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dwellordream · 3 years

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“…The complex design of the Victorian house signified the changing ratio between the cultural and physical work situated there. With its twin parlors, one for formal, the other for intimate exchange, and its separate stairs and entrances for servants, the Victorian house embodied cultural preoccupations with specialized functions, particularly distinguishing between public and private worlds.

American Victorians maintained an expectation of sexualized and intimate romanticism in private at the same time that they sustained increasingly ‘‘proper’’ expectations for conduct in public. The design of the house helped to facilitate the expression of both tendencies, with a formal front parlor designed to stage proper interactions with appropriate callers, and the nooks, crannies, and substantial private bedrooms designed for more intimate exchange or for private rumination itself.

Just as different areas of the house allowed for different gradations of intimacy, so did the house offer rooms designed for different users. The ideal home offered a lady’s boudoir, a gentleman’s library, and of course a children’s nursery. This ideal was realized in the home of Elizabeth E. Dana, daughter of Richard Henry Dana, who described her family members situated throughout the house in customary and specialized space in one winter’s late afternoon in 1865. Several of her siblings were in the nursery watching a sunset, ‘‘Father is in his study as usual, mother is taking her nap, and Charlotte is lying down and Sally reading in her room.’’ In theory, conduct in the bowels of the house was more spontaneous than conduct in the parlor.

This was partly by design, in the case of adults, but by nature in the case of children. If adults were encouraged to discover a true, natural self within the inner chambers of the house, children—and especially girls—were encouraged to learn how to shape their unruly natural selves there so that they would be presentable in company. The nursery for small children acknowledged that childish behavior was not well-suited for ‘‘society’’ and served as a school for appropriate conduct, especially in Britain, where children were taught by governesses in the nursery, and often ate there as well. In the United States children usually went to school and dined with their parents. As the age of marriage increased, the length of domestic residence for some girls extended to twenty years and more.

The lessons of the nursery became more indirect as children grew up. Privacy for children was not designed simply to segregate them from adults but was also a staging arena for their own calisthenics of self-discipline. A room of one’s own was the perfect arena for such exercises in responsibility. As the historian Steven Mintz observes, such midcentury advisers as Harriet Martineau and Orson Fowler ‘‘viewed the provision of children with privacy as an instrument for instilling self-discipline. Fowler, for example, regarded private bedrooms for children as an extension of the principle of specialization of space that had been discovered by merchants. If two or three children occupied the same room, none felt any responsibility to keep it in order.’’

…The argument for the girl’s room of her own rested on the perfect opportunity it provided for practicing for a role as a mistress of household. As such, it came naturally with early adolescence. The author Mary Virginia Terhune’s advice to daughters and their mothers presupposed a room of one’s own on which to practice the housewife’s art. Of her teenage protagonist Mamie, Terhune announced: ‘‘Mamie must be encouraged to make her room first clean, then pretty, as a natural following of plan and improvement. . . . Make over the domain to her, to have and to hold, as completely as the rest of the house belongs to you. So long as it is clean and orderly, neither housemaid nor elder sister should interfere with her sovereignty.’’ Writing in 1882, Mary Virginia Terhune favored the gradual granting of autonomy to girls as a natural part of their training for later responsibilities.

…Victorian parents convinced their daughters that the secret to a successful life was strict and conscientious self-rule. The central administrative principle was carried forth from childhood: the responsibility to ‘‘be good.’’ The phrase conveyed the prosecution of moralist projects and routines, and perhaps equally significant, the avoidance or suppression of temper and temptation. Being good extended beyond behavior and into the realm of feeling itself. Being good meant what it said—actually transfiguring negative feelings, including desire and anger, so that they ceased to become a part of experience.

Historians of emotion have argued that culture can shape temperament and experience; the historian Peter Stearns, for one, argues that ‘‘culture often influences reality’’ and that ‘‘historians have already established some connections between Victorian culture and nineteenth-century emotional reality.’’ More recently, the essays in Joel Pfister and Nancy Schnog’s Inventing the Psychological share the assumption that the emotions are ‘‘historically contingent, socially specific, and politically situated.’’ The Victorians themselves also believed in the power of context to transform feeling.

The transformation of feeling was the end product of being good. Early lessons were easier. Part of being good was simply doing chores and other tasks regularly, as Alcott’s writings suggest. One day in 1872 Alice Blackwell practiced the piano ‘‘and was good,’’ and another day she went for a long walk ‘‘for exercise,’’ made two beds, set the table, ‘‘and felt virtuous.’’ Josephine Brown’s New Year’s resolutions suggested such a regimen of virtue—sanctioned both by the inherent benefits of the plan and by its regularity.

As part of her plan to ‘‘make this a better year,’’ she resolved to read three chapters of the Bible every day (and five on Sunday) and to ‘‘study hard and understandingly in school as I never have.’’ At the same time, Brown realized that doing a virtuous act was never simply a question of mustering the positive energy to accomplish a job. It also required mastering the disinclination to drudge. She therefore also resolved, ‘‘If I do feel disinclined, I will make up my mind and do it.’’

The emphasis on forming steady habits brought together themes in religion and industrial culture. The historian Richard Rabinowitz has explained how nineteenth-century evangelicalism encouraged a moralism which rejected the introspective soul-searching of Calvinism, instead ‘‘turning toward usefulness in Christian service as a personal goal.’’ This pragmatic spirituality valued ‘‘habits and routines rather than events,’’ including such habits as daily diary writing and other regular demonstrations of Christian conduct. Such moralism blended seamlessly with the needs of industrial capitalism—as Max Weber and others have persuasively argued.

Even the domestic world, in some ways justified by its distance from the marketplace, valued the order and serenity of steady habits. Such was the message communicated by early promoters of sewing machines, for instance, one of whom offered the use of the sewing machine as ‘‘excellent training . . . because it so insists on having every-thing perfectly adjusted, your mind calm, and your foot and hand steady and quiet and regular in their motions.’’ The relation between the market place and the home was symbiotic. Just as the home helped to produce the habits of living valued by prudent employers, so, as the historian Jeanne Boydston explains, the regularity of machinery ‘‘was the perfect regimen for developing the placid and demure qualities required by the domestic female ideal.’’

Despite its positive formulation, ‘‘being good’’ often took a negative form —focusing on first suppressing or mastering ‘‘temper’’ or anger. The major target was ‘‘willfulness.’’ An adviser participating in Chats with Girls proposed the cultivation of ‘‘a perfectly disciplined will,’’ which would never ‘‘yield to wrong’’ but instantly yield to right. Such a will, too, could teach a girl to curb her unruly feelings. The Ladies’ Home Journal columnist Ruth Ashmore (a pseudonym for Isabel Mallon) more crudely warned readers ‘‘that the woman who allows her temper to control her will not retain one single physical charm.’’ As a young teacher, Louisa May Alcott wrestled with this most common vice.

Of her struggles for self-control, she recognized that ‘‘this is the teaching I need; for as a school-marm I must behave myself and guard my tongue and temper carefully, and set an example of sweet manners.’’ Alcott, of course, made a successful career out of her efforts to master her maverick temper. The autobiographical heroine of her most successful novel, Little Women, who has spoken to successive generations of readers as they endured female socialization, was modeled on her own struggles to bring her spirited temperament in accord with feminine ideals.

So in practice being good first meant not being bad. Indeed, it was some- times better not to ‘‘be’’ much at all. Girls sometimes worked to suppress liveliness of all kinds. Agnes Hamilton resolved at the beginning of 1884 that she would ‘‘study very hard this year and not have any spare time,’’ and also that she would try to stop talking, a weakness she had identified as her principle fault.

When Lizzie Morrissey got angry she didn’t speak for the rest of the evening, certainly preferable to impassioned speech. Charlotte Perkins Gilman, who later critiqued many aspects of Victorian repression, at the advanced age of twenty-one at New Year’s made her second resolution: ‘‘Correct and necessary speech only.’’

Mary Boit, too, measured her goodness in terms of actions uncommitted. ‘‘I was good and did not do much of anything,’’ she recorded ambiguously at the age of ten. It is perhaps this reservation that provoked the reflection of southerner Lucy Breckinridge, who anticipated with excitement the return of her sister from a long trip. ‘‘Eliza will be here tomorrow. She has been away so long that I do not know what I shall do to repress my joy when she comes. I don’t like to be so glad when anybody comes.’’ Breckinridge clearly interpreted being good as in practice an exercise in suppression. This was just the lesson of self-censoring that Alice James had starkly described as ‘‘‘killing myself,’ as some one calls it.’’

This emphasis on repressing emotion became especially problematic for girls in light of another and contradictory principle connected with being good. A ‘‘good’’ girl was happy, and this positive emotion she should express in moderation. Explaining the duties of a girl of sixteen, an adviser writing in the Ladies’ Home Journal noted that she should learn ‘‘that her part is to make the sunshine of the home, to bring cheer and joyousness into it.’’ At the same time that a girl must suppress selfishness and temper, she must also project contentment and love. Advisers simply suggested that a girl employ a steely resolve to substitute one for the other. ‘‘Every one of my girls can be a sunshiny girl if she will,’’ an adviser remonstrated. ‘‘Let every failure act as an incentive to greater success.’’

This message could be concentrated into an incitement not to glory and ethereal virtue but simply to a kind of obliging ‘‘niceness.’’ This was the moral of a tale published in The Youth’s Companion in 1880. A traveler in Norway arrives in a village which is closed up at midday in mourning for a recent death. The traveler imagines that the deceased must have been a magnate or a personage of wealth and power. He inquires, only to be told, ‘‘It is only a young maiden who is dead. She was not beautiful nor rich. But oh, such a pleasant girl.’’ ‘‘Pleasantness’’ was the blandest possible expression of the combined mandate to repress and ultimately destroy anger and to project and ultimately feel love and concern.

Yet it was a logical blending of the religious messages of the day as well. Richard Rabinowitz’s work on the history of spirituality notes a new later-century current which blended with the earlier emphasis on virtuous routines. The earlier moralist discipline urged the establishment of regular habits and the steady attention to duty. Later in the century, religion gained a more experiential and private dimension, expressed in devotionalism. Both of these demands—for regular virtue and the experience and expression of religious joy—could provide a loftier argument for the more mundane ‘‘pleasant.’’

…The challenges of this project were particularly bracing given the acute sensitivity of the age to hypocrisy. One must not only appear happy to meet social expectations: one must feel the happiness. The origins of this insistence came not only from a demanding evangelical culture but also from a fluid social world in which con artists lurked in parlors as well as on riverboats. A young woman must be completely sincere both in her happiness and in her manners if she was not to be guilty of the corruptions of the age. One adviser noted the dilemma: ‘‘‘Mamma says I must be sincere,’ said a fine young girl, ‘and when I ask her whether I shall say to certain people, ‘‘Good morning, I am not very glad to see you,’’ she says, ‘‘My dear, you must be glad to see them, and then there will be no trouble.’’’’’

…No wonder that girls filled their journals with mantras of reassurance as they attempted to square the circle of Victorian emotional expectation. Anna Stevens included a separate list stuck between the pages of her diary. ‘‘Everything is for the best, and all things work together for good. . . . Be good and you will be happy. . . . Think twice before you speak.’’

We look upon these aphorisms as throwaways—platitudes which scarcely deserve to be preserved along with more ‘‘authentic’’ manuscript material. Yet these mottoes, preserved and written in most careful handwriting in copy books and journals, represent the straws available to girls attempting to grasp the complex and ultimately unreconcilable projects of Victorian emotional etiquette and expectation.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Houses, Families, Rooms of One Own.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #victorian #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls #gender

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handeaux · 4 years

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Swami Yogananda Inspired Cincinnati Seekers But Provoked A Peculiar Divorce

Back in the 1960s, as young people explored Eastern philosophy and religion through Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Transcendental Meditation and A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami’s Hare Krishna movement, some older Cincinnatians experienced a wave of déjà vu.

