is important. Frances was me trying something new. I had just come off a stint of playing someone neutrally good (after playing many “good” characters) and I wanted a palate cleanser and to challenge myself. Frances, being who she is, said “hold my ratafia”. It’s a bit odd to say thank you to someone who lives in my head, but she would be miffed if I didn’t show appreciation for her, the way exploring who she is has hopefully made me a better writer and more importantly, helped me learn more about myself. 

I say, “This has been heaps of fun.” Frances says, “Yes, I suppose it was rather enjoyable.” Stay in touch if you’re so inclined, via discord or calling card, and again— thank you! 

[francesackerley]

🐦 for how our muses met (Miah!)

[Before this.]

Outside the lecture hall, Frances glared down at the students pictured in the glossy pamphlet in her hand. They grinned back, thrilled to be reaching their full potential. 

Disability Advisory Services— the pamphlet read in a tacky rounded text that Lucy would have had aesthetic opinions on— We’re here to help!

What complete and utter bullshit.

She stuffed the pamphlet into her tote, not caring if it was crumpled or stained by the other detritus lost to the bottom of her bag. A recent written exam was still in her hand, riddled with red ink, most prominently at the top of the page in a crowded scrawl: I have concerns. Please see me. —K.R.

The paper was relegated to her bag as well, though tossing it in the bin was tempting. She fished out her phone and fell into step, quickly firing off a text: Studying before dinner Thursday. Meet at mine. x

Over to Chrome where she furiously tapped in a url, then a name with a venomous jab of her thumbs. She glanced up as she stalked along the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a puddle and coming to a stop on the corner as the streetlight switched red.

She ducked her head, focus turning back to her phone. A text preview dipped down from the top of the screen eliciting an arched eyebrow, but she swiped it away in favor of scrolling down the screen to a freeform text field. Without hesitating, her fingers flew, stopping only to resolve red underlines that felt particularly personal at present. 

Professor Ridel has no sense of personal boundaries and inserts himself in his students’ lives. He enjoys feeling intellectually superior and exacerbates minor mistakes in order to feed his ego. Positive reviews can only be from class favorites. I find it concerning that–

“Watch out!”

Distracted, Frances felt more than saw the rush of air from a bike zipping by, followed by cold, wet dawning horror as it splashed her with a torrent of water.  

She was left blinking through sodden fringe at the bicyclist’s retreating back, his earnest “Sorry!” ringing in her ears. 

__

Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone, it was cheap vinyl seating, motivational posters and increasingly inane Likert scale questions. 

8. Do you choose to read magazines or short articles rather than longer books and novels?

Frances glanced around the relatively empty waiting area and tugged her powder blue ball-cap lower over her brow before scratching a circle around strongly agree.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—

9. Do you avoid work projects or courses that require extensive reading?

She reread the sentence once, twice, before circling strongly agree once more.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—

10. Do you read slowly?

Tap-tap-tap—

“Christ, would you please.” Her gaze snapped to the left in a glare, leveled at full force behind the shades of oversized black sunglasses.

The jiggling knee of the man sat several seats away slowed to a tap…tap…tap before finally granting her blessed silence. He stared at her, or rather at her hat. “I didn’t realize people here even knew the Tar Heels existed.” 

Frances blinked, struggling to make sense of what had been said, let alone what the man was referring to. The slow molasses drawl of his voice blurred vowels and consonants. “What in God’s name are you even talking about? I’m wearing trainers.” 

The door to their right opened and a portly woman with owlish glasses stuck her head out. She brought her clipboard within an inch of her nose, then squinted at the few students that dotted the room. “Ms. Fitzroy? Fran—”

“Yes!” Frances jumped to her feet and strode over before the woman could read out her date of birth and address as well. Hell, she might as well shout one of Frances’s credit card numbers while she was at it. “Present, thank you.” 

“You can come on through,” the woman said with an overly familiar pat to France’s arm. “Did you finish your survey? Professor Ridel included a few notes with his referral but we do like to get a baseline first...”

__

Brooks’ was decidedly stickier when viewed through sober eyes. She would have to fix that. 

The pub was subdued; they were caught in that awkward time between lunch and dinner. There was some game on– the wrong kind of football –and the only person watching was a man with curling brown hair posted at the bar. Frances settled herself several chairs down and after a brief argument with the barman about what constituted “good” gin, felt prepared to pull out a printout of an email she had received earlier that day. 