Forty years earlier, in the Jazz-Age “Roaring Twenties,” the Queen City was infatuated with another Indian philosopher, Paramahansa Yogananda, author of the best-selling “Autobiography of a Yogi.” This pioneering guru filled Cincinnati auditoriums, made headlines and entranced the cream of society.

Cincinnati was not his first American stop. Yogananda arrived in Boston in 1920 and quickly attracted attention and adherents. He established his headquarters in Los Angeles, where he became the darling of the Hollywood crowd, but traveled constantly. In 1927, he met with President Calvin Coolidge in the White House.

In the autumn of 1926, announcements heralded the Swami’s upcoming arrival in Cincinnati. One advertisement in the Cincinnati Post [20 September 1926] claimed:

“Want to be young again? Swami Yogananda, educator, metaphysician and mastermind of India, is coming here for the first time early in October to tell you how to attain ‘Everlasting Youth.’ Learn from him the secret of drawing dynamic energy from the cosmic supply all around you – the secret Douglas Fairbanks has already learned. Swami will bring light, life and health to this city. Swami comes here direct from New York City, where he has proved a sensational success – and does not conflict with anyone’s religion.”

Yogananda lectured daily to mostly full houses at Music Hall during his six-week stay in Cincinnati, from 1 October to 15 November 1926. His lectures promoted Yogoda, described as a “new science” of self-realization, based on the practice of Kriya Yoga. Throughout his visit, the local newspapers reported in detail on his teachings and opinions. The Enquirer [2 October 1926] captured this gem:

“The American woman is a combination of the spiritualism of the Hindu woman and her own materialism.”

Yogananda announced plans to build a “How To Live Center” in Cincinnati. According to the Enquirer [1 December 1926]:

“The plans as presented by the Swami at a luncheon Wednesday noon at the Sinton Hotel, call for a children’s and adults’ moving picture house, with lecture hall, gymnasium, library, concentration rooms and café, with health officers in charge who will tell what kind of food to eat.”

The swami lectured frequently on personal magnetism, as reported by the Enquirer [10 October 1926]:

“We hear people say, ‘That young man is very magnetic, a live wire,’ &c. By effort of will and constant application of will each man can magnetize himself as a wire is magnetized by electricity.”

There is no question that Yogananda displayed a magnetic personality, especially to women. His Cincinnati visits almost always included luncheons and teas hosted by society ladies and he accompanied local women to the opera and other cultural events.

Throughout several trips to Cincinnati, the swami was never accused of any improper behavior, but husbands in Cincinnati and elsewhere resented Yogananda’s influence on their wives. The police chief of Miami, Florida prohibited Yogananda from speaking there and mobilized armed officers with “gas bombs” to enforce that order because of a Miami husband. Accoding to the Enquirer [4 February 1928]:

“The order for the ‘mystic’ to leave town was issued by the Chief of Police after a Miami man had complained that his wife was so ‘under the influence of the Swami’ that she threatened to continue attending the lectures ‘even if it breaks up our home.’”

As it turns out, Swami Yogananda actually did break up one Cincinnati marriage. According to the Enquirer [19 January 1934]:

“Too much time spent by her as a follower of Swami Yogananda, Hindu philosopher, and too little attention to her husband and home, was charged against Elsie Dietrich Becker, 47, 18 West Ninth Street, by Wayne A. Becker, 46, Boomer and Reemelin Roads, in fighting his wife’s suit for a divorce, before Judge Charles W. Hoffman, in Domestic Relations Court yesterday.”

Mrs. Becker, her husband complained, left him for weeks at a time whenever the swami called, keeping a life-size portrait of him in their living room and composing passionate poems about her spiritual leader. For her part, Mrs. Becker filed the initial complaint, attesting that her husband had multiple affairs, refused to support her and had threatened her with a pistol.

Mr. Becker was an engineer who specialized in designing swimming pools. Transcripts of the divorce hearings suggest that he was involved with many of the larger swimming pools in the Cincinnati area, including Coney Island’s Sunlite Pool. Mrs. Becker worked as a cake and candy decorator until she began doing the bookkeeping for Swami Yogananda.

While employed by Yogananda’s Self-Realization Fellowship, Mrs. Becker resided at his Los Angeles headquarters along with 15 or 20 other personnel, mostly women, who traveled with the guru for business or vacations. That was the basis of Mr. Becker’s complaint. Although Mrs. Becker took great pains to testify her relationship was strictly professional, Mr. Becker insisted he did not claim otherwise, but only objected to her absences and ongoing infatuation.

Judge Hoffman sided with Mr. Becker, dismissing Mrs. Becker’s complaint of adultery and granting Mr. Becker the divorce. As part of the settlement, Mrs. Becker got the house on Reemelin Rd. She sold it in 1945 and moved to Utah, her spiritual quest having led to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

#Swami Yogananda #Self-Realization Fellowship

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queseraone · 5 years

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Secret

From a Tumblr prompt: "Jay is a doctor and Erin is a nurse. They are married but nobody knows they are in a relationship and their coworkers find out." I put my own spin on this idea, hopefully you like it!

Thanks to my lovely ladies @suttonbradyy and @halsteadpd for putting up my millions of questions and all of their input.

Obviously I know nothing about medicine, sooooooo…

(Also thanks to Grey’s Anatomy for lots of inspiration - you might recognize a few things I borrowed from that show! And some Med characters too!)

Jay sighed, flopping back on the mattress and staring up at the ceiling. “I just don’t understand why you don’t want to tell people?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell people. I just… it’s different for me.” Noting the look of confusion on his face, Erin continued. “Okay look, if people find out that you’re sleeping with a nurse, they’ll high five you or think you’re a stud or some other sexist bullshit. But if people find out that I’m sleeping with a doctor? I can already hear the whispers—Lindsay is screwing a doctor to get ahead. That’s why Lindsay got that promotion. Lindsay is cheating the system. I just want people to see me for me, to respect what I bring to the table.”

“I can appreciate that,” Jay stood up, reaching for her and taking her hands in his own. “And I know how important your job is to you. It’s just going to be really, really hard for me to see you in the cafeteria or pass you in the halls and not be able to touch you…” Jay’s fingertips danced along her skin, trailing up her arms before settling on her face, drawing her ever closer. “…or kiss you senseless…”

Erin smiled against his lips, savouring the moment before reluctantly pulling back. “I know. I feel the same way, but—”

“It’s okay babe, I get it.” He pressed his lips against hers one more time before taking a step back and sitting on the edge of the bed, watching as she got ready for work. His girl in scrubs might just be his favourite sight. She looked strong and powerful and so damn sexy. He would never get tired of that sight, thanking his lucky stars that their paths had crossed in the first place.

It was a total fluke that they even met. He was fresh from Afghanistan, completing his residency in trauma surgery at Chicago Lakeshore Hospital, and she was on loan there from Gaffney Chicago Med, helping to cover when most of their nursing staff was sidelined by a particularly brutal bout of food poisoning. Jay still liked to joke that a bad pot of chili was the best thing to ever happen to him, because it brought her into his life.

They were assigned to the same case—a woman was brought in with life-threatening injuries after being impaled by a falling icicle—and later found themselves seated side-by-side at a nearby bar after shift. After unpacking the intensity of the day, their conversations shifted to more personal topics as they laughed and drank together. It was no surprise that the night ended back at her place, and they had more or less been waking up together ever since.

There had always been an element of competition between them, playfully arguing about whose hospital was better. Sure, Lakeshore got high-profile cases and tons of publicity, but Gaffney had a state-of-the-art emergency department that rivaled some of the best hospitals in the country. And now that Jay was starting his fellowship at her hospital, Erin was excited for him to admit that she’d been right all along.

Jay was just looking forward to seeing more of his girlfriend. Working at different hospitals—often on opposite shifts—sometimes meant going days without seeing each other. So even though he agreed to keep their relationship a secret at work, he was still thrilled to be closer to her.

“You know,” he began, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “This whole sneaking around thing could be kind of fun.”

Erin laughed as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, crossing the room to playfully swat his arm. “I’ll see ya.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

Collapsing into an empty seat at the nurses’ station, Erin was thankful to finally have a few minutes to update her patient files and hopefully wolf down a granola bar. She noticed that a couple of the other nurses were deep in conversation, throwing furtive glances across the ED. “What are you guys whispering about?”

“Have you seen the new trauma surgeon?” Doris asked, her voice hushed as she leaned closer to Erin.

Knowing full well who they were talking about, Erin pretended to be engrossed in a chart, casually shrugging her shoulders in response.

“Oh my god Erin, look at him! He’s so hot!” Monique gushed.

Erin stole a quick look across the ED, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to hide her reaction to the sight of Jay. ‘Hot’ did not do her man justice. She watched the fabric of his scrubs straining against his biceps as he worked on a patient, and if she listened close enough, she could just make out the sound of his voice as he gave orders to an intern.

Trying to remain calm—her plan to hide their relationship wouldn’t exactly be successful if she ran across the ED and jumped his bones in the middle of shift—she just shrugged again. After taking a long swig from her water bottle, she continued, her tone much more relaxed than she felt. “Yeah, I guess he’s kind of cute.”

“Kind of cute?” A wide-eyed April chimed in incredulously. “Erin, you need to get your eyes checked or something. That man is fine as hell!”

Fighting the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes—Jay’s ego was already big enough, she could only imagine how that kind of comment would go straight to his head—Erin continued, “Whatever, I have a boyfriend. So it doesn’t really matter if I think the new guy is cute.” She stood up abruptly, more than ready for the conversation to be over. “Anyway, don’t you guys have work to do?”

“I have been wanting to do that allllllll day,” Jay murmured against Erin’s lips after pulling her into an empty exam room.

Erin sighed blissfully, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips moved lower, kissing a trail down the column of her neck. Before she even had time to fully appreciate the feeling of her boyfriend’s muscular body pinning her against the wall or his strong hands roaming her body, they were interrupted by an obnoxious beeping.

“Son of a bitch,” Jay cursed under his breath as they both fumbled around for their pagers.

She groaned, knowing their moment was over before it even started. “You or me?”

“Me,” he grumbled, pausing as he read the message. “Incoming trauma.”

Erin wrapped her arms even tighter around his torso, burying her face in his chest and inhaling his familiar scent. “Noooooo.”

“Gotta save lives babe,” he grinned, leaning in for one last kiss. “Love you.”

“I think I’m going to go for it,” Monique proclaimed out of the blue a few days later.

They were gathered around the nurses’ station, taking advantage of a rare moment of quiet to load up on coffee. After all, five quiet minutes usually meant five hours of crazy was on the way.

April’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “Ooooh, really?”

“Go for what?” Erin’s brows quirked up in confusion. Clearly she was out of the loop on something. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Monique is going to ask Dr. Halstead out.” And then, somehow mistaking the look of sheer horror on Erin’s face for misunderstanding, April continued, “Dr. Halstead is the new trauma surgeon.”

“The hot one!” Monique added with a wide grin. Grabbing a compact from the pocket of her scrubs, the young blonde nurse quickly surveyed her appearance in the mirror. Apparently satisfied with her reflection, she immediately popped it back into her pocket and faced her colleagues again. “Wish me luck!”

And then it was like a car accident—try as she might, Erin just couldn’t look away. Her eyes were trained on Monique, watching as the younger woman crossed the ED to where Jay was standing, reading through a patient file and jotting down some notes.

He looked up when Monique stopped in front of him, offering her a small smile. “Hey, did you need me for a consult?”

“Um, actually,” Monique began, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears. “I was sort of wondering if maybe you might want to… go out with me some time?”

Jay was completely silent, his mouth hanging slightly open as he tried to find a way to respond.

Erin swore she could feel his eyes on her, practically burning through her skin from across the ED. It took every ounce of self-control she had to stop herself from making eye contact with him. She focused on keeping her head down, feigning interest in whatever was on the computer screen in front of her.

She couldn’t react. She couldn’t say a word. Not without giving everything away.

It had been over a week, and despite a couple of close calls—like the time Erin instinctively reached out for Jay’s hand after a particularly emotional case, only remembering at the last second and awkwardly covering by knocking over a stack of files, pissing off the charge nurse in the process—they had been doing a pretty good job of keeping things under wraps.

But in that moment, standing there watching as her colleague hit on her boyfriend? All Erin could do was wonder what the hell she was thinking wanting to hide their relationship.

Still refusing to look up, she could hear Jay clear his throat loudly, and in her peripheral vision she watched as his hand moved up to rub along the back of his neck—a nervous tic of his. Even from a distance she could faintly hear him hemming and hawing, tripping on words as he tried to apologize and find a way to let Monique down easy.

After another minute staring at the computer screen, Erin saw Monique dejectedly plunk herself back down in an empty chair.

“He turned me down,” she explained sadly. “Apparently he has a girlfriend.”

Word about Jay’s relationship status spread quickly around the hospital—not that it mattered. It seemed like the entire nursing staff was infatuated with him, regardless of the fact that he was off the market.

And it was driving Erin absolutely crazy.

She knew it would be a challenge to work so closely with him while keeping their relationship a secret. But she never could have anticipated that it would this hard.

When she wasn’t being driven mad with lust—seriously, could he stop looking so damn sexy all the time?—she just wanted to scream for her colleagues to back the fuck off and stop ogling her boyfriend.

It was getting out of hand. She had never been the jealous type before, but there was just something about having to stand there and listen to everyone talk about how attractive Jay was (as if she didn’t know that already) that was making her lose her mind. One of these days she honestly thought she might smack someone.

She came awfully close to actually smacking someone a few nights later. Working overnight always brought out an interesting set of characters, and that night was no exception. After treating a sweet little boy who had fallen out of his new bunk bed, Erin headed into the next exam room, cringing inwardly at the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarettes filling her nostrils.

The middle-aged man waiting there was beyond drunk—it smelled like he’d bathed in booze—and he was practically falling off of the hospital bed. He glanced up at the sound of the curtain opening, looking her up and down.

Figures she’d get the creepy drunk again.

She’d only been in this man’s proximity for a few seconds, and Erin already felt like she needed to shower. Doing her best to hold her breath—his stench brought back memories from her childhood that she had no interest in thinking about—she approached him, plastering a fake smile on her face as she tried to ignore him leering at her.

“Hi there Mr.,” she paused, scanning the intake form for his name, “…Lowery. Is says here that you were found passed out on a park bench? Little too much to drink tonight sir?”

He managed to tear his eyes away from her body, looking up at her with a sleazy grin. “I’m fiiiiiiine,” he slurred. “Better now that you’re here sweetheart.”

Erin bit her tongue, fighting the urge to give him an earful. “Mr. Lowery, I see there’s a note here that you were bleeding when you came in, that you might have hit your head? I’m going to need to take a look and make sure you don’t need stitches, okay?”

She reluctantly took a step closer to him, pushing his greasy hair aside to examine the nasty gash across his forehead. He was definitely going to need stitches. She was just about to step away when she felt his hand reach around and grab her ass.

“Get your hands off of me!” she hissed, ready to deck the guy as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

“Hey!” A male voice shouted, loud enough to startle Mr. Lowery.

Jay.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he spit out, a look of blind rage on his face. “You’re here to be treated, not to manhandle our nursing staff!” Taking a deep breath—which Erin knew was in an effort to calm himself down—Jay turned to her, his face immediately softening. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly. It wasn’t the first time a patient had gotten handsy with her, and unfortunately it probably wouldn’t be the last. “I’m fine, Ja—um, Dr. Halstead, nothing I can’t handle.”

Jay knew she could handle it; he just didn’t think she should have to. “I don’t have anything right now. I can take him from here.”

Erin nodded again. “Thanks,” she added quietly as she ducked out of the room, leaving Jay to stich him up.

“Hey babe,” Jay smiled feebly at her when they met at the L station around the corner from the hospital an hour later. It had been a long night, and they were both eager to get home and rest.

“Hey.” Erin was silent, keeping her head down as she fell into step alongside her boyfriend. Neither said a word as they climbed the stairs leading to the tracks.

When they reached the top—the train wouldn’t arrive for fifteen more minutes—Jay sighed, grabbing Erin’s hand and pulling her closer to him. “I’m sorry about before. I know you can take care of yourself, but the security guard was off doing who knows what and I just couldn’t stand there while that asshole put his hands on you.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still mad.”

“No, it’s not that,” she began, pausing as she pulled Jay with her to sit on an empty bench. “I just—wasn’t that kind of… I don’t know… making things—us—a little bit… obvious?”

“Fuck. I didn’t even think of that.” He leaned back against the bench, feeling foolish for not realizing how his actions may be interpreted. Despite wanted to shout from the rooftops that Erin was his girlfriend, he respected her desire to keep their personal life separate from work. He hated to think he might have compromised that. “I’m so sorry babe. But you know, I honestly would have done the same thing if it was April or Monique or Doris or any of the other nurses in there. It’s such bullshit that scumbags like that think they can manhandle you guys.”

Erin nodded. It was true, Jay was one of the good ones. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have intervened for anyone, it just so happened that she’d been stuck on that case. She smiled softly as she rested her head against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“We okay?” When he felt her nod again, Jay leaned down to kiss her forehead.

When Erin returned to the hospital for her next shift, she discovered that her concerns were in vain. Sure, the ED was definitely abuzz with talk of Jay stepping in with a bad patient, but miraculously there was no mention of her name.

Of course, Jay’s heroic behaviour only made the nursing staff that much more infatuated with him.

Frankly if she heard another word about ‘Hero Halstead’ she thought she might throw up.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Erin cursed under her breath, slamming the refrigerator door.

It had been the shift from hell—scratch that, the week from hell—and as far as she was concerned it could not be over soon enough.

A terrible late-night car accident had brought in a slew of victims, overwhelming the ED. Within a few hours, most had either been treated and released, or admitted and sent upstairs, so things were finally starting to quiet down a little—at least enough for Erin to get something to eat and catch up on her charting.

At least that’s what she had thought two hours earlier.

But instead of getting off her feet, she’d been running around like a madwoman. Apparently every single patient had banded together to drive her absolutely crazy. She had just cleaned up vomit for what was probably the twelfth time, only to get to the nurses’ station to discover that someone had eaten her turkey sandwich.

She just wanted to scream. Or throw something. Preferably at the asshole who stole her lunch.

Normally she wouldn’t get that upset about someone eating her food, but she and Jay had been on opposite shifts, which meant they had spent all of about five minutes together all week.

She was tired and cranky and missed her boyfriend.

And then right on cue, the elevator doors chimed and she looked up to see said boyfriend striding into the ED in his street clothes, looking happy and well-rested and sexy as all hell.

He smiled and said hello to a few people before glancing over to the nurses’ station, no doubt looking for her. They made eye contact for a split second—just long enough to say I love you, I miss you without words—and then he turned the corner toward the doctors’ lounge and was out of sight again.

Erin sighed dramatically as she headed for the vending machine. She leaned her forehead against the machine for a minute—internally debating between Doritos and a Hershey bar—before jabbing her finger at the buttons. The chocolate fell with a satisfying plunk, and she quickly snatched it up, taking a big bite as she made her way back to the nurses’ station.

When she glanced out the window on the way, she was appalled to see flakes of snowing falling from the sky. It was October. Some days she really fucking hated Chicago.

By the time she returned to the desk she had managed to rally a bit. She kept reminding herself that she only had to get through one more hour. Just one hour until she could go home and hibernate under her fluffy duvet for two whole days.

Her moderately good mood—if you could even call it that—disappeared immediately. There were a few other nurses at the station, and every single one of them was openly gawking at her boyfriend. Again.

He was chatting with his attending as they updated the OR board, and those bitches—bad mood was back in full swing—were drooling over him like he was a piece of meat.

Erin couldn’t deny that he looked damn good in his scrubs. He always did. But that day was like a whole other level of hot. Maybe it was just because it had been a while—damn the long hours and opposite schedules—but whatever the reason, she could already feel her blood pressure spiking at the sight of him.

Yanking her phone out of her pocket, she stormed down the hall in a huff.

Erin was pacing around the on-call room when there was a gentle rapping at the door. Before she had a chance to respond, the door creaked open and Jay poked his head around it.

“Hey,” he greeted, carefully closing the door behind himself. “You paged me? What’s wrong?”

“I need you.”

“Babe, you paged 911—do you need a consult or something?”

If she wasn’t so wound up, she probably would have laughed at his question. “No, I need you,” she breathed out, her voice husky with desire as she wrapped her arms around his neck and smashed her lips against his. Her hands moved lower, grabbing the drawstring of his scrubs to pull him closer, her fingers quickly slipping beneath the waistband.

Jay grabbed her wrists, removing her hands from his pants and taking a deep breath as he stepped back. “Erin, we’re at work.”

“So? Haven’t you seen Grey’s Anatomy? People fuck in on-call rooms all the time. It’s practically what they’re for.”

Any hesitation on Jay’s part went out the window as soon as her hands found their way back, stroking him through the fabric. “Fuck,” he groaned as she pushed him down onto the bed, throwing her leg over him and straddling his waist.

The bedsprings creaked obnoxiously as they moved together, so when Erin climbed off of him to strip out of her scrubs, Jay took the opportunity to pick her up and push her back against the wall. As he thrust into her, he kissed her deeply, swallowing the cries of pleasure spilling from her lips. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, locking her ankles against his lower back, driving him to go harder, faster, deeper.

She came with a wild moan that sent Jay over the edge right along with her. Her body went lax in his arms as they both struggled to catch their breath.

“You’re going to kill me,” Jay panted, peppering soft kisses across her bare shoulder. “But wow, what a way to go.”

They were almost dressed by the time Jay’s pager started beeping incessantly. He straightened his shirt as he looked at the screen. “Shit, this really is 911!” He crouched down to tie his shoelaces before jumping up to kiss her quickly. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta run babe. I’ll see you at home.”

They had developed a pretty perfect system to keep their personal and professional lives separate. When they worked the same shifts, they rode the L to and from the hospital together—usually with Erin half asleep and resting her head against Jay’s shoulder—then held hands until they were a block away from the hospital. She took the elevator; he took the stairs.

So despite the occasional close call or near miss, they had managed to keep their secret pretty well.

Until that day.

Jay had been in surgery for hours—the way bullets flew around in Chicago, he might as well be back in Afghanistan—and was just getting ready to close when an intern burst into the operating room. “What’s going on Schmitt?”

“Dr. Halstead, they need you in the ED,” the intern explained, unable to hide the shakiness in his voice.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

“Yes, I know, but… shots were fired.”

Jay’s blood ran cold at Schmitt’s words—Erin was on shift. “Was anyone hit?”

“I’m not sure. It’s locked down.”

Jay turned to the junior resident who had been working alongside him. “You okay to close up?” Before the young woman could even finishing nodding her head, he was already rushing out of the OR, yanking off his gloves and mask and running toward the ED.

Even though he knew it was on lockdown, he was still taken aback by the police presence. The halls were filled with officers, most dressed in full tactical gear as they gathered together to hatch out a plan of action.

He whipped his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through countless messages and notifications, desperately looking for any word from Erin. His heart pounded in his chest as he read her messages—she was in there. He didn’t know if she’d be able to answer, but he quickly typed a response asking if she was okay. He needed her to be okay.

When his phone vibrated in his hand a few seconds later, relief washed over him.