The ink at the top of the page blurred slightly, dampened by the water ring behind by her gin and tonic, but it was still legible. Different blanks on the form had already been pre-filled, her name, her email, the name of the diagnostician. She frowned, looked away, then forced herself to look back. Out of the corner of her eye, she peered at one particular blank, just above Describe the accommodations you believe are needed:

Diagnosed disability: Dyslexia

Frances tossed back her drink and signaled for a second. 

“I know. This isn’t our season.” 

The interruption came from the man who had been watching the tv. He grimaced, eyeing her empty glass then nodding at the screen, where men in powder blue uniforms knocked their heads together at full force in pursuit of a ball. She identified with the feeling. 

She flipped the paper to keep him from peeking at it. “I don’t know you.” She was seventy– no, sixty-percent certain. The rounded sound of his voice tickled with familiarity. 

His expression shifted from something uncomplicated to something almost...droll. It was in his eyes and the way they were watching her. “Would you like to?” 

[francesackerley]

🐦 for how our muses met (Frances introducing Basti to Lucy 😈 meme expert mode)

[the same evening as this] @lucyofedinburgh

Barefoot with drinks in hand, Frances unwittingly led Sebastian across white carpet toward his future.

She tugged him along by his wrist, the touch so familiar it meant very little. The crowd parted as they wove their way over to the window, a red sea of partygoers parting under the influence of the divine force of beauty and ego. 

She ducked out onto the balcony, cut in half by the window frame. When her head lifted it was followed by a shock of red.

“–cut down the guest list if we’re going to start becoming a dispensary,” she was saying, attention focused over her shoulder on Lucy even as she wrapped a proprietary hand around Sebastian’s bicep and pulled him forward, forming a triangle of conversation.

“Lucy, Sebastian Herzog. Sebastian, Lucy Needham. Lucy lives here, or rather, in my closet.” Blue eyes gave a pointed look at the cardigan that was most definitely hers. What was more annoying was that it fit Lucy better, the first few buttons sitting undone to reveal a bit of cleavage in a way that was more suggestive than whorish. 

“Sebastian and I are in Politics of Business together, theoretically because he’s studying political science, but we both know it’s more that he can’t help pining after me.” His responding eye roll was matched by Frances’s wicked smile, distorted through her wine glass as she paused to take a sip. It was too easy. “I figured it was about time the two of you met.”

She tucked several strands of loose fringe behind her ear, Cartier bracelet slipping down her forearm at the gesture. A screw was missing. “Now, Sebastian and I have sort of a running bet. I say that I know about a strawberry shortcake so sinful it would persuade him to stop being celibate. He says he’s more of a savory man. I thought we might invite him to join us on Thursday to come to a verdict?”

She arched a threaded eyebrow at Lucy, silently layering one conversation on top of another, speaking with subtext and pointed looks. Yes, was the resounding answer, followed by something further that Frances fully intended to translate, only her attention slipped over Lucy’s shoulder to a woman inspecting a series of photos resting on their fireplace mantel.

Blonde, with a thousand yard stare and sporting other people’s clothes.

Frances pushed her drink into Lucy’s hand and brushed a quick kiss to her cheek, then Sebastian’s. “I have to go say hello to someone. Play nice, the both of you.” 

[francesackerley]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

TEXT MEMES! Send a symbol + the prompt for texts from my muse!

send ✆ for a morning text send ♔ for an angry text send  ♠ for a drunk text send ☏ for a vague text send ✉ for a 2am text send ⁇ for a worried text send ❤ for a lusty/loving/affectionate message send ♣ for a text not meant for you send ✺ for a sassy text send √ for a long-winded confession text send ☠ for a misguided advice text send ☢ for a desperate text send ☼ for a congratulatory text send ✘ for a text that should never have been sent

[francesackerley]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

University AU drabble prompts: REDUX! Send a symbol + the prompt for a drabble!

🍺 to buy my muse a drink at the bar 🎤 to sing karaoke together (bonus if you send a song too!) 🕺 to convince my muse to go out dancing (on a school night!) 🥏 to challenge my muse to a game (billiards, frisbee, sender’s choice - please specify!) 🙏 to both reach for the last available copy of a book 😦 for my muse to realize they’re in the wrong class 🤒 to tend to my muse while they’re sick or injured 🎟 to see my muse at a school sporting event 🧪 to be lab partners and you’re the last ones to finish the experiment 😼 to help my muse sneak into a class building at night 💦 to go skinny dipping 🏖 to take a weekend trip to the beach 🙋‍♂️ to join my muse’s study group ❄️ to run into my muse leaving campus for winter break

[francesackerley]

Jeremiah had been Her Majesty’s particular favorite once. She had stolen him away, carved out a home for him at court and attempted to mold him. One might liken it to a parent attempting to raise a child in their preferred image. Surely past fondness had to count for something. 