I’m fine, but Monique was hit. She’s losing a lot of blood, Jay.

Jay rushed forward, pushing past the throngs of people to where the police had blocked off the ED. “You need to let me in there!”

“Halstead,” Goodwin piped in, holding up a hand to stop him from going any closer, “you need to take a step back and let the police do their jobs.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Goodwin, but I can’t do that.” He turned to address the officer in charge, trying to keep his voice steady. “I need to go in there. There are innocent people back there—patients, nurses. And at least one of them is down.”

“Dr. Halstead, I assure you we have the situation under control,” the sergeant explained.

And then another round of gunshots rang out.

While most of the other people gathered in the hallway ducked or screamed, Jay pressed on. “With all due respect, it doesn’t seem like you have anything under control! There’s at least one person in there who’s bleeding out right now. I’m a trauma surgeon, I can help.”

“Sir, this is more than just a medical emergency. We can’t just put a civilian into a live and clearly dangerous situation. It’s against CPD protocol.”

“Fuck your protocol, my girlfriend is in there!” Jay bellowed, no longer caring who knew about their relationship. He just need her to be okay. He’d transfer to another hospital if he had to. Or flip burgers at a fucking McDonalds. He’d do anything, he just couldn’t lose her. “I’m not a civilian, I was in the military. I’ve been trained for these types of situations—and for worse ones. Now let me through!”

Maybe it was the desperation in Jay’s voice, or maybe it was just because they didn’t have any other options, but the police managed to negotiate with the shooter. He was just a scared kid, no more than fifteen years old, desperate to get treatment for his sick mother. Knowing he didn’t want anyone to die, they convinced him to let a doctor—Jay—come in.

“You sure about this?” The sergeant asked as he fastened a bulletproof vest over Jay’s scrubs.

Jay nodded resolutely as they held the door for him. He had never been more sure about anything in his life.

He entered the ED slowly, his hands held up in front of him, showing the shooter that he was not a threat. His eyes quickly scanned the room, taking in every detail of his surroundings. Most of the exam room doors were shut with the curtains closed, as was standard practice in a volatile situation. But he saw a few patients and staff members sitting in the waiting area, visibly trembling in fear.

But there was no sign of Erin or Monique anywhere.

“Where…?” Jay asked the shooter.

The boy didn’t speak; he just waved his gun at the desk.

When Jay finally saw Erin, he wanted take her in his arms and never let her go. But she was otherwise occupied, her hands busy pressing against Monique’s abdomen, applying pressure to stop her colleague from bleeding out. Falling to his knees beside them, Jay lifted Erin’s hand from the wound, squeezing it in his own as he assessed the injury.

She definitely needed surgery. And soon.

Knowing that time was of the essence, Jay quickly explained to Erin what they needed to do to stabilize Monique. When his girlfriend nodded in understanding and began following his instructions, he turned his attention to the shooter, his hands once again held in the air as he spoke. “Hey buddy, my name’s Jay.”

“Shut up!” The kid yelled across the ED, waving the gun around.

Jay wasn’t phased by the weapon in front of him, he just continued, figuring that as long as the kid was talking, he wouldn’t be shooting anyone else. “Listen, I know you’re worried about your mom, but this isn’t the way.”

“She’s going to die!” He cried, tears flowing down his cheeks. “They couldn’t help her! It’s not fair!”

“I know. I lost my mom when I was about your age, and it sucks. But buddy, trust me when I say she wouldn’t want this for you. I know you’re scared, but I really need you to put down your gun and let me to get this woman into surgery.”

“No, no one goes anywhere!”

“If we don’t operate soon, she’s going to die. Killing this woman doesn’t help you or your mom. It doesn’t make things any better.” Jay could see the boy’s resolve breaking. “Please.”

Jay watched as they wheeled Monique to the OR.

He had managed to convince the kid to drop his weapon, and the police breached the ED seconds later, cuffing the kid as hospital staff checked on the other patients. Fortunately, no one else had been hurt.

Jay knew he needed to get down to the OR too, but before he followed Monique’s gurney, he turned to Erin, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly as he captured her lips with his own. It was the kind of kiss that said more than any words ever could—how much he loved her, how scared he was of losing her, how relieved he felt that she was unharmed.

And in that moment, even Erin didn’t care who saw.

“So you’re the girlfriend,” Monique stated, smiling sheepishly as Erin entered her hospital room the next morning. She had only been awake from surgery for a couple of hours, and news of Erin and Jay’s relationship had already spread around the hospital.

Erin nodded her head as she settled into the chair beside Monique’s bed, taking the younger nurse’s hand in her own. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before.”

“Well I’m sorry I hit on your boyfriend,” Monique joked, wincing as pain shot through her side. “You’re a lucky woman.”

Erin nodded again, smiling as she glanced out the room and into the hallway where Jay was hard at work reviewing a chart with an intern. “I really am.”

As nice as it was to finally stop worrying about hiding their relationship, they did find themselves missing the added layer of privacy. It had been nice to have one thing that was just theirs.

So when Jay got down on one knee and asked Erin to be his girl forever, it was in the comfort of their own home, dressed in sweatpants on a quiet Sunday evening.

And when they got married a few months later, it was a quiet ceremony at city hall, with just their families present. Rings would get in the way at work anyway, so they wore them on chains around their necks, keeping their love for each other close to their hearts, safely hidden away under their scrubs.

Their little secret.

#linstead #linstead fanfiction #my writing #erin lindsay #jay halstead #linstead au #feels good to be posting again #but it's been so long i barely remembered how

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cagesings · 1 year

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you stay, johanna, the way i’ve dreamed you were. // as freed by fleur.

#i spent way too long on this but i like it better than the other one #musical rp #broadway rp #west end rp #indie rp #independent rp #historical rp #victorian rp #*❈ ‣ and the young lady who resides there? — ( self promotion. )

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“...Historians concur that live-in domestic service was primarily an urban phenomenon in the late nineteenth century. One estimate suggests that between 15 and 30 percent of northeastern city-dwellers hired live-in domestics. The historian David Katzman, who has generated the most refined statistics, demonstrates that even within relative geographical proximity, city-dwellers hired servants more often than did rural dwellers, and city-dwellers with large pools of foreign labor more than city-dwellers without. Nationwide at midcentury there was one domestic servant for every ten families, with a considerably higher ratio in large cities like Boston and New York.

A greater proportion of Bostonians hired domestic servants than did residents of any other northern city, with 219 servants per thousand families. With traditions of household service born in slavery, even after the Civil War, the South led the nation in its reliance on domestic servants, with Atlanta in 1880 boasting 331 servants per thousand families. Even in the South, though, the difference between city and country was notable, with Atlanta in 1900 hiring four times as many servants per thousand families as in the rest of Georgia. Together these figures suggest the flourishing of an era in the history of Victorianism. It was common for American bourgeois city-dwellers on the Atlantic seaboard, even ones of modest means, to rely on the labor of maids to sustain their households.

Of course, the end of the story is popular cliché. With the opening of more lucrative and less degrading jobs for young women as sales clerks, ‘‘typewriters,’’ and teachers, the ‘‘servant problem’’ became terminal, and by the First World War, American housewives could not depend on the hiring of live-in domestic help to assist them in their housework. It is significant, though, that even when ‘‘necessity’’ suggested the reintegration of daughters into the domestic economy, they were gone for good. The culture had put girls to other uses, from which they would not return to their mothers’ sides.

We still might ask why girls were often excused from domestic labor— especially given the compounding weight of the advice literature recommending otherwise. The answer lies in the increasing role played by daughters and servants in the bourgeois quest for refinement. Even when the gross number of live-in servants declined as production moved out of the home, the hiring of at least one domestic remained a prerequisite for middle-class status. The statistics on who hired servants bear out the middle-classness of this phenomenon, with 65 percent of servants in the Northeast in 1860 working in households with no other servants. In an increasingly mobile and prosperous society, hiring servants was one way to demonstrate standing, a concrete and conspicuous way of demonstrating what you had left behind.

One historian argues that the cultural importance of servants should be measured in the amount that some less prosperous families were willing to spend to hire them—sometimes as much as one-third of family income. Clearly, the freeing of daughters from steady household work and the hiring of domestic servants of lesser, often foreign, status went in tandem with the changing purpose of the home itself. Eighteenth-century households had required helpers to assist in domestic production. The homes of the mid– nineteenth century elite instead featured housework ‘‘as the creation and maintenance of comfort and appearance,’’ in the words of the historian Christine Stansell.

As the Beecher sisters observed, families were increasing ‘‘in refinement’’ such that they no longer wished to live in close intimacy with ‘‘uncultured neighbors,’’ far less daughters of foreign shores, who were working as servants. Thus one mill-owning family in rural Vermont made a point of hiring Irish help rather than the daughters of neighboring farmers, who might object to eating in the kitchen and expect to be ‘‘one of the family.’’ Architects reflected such changes by midcentury, such that servants’ quarters were designed as discrete parts of the house, with back stairs and separate entrances. Custom increasingly favored uniforms and servant dining tables in the kitchen.

At the same time that middle classes aspired to higher standards of comfort and appearance in accordance with new possibilities, women’s primary responsibility shifted from the supervision of a household manufactory to family nurturance, the raising and socializing of children. Much has been written about the evolution of new ideals for motherhood following the American Revolution, as women gained responsibility for raising virtuous citizens. ‘‘Republican mothers’’ shaped new daughters as well as new sons. Initially considered necessary allies in the steady work of processing the stuff of survival, the daughters of middle-class families became themselves the prime products the home produced—the embodiment of the principles of sensibility and refinement.

Mothers’ new responsibilities did not erase old ones. The historian Jeanne Boydston has appropriately criticized the readiness of her colleagues to mistake the ideology of domesticity for reality, arguing that by no means did the productive work of the home cease with the industrial revolution. Instead, Boydston argues, the emphasis on the emotional task of mothering tended to eclipse from view, but not eliminate, the continued real labor—the making of clothing, the putting up of preserves, the carrying of fuel—still carried on in the middle-class home. She is right in her argument that ‘‘paid domestic workers did not free the mistress of the household from labor.’’

But even Boydston acknowledges that domestic servants instead did the work that would have been done by other females in the household—including adult female relatives and daughters. An interesting case in point is the urban family of woman’s rights advocates Henry Blackwell, Lucy Stone, and their daughter Alice Stone Blackwell. As Boydston tells us, Lucy Stone, who was raised on a farm, still kept chickens, worked a garden, and tended a horse and cow, even as she lived a prosperous middle-class existence outside of Boston. Alice Blackwell later remembered that ‘‘she dried all the herbs and put up all the fruits in their season. She made her own yeast, her own bread, her own dried beef, even her own soap.’’

In her lively diary, however, Alice Blackwell reports doing little household work. Such chores as emerge in her diary were designed to interrupt her incessant reading, which was thought to be responsible for her bad headaches. Thus her cousin, visiting the household, ‘‘had undertaken to find me something to stop my reading: churning; and I churned in the cellar till the butter came.’’ In fact, advice writers who had failed in their efforts to promote domestic work for daughters on other grounds often focused on the value of domestic labor as a source of exercise. The Beecher sisters observed that if girls did strenuous housework, their parents would be spared the expense of gymnasiums. ‘‘Does it not seem poor economy to pay servants for letting our muscles grow feeble, and then to pay operators to exercise them for us?’’

Louisa May Alcott, whose collected opus represents a powerful gloss on the domestic debates of late-Victorianism, repeatedly suggested the healthfulness of housework, ‘‘the best sort of gymnastics for girls,’’ according to Dr. Alec in Eight Cousins. Her Old-Fashioned Girl explicitly contrasts the healthy republican daughter skilled in domestic arts with the languid late-Victorian belle, afflicted with boredom because of her lack of home chores. Mothers undoubtedly continued both to supervise and perform much household maintenance, but they did so assisted by domestics rather than their own daughters. What did middle-class girls do instead of housework?

This was a question which greatly concerned commentators, who asked, as did Mary Livermore in 1883, ‘‘What shall we do with our daughters?’’ Mary Virginia Terhune, too, lamented the passing of housework as girls’ raison d’être and with it ‘‘that prime need of a human being—something to do.’’ Parents found a range of things for daughters to do, including the ornamental skills of sewing, playing piano, writing and reading associated with self-culture. Increasingly, also, they sent daughters to school. Common schools designed for both sexes did not include sewing.

In later years, the Beecher sisters observed, ‘‘A girl often can not keep pace with her class, if she gives any time to domestic matters.’’ And they noted, ‘‘Accordingly she is excused from them all during the whole term of her education.’’ Girls themselves noted the increasing power of lessons in any competition with housework. Agnes Hamilton remarked that first her French tutor and then her German homework prevented her from doing her ‘‘share of Monday’s work.’’ It was not long before the work of some girls was reassigned.

Those who were serious about domestic education, such as a composer of ‘‘An Ideal Education of Girls’’ that appeared in an 1886 issue of Education, suggested, in fact, that this disjunction be acknowledged. A girl should receive the same education as a boy until the age of twelve, its author suggested. At that time a girl should drop out of school for two years and learn the complete running of a household, returning to school only with that formal apprenticeship accomplished. Only such complete separation of activities would allow the household its due.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Daughters’ Lives and the Work of the Middle-Class Home.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #victorian #servants #american #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls #class

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fox-guardian · 5 years

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A New Look

((This takes place when they’re all n their mid-to-late 20s btw))

"Wow, he really cleaned this place up, didn't he?" said Lanyon, observing the home's lavish entrance.

"Oh yes," replied Utterson, glancing around, "Very extravagant. I suppose it suits him well."

It had been a few months since Jekyll's parents had passed away, and almost as long since he moved into his new house. This wasn't the first time Lanyon and Utterson had visited their friend's new residence, but it had been almost a month since they'd seen the man himself. In fact, no one had even heard from the young Dr. Jekyll for weeks prior to this event. About a week ago, he had sent out invitations, calling it a sort of celebration to mark the end of him mourning his parents' deaths.

"I think it's good that he's done this," said Lanyon, letting a servant take his coat and hat. "It's good for him to be able to have things like this. Parties and get-togethers and such can be rather therapeutic for some people after a loved one's passing."

"I suppose so," said Utterson, handing over his things as well. "I just wish we could've seen him sooner. He hasn't spoken to anyone in weeks, you know."

"I know," said Lanyon, sighing sadly, "but he has been very open to the world since it happened. He never really took much time off. He likely just needed a better break before finally allowing himself to let go."

Utterson sighed. He couldn't help worrying about his friend. He was usually very open to him about everything, except for whatever it was that seemed to be haunting him the most. "I can't wait to see him again. I hope he's alright..."

Lanyon put a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, "I'm sure he's doing just fine, Utterson."

"What. A. Blessing."

That sweet, smooth baritone echoed over the glimmering staircase. Utterson and Lanyon looked up to see the slender frame of Dr. Henry Jekyll standing at the top. His hair had been cut stylishly short, now revealing his entire face rather than covering half of it, and his clothes that were once always covered in blacks and golds were now a beautiful, clean, perfect white with champagne-colored accents and a nice yellow vest. The only thing left black was his bow-tie.

"My first guests to arrive are my most beloved friends," he said, stepping down the stairs with a slightly swaggering saunter. "Though I shouldn't expect anything less, now should I?"

"Whoa! Look at you!" exclaimed Lanyon as Jekyll finished his descent. "You look amazing, Jekyll! Are you expecting someone special to arrive~?" he asked, nudging him with his elbow.

Jekyll laughed, "Oh no, you two are the only 'special guests' I had been hoping to see."

"D'aww, we wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied, "Isn't that right, Utterson?" They turned to Utterson, who was standing with his mouth agape, staring wide-eyed at Jekyll, who chuckled upon noticing.

"You like my new look, Utterson?" he teased.

Utterson shook himself back into reality, "Y-Yes, you look stunning."

"Thank you," he replied. "You look rather nice yourself, is that a new tie?"

"Oh, yes," he said, peeking down at it. "Do you like the stripes?"

"I do," then he added casually, "That blue really brings out your eyes."

Another guest arrived at the door, and then another, and another and more and more until the house was packed. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres started being passed around and the party was underway. You could find Jekyll laughing with his colleagues and acquaintances, or happily chatting away with his friends, always delicately carrying a glass of champagne. He received countless compliments on his new look, with even a few young ladies paying him special attention. He seemed to be very proud of himself.

By the end of the party, Utterson and Lanyon were assured that their friend was doing well, and they left the then empty house content and worry-free.

...

A few months earlier, Jekyll moved into a new house. He was free from the control of his parents at last, and was more than ready to start over. He fired all of his family's old servants except for his manservant Poole, who he then promoted to be his butler. He settled himself into the house and went out into the world, letting himself go. He couldn't stand those old habits, but caught himself still smiling that stupid smile at his parents' acquaintances when he passed them by and speaking in that terribly polished sort of way they taught him. He let go, speaking as he pleased, laughing as loud as he wanted. He was free, finally free!

But then he heard it. The whispers. The "what's wrong with that boy", the "he was so well-behaved before", the "he's gone off his head", and his least favorite: "oh, he must still be mourning over his parents". They were all talking about him. They were all complaining about him. But they were wrong. He wasn't losing himself, he'd finally been freed from torment! He wasn't mourning, he was finally happy! Why didn't they understand that?

Weeks passed, which turned into months, and it finally hit him. They didn't understand him because they didn't know him. They only knew the version of him that his parents had crafted for him. That version of him was all anyone knew, except for his best friends. His reputation, his social standing, it was all thanks to his parents. They placed upon him a homemade facade and he had never been able to say no to any of it. He hadn't known how important it would become. All anyone knew him as was that twisted, shiny, porcelain smile and that glimmering personality that his parents forced him to perfect. It was all he had ever been to them.

If he didn't keep up that act when it mattered, his reputation would be ruined. He wouldn't be able to keep the connections his parents had given him. He would lose the respect people had for him. That respect, though he hated its misdirection, was something that he found he couldn't live without. He found that he valued it so highly -- those shallow words, that false praise to that facade -- it was almost all the praise he'd ever received. He craved it. He craved the feeling of being worthy, of being seen as something good, someone worthwhile. He loved the praise and respect and every little compliment he received even if it was false or empty or directed at someone that wasn't truly him. He needed it.

And he was losing it little by little every day.

Those whispers plagued him, they were driving him mad. Soon it was as if every little whisper was about him. He couldn't stand it anymore, he couldn't take it. He wanted to be free but found that he was still trapped, trapped in that facade made for him by his parents. He would never truly be free from it, would he? He wanted that freedom to be himself so terribly, but he felt that he needed to keep that facade for his own sanity, to stop the whispers, to bring back the praise, and to restore what was left of his self-worth however toxic it all may be.

He couldn't take it, he couldn't decide. Did he want to live as himself and endure ridicule and commit what could be social suicide? Or did he want to keep that porcelain smile on his face and keep his reputation? Freedom or facade? Freedom or facade?

He broke down. Late at night, alone in his bed, hardly trying to sleep, he broke down. He leapt out of bed, rummaged through his wardrobe, and tore to pieces everything inside. Ripped it all to shreds. Everyone muttered about the black, how of course it was for mourning his parents and not his own sense of style. He couldn't even look at it without wanting to set it on fire.

He swept everything from his night-table onto the floor, and among the pile he found a pair of scissors. He looked into the mirror. His hair was long, covered half of his face, and towards the back it curled up under his ears. He'd been growing it out even more since his parents' passing and everyone could see. They whispered about it, how he was "neglecting his appearance" and "how awful he must feel if he can't even visit a barber". He yanked at his bangs and started chopping them off. He started snipping frantically at the back of his head, pulling at his curls and severing them at odd, uneven lengths. He wasn't looking in the mirror anymore, he couldn't stand to see his own face. At one point, he nicked the back of his head and dropped the scissors in surprise. He started yanking at his hair, crying in frustration, and he screamed.

He fell over, crying and wailing in a pile of torn fabric and black curls of severed hair. He heard running from down the hall and his door swung open. Poole stood in the doorway, still in his nightshirt, and ran over to his master. He pulled him upright, asking him what had happened while pushing the ragged mess of hair out of his face. When he didn't get an answer, he pulled him close, letting him wail into his shoulder. He spoke to him softly, telling him it was alright, and patting his back gently and reassuringly. As other tired servants came to check on them, Poole shooed them away. Eventually, Jekyll's wailing turned into shaky breathing with the occasional sob, whimper, and groan, but he never stopped crying.

Poole stayed there until morning. He only got a vague explanation from his master, but it was enough to give Poole something to work with. He told him it would be alright, and that he'd try his best to fix it. He took Jekyll into one of the bathrooms while a maid cleaned up the mess. He turned it into a makeshift barbershop and cleaned up his master's hair, evening it out into a very short style that showed his entire face. He lent Jekyll one of his suits for the day and they went to see a tailor. They took his measurements and asked about the style, fabrics, and cut that he wanted. Jekyll told him, and then the tailor asked for the color he'd like. He stopped for a moment and thought.

"White," he said simply. "Make it white."

Several days went by and the new wardrobe arrived. He tried it on and looked in the mirror, Poole standing beside him. He was nervous, but felt a little bit better than before. He didn't look bad, but he didn't feel genuine. It didn't feel like him. Though of course it didn't, it wasn't meant to. "Him" wasn't something the rest of the world wanted to see, apparently. He asked Poole to prepare invitations. He decided that he was going to host a party.

Another week went by and the party was only minutes away, guests would be arriving soon. He looked in the mirror, fixing his hair and straightening his tie obsessively. This was it. He would have to keep up the facade for his reputation's sake. He had invited his parents' old colleagues and acquaintances, other powerful figures, and other high-class citizens that weren't as popular, just to even things out a bit. He had to prove to them that he hadn't lost himself. Everything had to be perfect. He had to be perfect. He just hoped they all liked his new look, it was all he was able to choose for himself, and even that was a stretch.

He heard a servant open the front door, and light talking downstairs. He knew those voices. Some of his nerves turned into giddy excitement, but he contained himself. He took one last look in the mirror and smiled that porcelain smile, and then he went to the stairs. As he saw Utterson and Lanyon standing there at the bottom, that smile became just a bit more genuine.

Other guests arrived, and he received overwhelming praise for his new look, though most of it felt empty. It sickened him, but every now and then a compliment felt genuine, and it filled him with euphoria. He'd done it, one of his own choices was being praised. He felt what was almost joy, and by the time the party ended, he was tired. He bid his friends goodbye, assured them that he was well, and went upstairs, still toting around a glass of champagne. He looked out a window to see Utterson and Lanyon walking down the street, illuminated by the amber lamp light. He watched them until he couldn't see them anymore, and went to his room.

The party went well, it was perfect. Everything had gone just as he'd hoped, even his friends that knew him so well were fooled. And yet he still felt an emptiness, an ache within him. Poole was the only one who knew the full extent of his suffering, and even then he'd only been there for a few years of it. He didn't know if he could ever tell his friends the complete truth, though part of him wished that he could. For so much of his life he had been alone, and for a few years that had passed far too quickly, he hadn't been alone anymore. Now, however, he felt alone again, trapped. He couldn't unlock his cage, but he could decorate it. And so he did, with that luxurious white suit. Perhaps someday he would be free again, free of ridicule, free of humiliation, free from the bindings of his own reputation.

Someday...