Perhaps, a traitorous part of Frances whispered, but it is surprisingly easy for a parents to forget their children, is it not?  

A blink and the thought was banished to the recesses of Frances’s mind before it could betray her further and fracture her thin veneer of pleasantry. It did not matter. She did not care. Frances silently repeated the mantra with each careful step through the queue and toward Her Majesty.

Two of the Queen’s ladies eyed her, heads bent and lips flying as quickly as a hummingbirds wings. It does not matter. 

Another lady met her eye and quickly looked away. I do not care. 

Frances tightened her grip on Jeremiah’s arm. Just ahead of them, Lady Hawthrone was wobbling her way through her introduction, but her failings were overlooked, presumably in favor of the larger failure standing just behind her. 

Frances swallowed and leaned toward Jeremiah’s ear, voice pitched low. “We ought to have brought Bear.” A physical reminder of the Queen’s favor would not have gone amiss.

Lady Hawthorne tottered away. An attendant beckoned the Ackerleys forward. “The Most Honorable The Marquess and–” Frances could have sworn he hesitated then, “–Marchioness of Halifax.” 

That’s me, Frances thought, momentarily stunned. She had yet to hear it said so plainly. Belatedly, she remembered a curtsy was owed. She dipped as low as her knees would permit, wincing minutely as she rose, the flex in muscles eliciting a stab of lingering pain in her abdomen. 

[roll: 12!]

@jeremiahtheyankee

29 August 1800 The pedestal at the rose garden luncheon

While the garden is usually full of benches, perhaps a small stand for a musician, today it has been transformed to a dining room befitting a queen. Specifically, this queen.

Charlotte adjourned the luncheon a few minutes before the rest, leading her trailing court away from the trays of petit-fours and to a room dazzled in soft petal pink and rich blue. She returns, now, and is seated upon a low pedestal at the southern end of the rose garden.

The courtiers behind her are flush with chatter, whispers and secrets spreading like brushfire. Every so often, one bends to entice Queen Charlotte in their merriment, and she laughed. It is at that moment that a name is announced, and a couple steps forward.

—

See this post to reply to this starter!

[francesackerley]

He had missed the point, which was— whatever. She wasn’t going to beg. 

Harping about Lucy was the second cut. Without her phone to occupy her hands, Frances distracted herself with inspecting her manicure. Glittery Canotier had begun to chip. She frowned, digging her thumbnail into the grove where the gel varnish on her ring finger was lifting away even thought it would only make things worse. “As if I care.” 

Suddenly feeling restless, she shifted to face him, tucking her feet underneath her and propping her head up with an arm braced against the back of the couch. “It goes both ways you know. ‘Going Once, Going Twice: Only Losers as Dateless Needham Attends Sotheby’s Auction’” 

The topic was tired. She pivoted.

“Real or fake blonde?” Her memory of other students was an indistinguishable haze of bad highlights and polyester. Then, realizing Archie wouldn’t know the difference: “Forget it. Not to legitimize Judith’s reign of terror, but you really ought to get yourself a girlfriend. Your Charity Shop Chaser has obviously seen your White Card and intends to capitalize on the opportunity for a new wardrobe. Get yourself fixed and put her off.” 

She tapped the spoon against her pursed lips. “It would have to be someone your mother won’t murder, someone I won’t murder, assuming you would bring her round Thursdays, and someone you’re reasonably attracted to. Don’t make that face. You just spend too much time in the library, you’re not sexless.”  

[continued from here]

Phone reclaimed – spoons fetched and stabbed into the tub – he collapsed on the couch, head back and eyes closed.

“Mum does love an Almack’s girl,” he said, stealing the gelato away in the moment when she was distracted by something on her feed. Two spoonfuls in, he lost the Second Battle of Stracciatella back to her – leaned in to peer, slit-eyed at the infinite gallery of the night’s events. 