#fg's writing #writing #henry jekyll #gabriel utterson #hastie lanyon #poole #fg's jekyll #fg's utterson #fg's lanyon #fg's poole #jekyll and hyde #the strangest case #young!jekyll #young!lanyon #young!utterson #young!poole #im not sure if i should add a tw of some kind #if so just lemme know what it'd be #a new look

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timeless-hollywood-classics · 4 years

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Ann Harding (born Dorothy Walton Gatley, August 7, 1902 – September 1, 1981) was an American theatre, motion picture, radio, and television actress. A regular player on Broadway and in regional theater in the 1920s, in the 1930s Harding was one of the first actresses to gain fame in the new medium of "talking pictures", and she was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress in 1931 for her work in Holiday.

Harding was born Dorothy Walton Gatley, and was the daughter of a prominent United States Army officer. She was raised primarily in East Orange, New Jersey and graduated from East Orange High School. Having gained her initial acting experience in school drama classes, she decided on a career as an actress and moved to New York City. Because her father opposed her career choice, she used the stage name Ann Harding.

After initial work as a script reader, Harding began to win roles on Broadway and in regional theaters, primarily in Pennsylvania. She moved to California to begin working in movies, which were just then beginning to include sound. Her work in plays had given her notable diction and stage presence, and she became a leading lady. By the late 1930s, she was becoming stereotyped as the beautiful, innocent, self-sacrificing woman, and film work became harder for her to obtain. After marrying conductor Werner Janssen in 1937, she worked only sporadically, with two notable roles coming in Eyes in the Night (1942) and The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (1956).

Harding also worked occasionally in television between 1955 and 1965, and she appeared in two plays in the early 1960s, returning to the stage after an absence of over 30 years, including the lead in "The Corn is Green" in 1964 at the Studio Theater in Buffalo, New York. After her 1965 retirement, she resided in Sherman Oaks, California. She died there in 1981, and was interred at Forest Lawn Memorial Park -- Hollywood Hills.

Harding was born Dorothy Walton Gatley at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas to George G. Gatley, a career army officer, and Elizabeth "Bessie" Walton (Crabb) Gatley. After travelling often during her early life because of her father's career, she grew up in East Orange, New Jersey, graduated from East Orange High School, and attended Bryn Mawr College.

Because her father "violently opposed her profession", Harding changed her name when she began her acting career.

Harding's initial employment in the entertainment industry was as a script reader. She began acting and made her Broadway debut in Like a King in 1921. Three years later she found her "home theater" in Rose Valley, Pennsylvania, after being directed by Hedgerow Theatre founder Jasper Deeter in The Master Builder. Over the years she returned to Hedgerow to reprise several of her roles. She soon became a leading lady; like other leading actresses of the day, she kept in shape by using the services of Sylvia of Hollywood. She was a prominent actress in Pittsburgh theatre for a time, performing with the Sharp Company and later starting the Nixon Players with Harry Bannister. In 1929, she made her film debut in Paris Bound, opposite Fredric March. In 1931, she purchased the Hedgerow Theatre building from Deeter for $5,000 and donated it to the company.

First under contract to Pathé, which was subsequently absorbed by RKO Pictures, Harding was promoted as the studio's 'answer' to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's superstar Norma Shearer.[8] She co-starred with Ronald Colman, Laurence Olivier, Myrna Loy, Herbert Marshall, Leslie Howard, Richard Dix, and Gary Cooper, and was often on loan to other studios, such as MGM and Paramount. At RKO, Harding, along with Helen Twelvetrees and Constance Bennett, comprised a trio who specialized in the "women's pictures" genre.

Harding's performances were often heralded by the critics, who cited her diction and stage experience as assets to the then-new medium of "talking pictures". Harding's second film was Her Private Affair, in which she portrayed a wife of questionable morality. The film was an enormous commercial success. During this period, she was generally considered to be one of cinema's most beautiful actresses, with her waist-length blonde hair being one of her most noted physical attributes. Films during her peak include The Animal Kingdom, Peter Ibbetson, When Ladies Meet, The Flame Within, and Biography of a Bachelor Girl. Harding, however, eventually became stereotyped as the innocent, self-sacrificing young woman. Following lukewarm responses by both critics and the public to several of her later 1930s films, she eventually stopped making movies after she married the conductor Werner Janssen in 1937. She returned to the big screen in 1942 to make Eyes in the Night and to take secondary roles in other films. She played "Mary", the estranged wife of Charlie Ruggles, in the Christmas film "It Happened on Fifth Avenue" in 1947. In 1956, she again starred with Fredric March, this time in The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit.

The 1960s marked Harding's return to Broadway after an absence of decades—having last appeared in 1927. In 1962, she starred in General Seeger, directed by and co-starring George C. Scott, and in 1964 she appeared in Abraham Cochrane ("her last New York stage appearance"). Both productions had brief runs, with the former play lasting a mere three performances (including previews). Harding made her final acting performance in 1965 in an episode of television's Ben Casey before retiring.

Harding was married twice, her husbands being:

Harry Bannister, an actor. They married in 1926 and divorced in 1932 in Reno, Nevada. A New York Times article (8 May 1932) about the divorce stated that the actress still loved her husband and only agreed to a divorce to help Bannister's stymied career. "The proceedings were among the most unusual in the history of Nevada's liberal divorce laws," the newspaper reported. "Only through dissolution of their marriage could he escape, they said, from being overshadowed by Miss Harding's rise to stardom." The divorce also resulted in what was described as "a bitter court fight ... over custody of their daughter," Jane Harding (1928-2005, Mrs Alfred P. Otto, Jr.). According to an interview with Harding's biographer, Scott O'Brien, Jane Harding said, "I had a terrible childhood. I hated my nurse. I never saw Mother. She was always busy."

Werner Janssen, the conductor. Harding and Janssen married in 1937 and divorced in 1963, with Harding claiming that her husband had controlled her throughout their marriage, keeping her from her friends and isolating her from the world. By this marriage, Harding had two stepchildren, Alice and Werner Jr.

In the early 1960s, Harding began living with Grace Kaye, an adult companion, later known as Grace Kaye Harding. Harding referred to Kaye as her daughter.

Among Harding's romances was the novelist and screenwriter Gene Fowler.

On September 1, 1981, Harding died at the age of 79 in Sherman Oaks, California. After cremation, her urn was placed in the Court of Remembrance wall at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Hollywood Hills, California.

She was survived by a daughter and four grandchildren.

Harding was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress for Holiday in 1931. For her contributions to the motion picture and television industries, Harding has two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame — one in the Motion Pictures section 6201 Hollywood Boulevard and one in the Television section at 6850 Hollywood Boulevard.

#ann harding #golden age of hollywood #classic hollywood #classic movie stars #old hollywood

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franstastic-ideas · 5 years

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The Citizens of Ebott Town

I thought it was about time I elaborated on my AU Wraithtale beyond just Frisk, Chara, Sans, Gaster and Papyrus, even though they'll be featured here as well. I'll be writing a one-shot featuring Wraithtale sometime in the near future, so consider this a preview of sorts along with finally fleshing out this universe.

Since this is about Ebott Town and its citizens, Chara and Frisk will be detailed in another post. Please feel free to ask me anything about Wraithtale if you're interested in the AU!

Ebott Town - It's a dead end town at the base of the mountain. Even though the town itself stretches all around the mountain's base, the population is small; just about everyone knows each other and news spreads fast among the community. There's plenty of houses, of course, a school, a hospital, some stores, a handful of restaurants spread around, and there's even some public transportation like buses, but there's also a whole lot of nature. The mountain is huge. Residents that have been there all their lives still haven't seen everything to see around there, probably because even without the myths of shadow monsters lurking in the dark forests scattered there, the mountain has plenty of other ways to keep people from wanting to climb it.

Steep cliffs, rivers, bears. You know, usual mountain-y stuff.

But about the myths of shadow monsters: for generations, the people who live at the mountain's base have caught glimpses of human-like figures moving between the thick expanse of trees of the mountain's forests. However, on closer inspection, it becomes apparently obvious that these figures are anything but human. Legends say that if you allow one to get too close, the wraith will steal your body and face. Or eat you from the inside out. Legends also say that many centuries ago, a group of fearful humans carved a series of stone totems that harnessed the power of the sun and spread them around the mountain's base to keep the wraiths trapped on the mountain.

These totems are still standing at the story's beginning and become important later in the AU - some time after Frisk and Chara's existence is revealed to Sans and Papyrus, one of the totems is destroyed by a construction crew, allowing Frisk and Chara an opening to get off the mountain and into Ebott Town.

The Citizens of Ebott:

Toriel: She's a teacher at Ebott's school; Ebott technically has more than one school, but it's a series of buildings all located on one property. She's also a volunteer at Ebott's hospital and has had to bandage up Papyrus on many more than one occasion. Asriel is just in his first year of middle school, but Toriel already calls herself an old lady even though many have told her she still looks good for her age. She and Asgore are still married, and happily so; they're that couple that's still lovey dovey after years of marriage and they embarrass Asriel to no end. Many of Ebott Town's citizens want to leave their lives here for something greater, but Toriel is one of the few entirely happy where they are.

Sans and Papyrus lost their mother at a young and tender age, so she became the maternal figure in their life. She's deeply saddened by the current rift between Sans and Gaster, but she tends to side with the former even though Toriel hates for there to be any conflict at all. She believes that Gaster continuously placing pressure on Sans to succeed, while he meant well in doing so, only succeeded in robbing Sans of a bright future and ultimately lost his oldest son as a result.

Sans: Prior to the main story, Sans was a college student aiming for a major in science while simultaneously aiding his father in his experiments. He and Gaster got along for the most part; arguments were sometimes a thing, but they weren't usually serious or extreme. However, one fateful day, this would change; one of Gaster's experiments went haywire. Gaster's creations going haywire wasn't unordinary, but this one involved a dangerous chemical compound. This compound ate right through Sans's lab coat sleeves and burned his arms, permanently scarring them. When Gaster still wanted to continue his research with the compound, Sans began questioning whether his father loved him or his work more. And with this thought along with the increasingly added pressure to succeed, his grades began rapidly slipping, and with that, Gaster grew more upset with him - eventually it culminated in Sans having a nervous breakdown on campus. He was swiftly expelled afterward for his 'tantrum' and sent home, back to Ebott Town and never to return.

He gets into a heated argument with Gaster, which leads to a second nervous breakdown and Sans finally unloading every one of his recent negative thoughts on his father and accuses him of not loving him. Sans wasn't satisfied with Gaster's attempts to explain himself and wanted to move out and take his brother with him, but Papyrus refused to leave. So the three live under one roof, a broken family. Sans began using his time working odd jobs alongside Papyrus and exploring the mountainous region that had been around him all of his life. He deflects any questions asked about why he isn't in college anymore by the residents of Ebott and he always keeps his arms covered, wearing long sleeves even in the summer to hide his burns.

Papyrus: Unlike his brother, Papyrus never got the chance to leave town and go to college. He doesn't let it bother him though and finds plenty of opportunities to learn in his own community - life itself will be his educator!

Papyrus never decided what he wanted to do after graduation. There's so much that he wants to do; he's largely indecisive and he doesn't want to leave Ebott Town to pursue a career, so currently he completes odd jobs alongside his brother around Ebott to get a feel for what career might be best for him. However, he can't stop that little glimmer of hope in his heart of wanting to make it big, but unlike everyone else, he wants to make it big right where he is. Adults have tried to reason with him into giving up on that dream, that it's a lost cause and a waste of his time, but he staunchly refuses this possibility and continues trying his best, certain that everything will eventually work out.