“Like that photo, not-not that one; bloody hell – is-is that Felicity Heyward?” A silent tussle later had the photo zoomed in; he whistled. “I-I heard she’d gotten some work done, but – no amount of-of pearls are letting her come back from-from that display.”

Her curated photos were by default excellent, if only because there was no way he would win any of those arguments – retreat to live to fight another day and all that, etc., etc. 

He dutifully leaned over again when she tilted the screen towards him, chin resting on her shoulder – “God, no – I-I look like a-a –” but tap-tap-tap–click and he could almost hear the whoosh as it published, filtered and packaged for global consumption. 

Losing battle, that; he swiped the gelato back in revenge. His spoon hesitated only a fraction of second at the invitation. 

“Lucy, out without you? The-the sky must be falling; it’ll be front page news by morning, along with some-some trashy headline: ‘Needy for Needham: Frances Fitzroy Distraught At Friend’s Abandonment, Trouble in Fashionista Heaven? More on Page Six!’“ 

Paused again to protest at the gelato once again switching hands, then, “Is it that-that rugby player she brought to the winter formal? McTavish or-or McAvoy or something egregiously Scottish. I don’t think being good at a-a sport merits an invitation but – well. There you have it.”

He was going to need another coffee – or another drink soon, he could tell by the faint pounding starting up in his head. Or perhaps – perhaps that was just due to the topic he absolutely did not want to bring up, most definitely not – 

“Have you seen that-that girl that’s damn well everywhere on campus? You know – blonde, unblinking stare, clothes so vintage they’re practically recyclable?” 

Air of casual indifference: achieved. He tugged the bowtie all the way off and tossed it, where it disappeared into the unrelenting white of the carpet. 

“I-I think she’s stalking me.”

@francesackerley​

[francesackerley]

🧦 for a dorm room headcanon

Lips met air as cheeks pressed together twice in greeting, followed by a more familiar kiss that actually landed on Sebastian’s stubbled cheek. Frances passed off the drink she already had in hand for him.

“Diplomatic immunity won’t protect you from recourse when you track in mud. Go take off your fucking shoes, our carpets are white.”

He responded with a comment she was was sure she would recognize as rude if she had paid attention during her foreign language credit her first year, but he ultimately indulged her. 

While he went back downstairs to add his shoes to the growing pile, Frances turned to wider room to look for Lucy. The flat was populated with various degrees of inebriation. A goth looking girl was holding court at the kitchen island, flipping over tarot cards and gesticulating whilst surrounded by several invested Griscombs and a variety of liquor bottles. The window to the balcony was thrown open, allowing the stench of pot to waft in. Frances rolled her eyes. Art students. They would start there. 

Her gaze settled on the far wall and the boy who stood in front of it, studying the six foot canvas hung there. She didn’t recognize him, but at a party with an open door policy that wasn’t surprising. She approached, noting the symbol and latin phrasing stretched across his back. It struck her as being associated with some university club, though she couldn’t place which one.

In profile he was a mop of disorderly hair with the face of a Victorian orphan en Vogue. He looked like a poster insert from Shout that girls would pin to their wall. 

Frances tilted her head toward the painting hung on the wall, blonde blowout spilling over her shoulder. “Nice, isn’t it? My flatmate did it.”

She reached out and tapped the gallery placard affixed to the wall with her index finger. 

Lucy Needham

The Neediest Bitch I Know

Oil on canvas

“She took some artistic liberties. I’m not nearly so freckled.”

[francesackerley]

🧦 for a dorm room headcanon [I'm a sucker for these]

[sometime after this and this]

"There.” Frances handed back Archie’s phone without looking. Now with a hand free (the other held a wineglass nicked from Fenton’s, the food was variable but the drinks were always excellent) she was able to type in the accesscode for the flat. “You’ve entered the modern era and can read Judith’s texts undetected. Mind your head.” 

They stepped into the entryway, Frances kicking off her heels and heading straight up the stairs without waiting to see if Archie followed. 

She drifted over to the freezer in the kitchen. Opening it sent goose pimples across her shoulders, exposed in a slinky black dress. “A photo of us together should satisfy her for the month at the very least. Send her the one where we’re seated, you can’t see the length of my hem but you can see my necklace.” She pulled a container of gelato from the fridge and nudged the door shut with her foot. “‘An Almack’s girl is always in pearls’,” she sing-songed on her way to the living room. “Grab spoons, will you?” He knew where to find them. 

They settled on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and alternating scoops of gelato, Frances adding in sips of wine here and there. The comfortable silence that blanketed the flat could only be the consequence of obligation fulfilled. Pretense slowly fell away with each bite; Frances’s feet ended up on the coffee table, Archie’s bowtie came undone. 

Frances set her empty wine glass aside and picked up her phone instead, scrolling idly, nose wrinkling or eyebrows lifting from post to post. Photos from the White’s formal were slowly rolling in. Every now and then her phone would twitch over to like an image. 

She switched over to her own photo album, scrolling through snapshots of the night. Posed photos to send to Judith and her mother, less family friendly ones taken with the other girls in the bathroom, a few candids. Mid-swipe Frances stopped and went back several pictures. 

It was a candid taken during just before dinner. Archie was gesticulating, hair slightly disheveled and cheeks a touch pink from too much brandy before eating. She was watching him with a smile on her lips, chin lifted, clearly pleased at having provoked a response. 

All the, hrm, good girls are being taken.

She tilted the screen so Archie could see. Blue eyes smoked out at the edges studied him, gauging his response as she asked: “Should I post this one?”

She stuck her silver spoon in her mouth to free up both thumbs and refocused her attention on the screen after a beat, moving back over to instagram, selecting the photo and then running through various tags. Hair by Salon 64, dress Alex Perry Pagett Midi, lipstick Charlotte Tilbury Kiss & Tell, and so on until she had fully taken herself apart piece by piece. 

A quick caption, can neither confirm nor deny the occasion, and with a final tap the photo was catapulted out into the world. 

She watched notifications pop up one by one, waiting for a username that mattered.

@grscmb1 and 2 other people like your photo 

She pulled the screen down. The refresh wheel spun. 

@vfletch and 20 other people liked your photo

Click, and the phone was locked. Frances tossed it to the other end of the couch. Her toes slipped from the edge of the coffee table and landed firmly on the floor. “Lucy isn’t here you know. You could stay over.” She leaned over, all casualness, and scooped up the last bit of gelato. “It’s been awhile.” 

[francesackerley]

💀 for our hungover muses trying to revive themselves on a Sunday morning xx

“Hypothetically,” a blond mess of hair rasped from underneath a well-loved duvet, “if I were to vomit, would you prefer it end up on your ‘artisanal’ secondhand rug or in the clogs you call mules?” 

The resulting kick under the covers from the ginger rat’s nest was a sufficient answer. 

“If you really loved me, you would have just killed me.” 

Consciousness was the first step, sending out signs of life was the second. Frances reached out to Lucy’s nightstand, fumbling for her phone. She identified it by touch alone– it was caseless with a small nick on the back –and eyes still closed, brought it within an inch of her face, swiping upward. 

The clock indicated that morning had nearly slipped into afternoon. Breakfast first then. 

She sent a pointed string of emojis to a text from Margaret that had arrived earlier in the morning asking if she wanted to study, then opened the Uber Eats app, already navigating over to her order history through bleary eyes the moment the home screen loaded. The order from last Sunday was already at the top of the page, waiting for her to tap ‘reorder’. She obliged without double checking. It was always the same: a McMuffin each, two hash browns (one for Lucy and one for Frances that was really also for Lucy), a black coffee Frances would pretend to drink, the toffee latte they would actually share. 

Provisions acquired, she slipped from the bed, pausing once upright to give the room a chance to stop spinning. The path to the bathroom was impeded by abandoned heels, a black silk slip, a lacy dress, and a fallen canvas, still wet with gesso. 

After a brief staring contest with the toilet (she won), she moved to the sink, immediately cringing at her reflection. She was more Frannie than Frances at the moment, with knotty hair piled into a poor excuse for a bun, undereye circles made darker by flakes of day-old mascara and– 

She reached up, brow furrowed, and rubbed at a smear of red on her cheekbone. It looked distinctly like the shade Lucy had worn last night, Kiss & Tell. 

Her phone chimed, signaling her delivery was on its way. She hastily brushed her teeth and went out into hall to slip on a pair of slippers and large black sunglasses. The intercom buzzed. She stumbled toward the front door and was greeted by the sound of a camera shutter. The resulting ding! of her phone in her hand had her swiping at the accompanying Uber Eats notification instinctively. 

The delivery driver gave a wave she didn’t return before ducking back into his car. Frances was too busy staring at a photo of herself, framed in her doorway, hungover and bug-eyed in Prada whilst sporting an oversized Wimbledon tee, a hickey peeking out from the stretched out collar. Charming. 