He's currently the glue that's holding the pieces of this shattered family together. If it weren't for him, Sans would have left town the night he came home. Sans won't leave without his brother and Papyrus knows this, so he's got Sans at a stalemate. He knows that if Sans ever left town, then he may never speak to Gaster again and then they may never reconcile. And he also knows that deep down, Sans doesn't want to leave Ebott Town either. But ever since he met Frisk, Papyrus thinks he at least doesn't have to worry about that happening anymore...

Undyne: Undyne wanted to become a police officer after she graduated high school, but instead, she's been relegated to the position of 'mountain patrol'. In other words, Gerson took pity on her and used his own position in the force to give Undyne some involvement in the career path she chose but was denied. The higher ups in the police force rejected Undyne because, no matter how strongly she upholds justice and how passionate she is, they still see her as a problem child and won't give her a chance. Gerson, however, sees Undyne's potential and gives her the task of 'mountain patrol' out of sympathy and because he believes that eventually she'll prove herself worthy to the rest of the police force.

Which is why initially, when she learns of the wraiths' confirmed existence and the police sent out a notice requesting their capture, she wants to apprehend Frisk and Chara and secure her place in the force. It took a lot of convincing from Sans and Papyrus to stand down, and Chara constantly announcing her intentions for the town and the rest of humanity didn't help in the slightest, but eventually they reason with her and Undyne befriends Frisk and later Chara. Even though it costed her promotion, she keeps the two shadow monsters safe from the hands of the law, since now she feels having the two apprehended would be unjust and against her morals. That, and she loves a good star-crossed lovers forbidden romance as much as the next gal.

Alphys: Alphys is currently taking college classes online while also working as Gaster's assistant. After Sans's nervous breakdown, she feels guilty for essentially 'stealing his future', getting a college education when he couldn't, and working alongside Gaster even while knowing how he hurt Sans. Sans doesn't hold anything against her for it, telling her that everything that happened between the two of them was his and Gaster's business. Even so, she sometimes can't help but feel like what she's doing is unfair to him and wrong.

Alphys once dreamed that she, Gaster, and Sans would revitalize the town together, but since the latter two's falling out that dream seems impossible to her. Even so, she loves the town and has no desire to leave, feeling that the rest of the world is too big for her and this is where she belongs. Along with Sans, she was the one in their group who was most often bullied in school; she was mistreated for her chubby body like Sans was, but unlike him, she almost always had Undyne to defend her and her side of the story was usually believed over her tormentor's. She had low self esteem until Gaster saw potential in her and took her as his assistant. He built up her self esteem along with Sans and the rest of her friends, so Sans's descent thereafter makes her feel torn between the two even though both assure her she has no reason to feel that way.

Muffet: Muffet works in her mother's bakery and writes independent gothic literature on the side. Unknown to most of the town, several of her stories have already been published anonymously and she's receiving moderate to substantial success. When she and Sans were still in high school, Gaster had set the two up on a date once. Sans had never expressed any interest in having a romantic relationship, and Gaster thought he needed assistance in acquiring a girlfriend, so he selected Muffet as a romantic candidate for Sans. What followed was an extremely embarrassing night for Sans and an amusing one for Muffet. Despite her still teasing him about it, she agrees that the date didn't count since she believes real dates should be mutually consenting from both parties, and Gaster didn't ask either of them before shoving them into an awkward position. The two did become friends, so Muffet became included among Sans's and Papyrus's circle of friends afterwards.

She's one of the few happy to stay in Ebott Town, if only because of her family's bakery and living so close to the mountain where the shadow people roam. She's been sneaking off to the mountain since she learned to walk to try and get glimpses of the monsters supposedly living there and grows excited over any paranormal activity reported to happen near the town. She thinks Sans's relationship with Frisk and Papyrus's with Chara is 'dreamy' and wants her new story she's writing to be a Lovecraftian romance with them as her inspiration.

Grillby: Grillby graduated high school when Sans was entering the 10th grade. He left Ebott Town to go to culinary school but came back just a year later and settled for working as a waiter and assistant chef in Muffet's family's bakery before opening his own restaurant in town. He isn't particularly upset over having to return but he doesn't like the endless stream of gossip that surrounds a person whenever they leave and eventually come back to Ebott. Grillby has an unbelievable amount of patience, but one of the fastest ways to make it wear thin is to question Sans on his own return in his presence. He's one of the few that knows the entire truth about Sans's situation and is quick to dismiss the busybodies from looking for more gossip fodder.

Sometimes after Sans and Gaster have an argument, Grillby will open up his home to Sans and allow him to stay until he's cooled enough. He makes sure Sans eats properly during those times and lends an understanding ear. When he was younger, he was frequently picked on for his large round glasses he had to wear and his overall nerdy appearance. Now that he's older and considered handsome by most that see him, he feels uncomfortable about accepting compliments related to his appearance.

Mettaton: He dreams of one day leaving Ebott Town and becoming a star. Together with his cousin Blooky, his neighbor Shyren, and a bored fast food employee with nothing better to do who wants to leave this town as much as the next guy, he formed a band. Mettaton performs lead vocals, Blooky is the composer, Shyren is backing vocals, and Burgerpants is their lyricist. The problem is, Burgerpants has trouble becoming inspired and gets writer's block often. So until Burgerpants can come up with something original and groundbreaking, Mettaton and the band are stuck making cover of various songs and uploading them on the internet. Even so, he refuses to give up on the band.

His name isn't actually Mettaton - it's his stage name. He got it from the angel Metatron and thought it was something unique and 'fabulous enough for him', but he misread it. Even after learning of his typo he won't correct it. He loves his stage name so much, he had his name legally changed to Mettaton and only responds to this name - if called his old name, he'll pretend he can't hear you. Since Sans came back to Ebott, Mettaton has tried persistently to get him to join his band, but Sans hasn't become that desperate yet.

Asgore: He runs a gardening and flower store in the town, but he's also the town's mayor. It's fortunate Ebott Town was already named when he entered office, otherwise he may have bestowed the town with an even more uncreative name. He's widely beloved by the citizens of the town to the point that many say he's one of the only bright sides to being stuck there. Like his wife, he loves Ebott Town and while he can't blame or place fault in the ones that want to leave, it does deeply sadden him to hear how much someone wants to leave town or watch someone leave.

Being Gaster's close friend and confidant, he knows about his family troubles. Like Toriel, he doesn't like that there's any conflict between them at all, but he's more sympathetic towards Gaster and his various attempts to reconcile with Sans than his wife is. After an argument has occurred, sometimes it's Asgore that Gaster goes to for comfort and reassurance that he isn't a bad father, and yet at the same time, Gaster will vehemently argue with Asgore whenever he attempts to assuage his fears as a parent.

W.D. Gaster: Gaster was a wealthy man with a loving wife and two sons who lived in a city far away from Ebott Town. After losing his wife, he decided to move to escape the pain. He decides to move to Ebott Town after receiving a letter from his old friend Asgore and continue his work there. He heard Ebott was a dead end town and nearly everyone wants to leave for somewhere greater, but he wanted to make the place more populated through his scientific work and later his oldest son's. He made many successes in bringing Ebott more up to date with the modern world, having solar panels installed on every house along with several other widespread achievements, but no matter how hard he worked, people still wanted to leave.

He's still presently working on improving the town with science alongside Alphys, but since the rift in his relationship with Sans formed, he has lost most of his passion. He's loved science since he was a boy, but he discovers that he loved it more when Sans was having fun with science with him. Only, Gaster is poor with words, and he can't properly express his feelings of emptiness and guilt to Sans. Sans still feels bitter and does everything to avoid and spite him in his hurt, which leads to more tension between the two. He wonders if his relationship with his oldest son is beyond repair now. He wants to make amends, but he doesn't know how or if it's even possible anymore.

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shadestriders · 5 years

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𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻

repost, don’t reblog !

BASICS !

full name. Lady Raern Valena Shadestrider

nicknames. Lady Ghost, Silvermoon’s Shadow, Rae, Raerae

height. 5′9

age. 236 at death

zodiac. Gemini

languages. Thalassian, Common, Orcish, Gutterspeak, Thalassian Sign, Orcish Sign

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair colour. dark brown with a hint of red in life, light/pale grey in death

eye colour. Originally hazel (since I like the headcanon that not all elves were blue), tainted by fel after Third War, but it started fading into gold before she died. Crimson, now.

skin tone. Pale. A bit more tan in life.

body type. lithe, toned. Think... Gymnast build, with a little less crazy in the shoulders

dominant hand. Left.

posture. confidant, perfect posture, very militant

tattoos. n/a

most noticeable features. two silver rings in her right ear, her crimson eyes

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth. Shadestrider Estate, Eastern Silvermoon, Quel’thalas

hometown. Silvermoon

birth weight / height. –

first words. The Thalassian equivalent for ‘kitty’.

siblings. Rellinth Shadestrider

parents. Ranger Lord Taera Shadestrider, Lord Dantrag Shadestrider

parental involvement. Her parents were extremely involved in her upbringing. Her mother spent ample time teaching Raern the ways of the forest, while her father taught her about politics, history, and the shadowy dealings of the underworld on Azeroth. She loves both of her parents immensely, for different reasons, though she drew closer to her father due to the clandestine nature of their work and the fact her mother still went on patrols for a bit when she was young before being promoted to Ranger Lord.

ADULT LIFE

occupation. Spy, Assassin, Scout

current residence. She doesn’t really have one, though she rebuilt part of the Shadestrider estate and keeps it in her name.

close friends. Dark Ranger Anya, Dark Ranger Velonara, Lilian Voss

relationship status. Single

financial status. She’s a noblewoman... so she’s never wanted for anything, and money rarely crosses her mind.

driver’s license. –

criminal record. Never been caught ;)

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation. Pansexual

romantic orientation. Homoromantic

preferred emotional role. submissive | dominant | switch | unsure

preferred sexual role. submissive | dominant | switch | sex repulsed

libido. Very low since her death, though she was slightly above average in life

love language. Quality Time - she appreciates moments of complete silence with a lover, where she can simply be at peace with them, and not have to worry about keeping up her sort of constant doublespeak. Shared, comfortable silence is... like heaven for Raern.

relationship tendencies. Raern struggles to trust... it takes a remarkably long time for her to open up. But once she does, she can’t stop herself from confiding in her partner. She typically will develop some kind of unspoken language with them at that point, giving her partner special insight into her own tells. Alana and Rae, at one point, could have full conversations in just a look.

MISCELLANEOUS.

character’s theme song. Legends Never Die

hobbies to pass the time. Music, poetry, reading... She appreciates camping and hunting, as well.

mental illnesses. PTSD though she has dealt with most of the symptoms, paranoia and a tendency toward depression

physical illnesses. -

left or right brained . left brained

fears. Acid. Final death. Loneliness.

self confidence level. Very self confident and self-assured.

vulnerabilities. She seeks understanding and empathy, though she is so very hesitant to let herself be truly vulnerable and honest, which leaves her unbearably alone. Her paranoia really cripples her socially, and can lead her to committing herself to things she will later regret.

Tagged by: @diguerra; @ladywindrunner and @lady-proudmoore

Tagging: anyone who wants to jump in :)

#i suppose a little fun never killed anyone (memes)#i have my reasons; they will follow me to the grave (character study)#what was i saying (ooc)#i might be convinced to throw one up of rellinth as well

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qdtquietdownthere · 5 years

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Day 9- Magic in mix ups.