She collected the McDonald’s bag and drink tray the heinous photo had confirmed were delivered and headed back to Lucy’s bedroom. She was awake and propped up in bed, the tinny sound of disparate audio clips suggesting she was scrolling through Instagram or TikTok. Frances was too distracted to discern which, fixated on the pink smudge of YSL 43 at the corner of Lucy’s mouth. 

Frances fished a napkin from the paper bag and approached the bed. “Clean yourself up, Needham, you drooled in your sleep.”

The lipstick was unwittingly wiped away and Frances exchanged Lucy’s crumpled napkin for a latte and hashbrown. There was an uneasiness in her stomach. 

“How much do you remember about last night?” 

Lucy gave a questioning hum, then a more satisfied one at the first sip of caffeine.

Relief, then an odd sense of disappointment. “I thought maybe–” Fitzroys were well-practiced in capitalizing on opportunity and Frances had the distinct sense that one was passing her by, but the pounding in her head made it difficult to figure out why. “Maybe you had thoughts on Janet’s generous interpretation of smart casual. I don’t know why Tony brought invited her, he could do better.” 

She slid in next to Lucy, settling back against the pillows and the comfort of the status quo. This was a Sunday identical to the dozens of Sundays before and the many to come after. There would be binging whatever reality show they had started earlier in the week about people too dysfunctional to adequately express themselves, Frances would unwrap her breakfast sandwich and little else, and social media timelines would paint a picture of the night before too filtered and curated to reveal the blonde head cropped just out of frame, preparing to smudge her carefully applied YSL 43. 

[francesackerley]

☎ xoxo

Name: Lucy 🖤

Ringtone: [x]

Picture:

Last text received: Suggestion: you to stop walking around the flat naked. xx

Last text sent: Counteroffer: you stop having sex with your toaster strudel when I'm home. xx

Also don't be dramatic. I was wearing La Perla (you're welcome!)

[francesackerley]

☎️ for how often they call their parents headcanon

Metal rattled against wood. Bent in half toweling off her hair, Frances opened one eye, glancing over at her phone on the locker room bench. Even when viewed from upside down, F. FITZROY was clearly displayed in ominous white sans serif. 

The towel was tossed in the direction of the hamper and ultimately left on the floor as Frances picked up her phone instead. She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the appealing small, red circle. After running through quick mental math, she switched to green. 

“Hi, daddy.” There was a saccharine sweetness to her voice. Frances wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder and sat back onto the bench. Hands free, she dug through her bag for a claw clip, straightened, and twisted up the hair at the nape of her neck. 

“Sorry, I must have missed your earlier calls. It’s been mad with exams.” She pulled on one sock and braced her other bare foot against her knee. Her ankle was meticulously wrapped with strips of neon tape. She tugged gently at the edge, trying to loosen it. 

“Yes, it was today.”

Her fingers paused. Her jaw clenched. “No, no I didn’t win. I think the ligament is still–” 

The damp line of her brow furrowed. "It's not an excuse, I just–"

A pause.

"The sports therapist on staff frankly thinks rest might be– no, of course. You're right. You’re absolutely right."

She ripped the tape off all at once, face impassive. 

“I should go, actually. My Uber is here. Mm. I’ll call mum tonight.” She was ninety percent certain they had a charity thing later, she could get away with forgetting. 

The call was ended before the phone left her ear. She pulled on her other sock, sneakers and shoved her sweaty tennis clothes into her bag along with her phone. With a frustrated noise she dug back into the duffel and pulled her phone back out.

Frances bypassed the list of notifications on the lockscreen, tapping over to the Uber app and queuing up a ride. Frowning at the wait time, she swiped down from the top of the screen, skimming her notifications list. A link to recommended strength training routine from her father, a reminder from her period app, several notifications from Instagram. She tapped at the latter, expanding the list. Her eyes caught on the username tied to a like on a recent picture. 

She hesitated, moved over to her contacts. It took a moment to scroll down through her recent calls to get to the right name. 

He answered on the first ring. 

“Hi.” 

The greeting was echoed back at her, in a voice that sounded just as surprised. She bit at her thumb, then caught the gesture, pulling back to inspect her nails.

“I was just thinking– have you eaten?” 

“I’m not sure ‘second lunch’ is a thing actually, that’s just dinner. But glad to hear you’re open to the prospect. I fancied a pizza?”

“No, I can bring it to yours.”

“I really don’t mind. Prefer it actually. What does a hot water bottle have to do with anything?”

Surprise lighted her features before they softened. “I’m meant to ice it, but thank you.” 

Frances shouldered her bag with a laugh, half exasperated, half fond. “You’re daft. You realize it will melt if you get it out now?”

“Fine, fine. No, I’ll be a perfect patient. I’ll see you soon.” 

With the call ended, she swiped back over to the Uber app, canceling the current ride. She typed in a new address before opening her texts, tapping at Lucy’s name. Her thumbs worked quickly as she moved for the exit. 

I look feral. Nails tomorrow? 

[francesackerley]

🍣 for a late night food/drink headcanon

While SUSHISAMBA theoretically operated during the day, it was, in Frances’s mind at least, firmly a late-night haunt, if for no other reason than she couldn’t abide being seen ordering a Shiso Fine cocktail in broad daylight. 

It was the unspoken end to any evening well-spent. Stilletoed feet tangled underneath the table, fingers gritty with salt from a shared bowl of edamame, and more sushi than they could eat to pair with the cocktails they really ought not to drink. 

It was familiarity and a vague drunkenness that had lulled Frances into complacency. She had missed the signs: Margaret obsessively peeking at her phone and nervously nibbling on a piece of ginger. 

When the bomb finally dropped, metaphorically upending their usual table tucked into the far right corner, Frances’s bite of wasabi was well-timed, giving her a passable excuse for pursed lips and narrowing eyes. 

“Really, Margie.” She paused, mouth working blindly to find her straw. After a sip to clear her throat she continued on, “I suppose Richard Harcourt is boyfriend material, if horribly skeevy is your sort of thing.” 

An impatient jab with her chopsticks stopped any objection before it could surface. “Now don’t look like that, it’s not as if there isn’t precedent.” She nabbed a bit of yellowtail, dredging it through soy sauce and popping it her mouth. The corners of her mouth curled upward; gossip was meant to be savored. “There was that whole Vane business, and she’s supposed to be clever! Not to mention whoever came before her. One of his previous girlfriends transferred out, I heard. Things ended rather nastily.” 

Someone cleared their throat behind her. The eyeroll that followed was automatic. If this was some not-so-subtle attempt to clear the table, as if they weren’t open for another hour. Frances turned reluctantly. “We’re just fine, thank yo– Richard!” Fuck. “We were just singing your praises. This is normally a girls table, but I suppose you can join us, just this once.”

[francesackerley]

& @kleineschatz !

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy! 

University AU drabble prompts! Send a symbol + the prompt for a drabble!

🏠 you run into my muse at a house party (optional: one or both are drunk) 👋 your muse catches up with my muse after class to ask for help 👯‍♂️ our muses have a partner project due tomorrow ☕️ for our muses to grab coffee at a cafe together 😳 for our muses to wake up beside each other after a wild party! 💀 for our hungover muses trying to revive themselves on a Sunday morning  🕰 for our muses hanging out after midnight  🚗 for our muses jumping in the same rideshare without realizing it ⚔️ for our muses to be on opposing teams (either sports or academically)

[francesackerley]

& @kleineschatz !

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

University AU Headcanons! Send a symbol + the prompt for a headcanon!

🧦 for a dorm room headcanon 😴 for a sleep schedule headcanon 🤓 for study habits headcanon 🍣 for a late night food/drink headcanon 🍰 for a social club headcanon ⚽️ for a sports headcanon 🤔 for a why they chose their major headcanon ☎️ for how often they call their parents headcanon 🍠 for a roommate headcanon 🐦 for how our muses met

[francesackerley]

university au || frances

tennis practice several times a week

pearl necklace that is definitely not associated with a legacy secret society

the one night stand that got out of hand @jeremiahtheyankee

late night drinking & cram  shit-talking sessions (w/ @lucyofedinburgh, or @ixnay-on-the-ipshay and @margaretmulgrave if exams are drawing near)

weekend  hungover dog walks on the way to breakfast

glam nights out

texting in class

that one dive bar frances always swears she’ll never end up at (bow down to the raining billiards queen @sebastianofprussia)

also ft. body glitter that gets on everything, numbers from boys who won’t get a call back, flowers from the boy that will, monogrammed everything, lucy’s lipstick that went “missing”