Day 9

I start the day with babies. Completely surrounded by babies. I walk into Victoria library and ask for the story telling event but the man seems very confused and tells me there is no event. Ah! but there is! I get escorted to the baby library with a clear sign outside which reads “no unattended adults allowed” or something like that. I feel a bit peculiar to be there childless. When I sit down cross legged on the coloured carpet I introduce myself straight away to one of the mothers who is there with her little girl. Then for the first time ever in the residency- I introduce the project unannounced. Maybe to soften the weirdness of being a young person sat cross legged in a sea of children. The class is great and the children love it. It Is madness actually. There are toddlers everywhere. Something hits me about the session however as I watch- non of the parents talk to each other. Even at the beginning, before the session had started, no one interacted. People then streamed out after the session had finished. Completely consumed by being parents. Which is fair enough. Its just fascinating how this space which was for kids and babies, was somehow ghost chaperoned by parents. The parent, and woman, who is spoke with told me she had a teenager and was looking for activities for him to do. This is the first time someone has reacted with a request for information when they find out why I am there. I like this reaction especially because I also feel there isn't much going on for teenagers, from what I have seen. We talk about how it needs to be cool but not sport. A tricky brief for self conscious pre pubescent kids and teenagers. I leave the class feeling broody, but needing a coffee and thinking about this lack of conversion. Im pickled. I eat some dates.

I pop into the Victoria shopping mall for a loo break. I am happy because they are free and clean and there isn't a big line. It makes me wonder about getting people out the house. An elderly person, or even younger people often worry about access to toilets while in public. I wonder how much more of a consideration is for disabled people, or parents with babies. I noticed on my first day in Pimlico library there was a sign on the door giving directions to the closest public toilet other than the ones in the library. I want to suss out the obstacles which will hinder someone from getting off the settee and leaving their flat.

In the afternoon, something magic happens.

It is magic from a big mess up…a mess up I made.

I ever so orderly walked on to the library to get changed into my leggings and sports bra for my afternoon session of yoga. After the last exercise class, I think it’s better to be overly exercised dress than under. I head over to Thamesbank centre gearing myself up then BOOM, I remember, Yoga is at The Abbey Centre. Which is 30 minutes minimum walk away. Class was about to start. This, however, is where the magic is. I initially think oh no what have I done, this is there residency ruined and then I though, what will I do for 1hr30minutes. Without much consideration or hesitation I wandered into the Thamesbank centre to see what was happening. Their door is always open, literally. I was greeted with big smiley faces from some of the older ladies I recognised from the ETAT session earlier in the week. Emily was also there with her carer. People were coming and going. Some were eating chilli and others painting. A war veteran who was at the last session was continuing to paint his remembrance poppy painted clock. It was a living room. I wandered to the back to sit with Edna and two ladies who I had been at Lunch club with in week 1. It felt natural and powerful because this was my decision. My connections. It was a space for me to hang out. I wasn't there with agenda or a task. I was there to spend 90 minutes just being. We spoke of all things, of Ireland, of volunteering, attractive dentists, fussy house guests and I was even told how best to eat spam (covered in batter then deep fried). I was also able to have a good conversation with one of the ladies who I had met at lunch club and got the sense she didn’t like me. We had a good chat and Im now pretty confident she does like me. I think.

The whole experience felt really natural, which is something I know I crave. It was enjoyable for me, simply as me and I was proud that being in this community lead to choosing not to go to the library when I messed up, or had free time, but to put myself into the complete unknown. I then started drawing with a lovely young lady called Mazz. We exchanged pictures and I walked away feeling better than I have felt before In the residency. As I walked away I wrote:

“I go back as a friend, as an equal, as just someone who is a bit lonely in that minute, to pop in and say hi. I am now a promoter or being a popper. I will advocate the hugely beneficial effects of popping in. Popping your head in. Stopping for one cup of tea. For a quick natter as the side of the street. There is power in the little moments. There is power in being a regular. Pop in. EVERYONE SHOULD ALWAYS JUST POP IN”

This has been overwhelming in my time here in and around Churchill Gardens. It has been overwhelming at how regular people are to activities because of the lack of commitment needed to be a regular. It doesn't require money, a rolling bank transfer, monthly subscriptions. People come and go and talk and talk it seriously or don't talk it seriously. The activities in place work at this point because they are accessible to people who don't know what next week will be like. I believe the quick fleeting moments of joining in with a space or activity for whatever amount of effort or time you can give is wonderful. It works on this level, and in this instance.

There is a List which my Dad of all people gave to me many many years ago. It is titled ‘Golden Rules’ and at this point in my life, and in the residency it seems vital.

(Excuse the poor picture quality)

Today has given me a deeper belief in the golden rules and a further sense of home in this community. I think the rules ignite what this residency has been, and what it continues to deliver. Tiring and vulnerable and gosh I have never needed so many baths, but it has been such a privilege to be a regular, to be tired even. The golden nugget of today however, be a regular.

I end the day walking round Tate Britain, nattering away with Charlie. We don't take in any of the art but its a great ending to the day. A happy day.

ps. sorry I missed yoga

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nathanspainbooks · 6 years

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Meet the Clans

In anticipation of Brand New Night’s upcoming release on March 1st, I’d like to take a moment to familiarize readers with the four vampiric factions at the heart of the story.

Brand New Night takes place in the near future, in a world where vampires secretly migrated to North America among the European colonists and began to set up a parallel society alongside the newly-formed United States. They live in the shadows, and that secrecy protects them; they are predators whose prey remain unaware of their existence. Over time, as they grew their numbers and established their territory, the vampires split into four independently-governed clans, each controlling roughly a quarter of the United States. Though their populations are spread out among the states they control, each clan has a central seat of power. It is there that the clan’s leaders, the ruling Lords and Ladies, reside along with their courts.

The clans are as follows:

The Winebloods

Clan Wineblood controls the Western states, ruling from Wineblood Manor in the forests of Washington. They are best known for their practice of “blood brewing,” which involves the use of secret recipes and ingredients to transform human blood into a variety of delicious beverages. They consider themselves one of the more refined, progressive clans, which is evident in their attitudes towards humankind: They avoid killing their prey whenever possible, and rather than proactively hunting for sustenance, the vampires of Wineblood Manor rely on those few unlucky humans who discover their presence for their blood supply; such humans become captives, albeit relatively well-treated ones, of the Manor.

As one of the younger and initially smaller clans, the Winebloods had to fight to gain territory and recognition from their more powerful neighbors. Those tense and long-standing territorial disputes were eventually settled when the newly-appointed ruler, Lady Selene, negotiated an increase in the clan’s territory in exchange for the import of their coveted blood brews. As Selene herself would put it, “Half the secret to life is having something other people want, and the other half is making sure they can only get it if you want them to have it.”

The Nightcloaks

The Northern states are controlled by the Nightcloaks, perhaps the most powerful of the four clans. The Nightcloaks have gained that prominent status in large part due to the leadership of their ruler, Lord Thanatos. Hard-edged and serious, Thanatos has a reputation for ruthlessness, but his deeds are always in service of his clan. This has inspired a great degree of loyalty among his subjects, who are fanatical in their devotion to him. The Nightcloaks’ culture is very rigid and uniform, almost militaristic, with all members deferring to Thanatos’ command. Their ruler is a stubborn and proud man, difficult to negotiate with, and he holds the belief that vampirekind is superior to humanity. This makes the Nightcloaks the opposite of the Winebloods in many ways; while the latter view themselves as part of a delicate ecosystem, the Nightcloaks will always prioritize their own needs over any consideration for humankind.

The Blackwings

Clan Blackwing rules the large swath of territory in the Southern states. Though they are a large clan, they lack the cohesion of the Nightcloaks, in part due to the upheaval they’ve experienced in recent decades. Their former leader was (reportedly) struck down in an ambush by vampire hunters, and the throne passed to his second-in-command, Lord Brone. Vain and ambitious, Brone has restructured the clan around his whims, but inspires little love among his subjects. Those who crave the benefits of proximity to power have proven loyal to him, but his greed and self-interest has bred resentment in many others, which has only served to heighten his paranoia. Brone trusts no one, and is loved by few. This has also led to strained relationships with the other clans; any diplomatic venture Brone embarks on, then, must surely come with some personal benefit.

The Stormfangs

Like the Blackwings, the Stormfangs of the Eastern states have seen some changes lately. Unlike the Blackwings, those changes have been for the better. Their new leader, the young and self-assured Lady Rosanna, has revitalized what has long been a smaller and less influential clan. Something of a rebel in both identity and leadership style, Rosanna has proven popular with her people. Though Thanatos and Brone rarely give her more than begrudging respect, she enjoys a friendly relationship with the Winebloods - perhaps in part because they are the only two clans who do not share a border.

The Summit

Circumstances have recently changed dramatically for the clans. A few short years ago, a long-dormant strain of virus, unthawed from the melting Alaskan permafrost, swept across North America and beyond. Though a small number of humans proved immune (and the vampires, being immune to all forms of disease, were unaffected), the other 90% of the population quickly perished. Now, although the surviving humans have grouped together and begun to rebuild, there is concern about the longevity of the species.

Recognizing that the dramatic reduction of their primary food source represents an existential threat that transcends territorial boundaries, Lady Selene and the Winebloods invite the other three clans to a summit, the first such gathering of all the clans in many decades. The purpose of the event is to reach new agreements on nation-wide policies to promote the sustainability of both the vampire population and the humans on which they depend.

However, as the summit approaches, a question hangs over the clans: Will they seize this opportunity to forge new commitments to peace and cooperation, or will their differing worldviews and strained relationships make consensus an impossible goal?

Available in ebook and paperback March 1st, 2019 - pre-order now on Amazon.

#brand new night #vampires #vampire books #urban fantasy #paranormal fantasy

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bitletsanddrabbles · 6 years

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Day 11: Breath

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Pairing: General

Characters: Doctor Clarkson, Thomas Barrow (technically)

Warnings: Season six, episode eight. Apparently this prompt calls for either super trite sop or philosophical, brooding angst. I went with option B. Loudly. Also, it was written over the span of the past two days when I wasn’t feeling my best and, therefore, probably waxes a bit pretentious and needs some going over. Con crit welcome.

The world was reduced to the needle, moving in and out of abused skin, drawing nowhere near enough blood, and the barely-there sound of breathing. Doctor Clarkson stitched as quickly as he could, as neat and precise as any valet or Lady’s maid repairing a torn coat sleeve. He tried not to look up and see the too pale face lying on the pillows. Time was the most valuable commodity he had right now, and he dare not waste it.

He’d been surprised when Anna’s call had come, of course. No one ever truly sees these things coming. He was at a loss to know how Miss Baxter had caught on. Yes, he had been surprised, but not shocked, as the rest of the household. Instead the surprise had spiraled into a sickening sense of inevitability. It was the same feeling as when he realized a cancer had spread to a patient’s vital organs or that even the most modern of treatments wasn’t working. The feeling that no matter what he did, no matter how he fought, he was fighting against something too big for him to defeat.

He finished the first wrist and stood, crossing around to the other side of the bed, pausing only to listen and assure himself that there was still a fight to be fought here. Thankfully Thomas had always been a fighter, even if that had proven more of a problem for those around him than not. But it was undoubtedly as much a part of why he persisted in drawing air despite his own, willful attempt at self destruction as Miss Baxter’s timely intervention. He untied the neat knot she had made in the strip of ripped fabric and tried not to let the fear that Thomas would change his mind, that his fighting spirit would give up and work against him, completely choke him.

He wasn’t good to anyone if he stopped breathing himself.

Setting aside the makeshift bandage, he started in with the needle again. He wondered, trying to distract himself just enough to stay calm, if Miss Baxter had any medical experience. Even if she hadn’t been a nurse proper, there were plenty of women who had volunteered at the hospitals and convalescence homes. At any rate, she seemed to know exactly how to tie a bandage. He wished he’d had more time to speak with her, in the past. She wouldn’t be able to volunteer at the hospital, of course, not with her career, but it would have been nice to know there was someone here who could help in an emergency. It had been that way when Lord Grantham’s ulcer had burst. Calling on Thomas for help had been second nature. He’d not for a moment thought that without a war going on the younger man would hesitate to follow orders or would have forgotten the necessary training. Without him, who knew? Perhaps Lord Grantham would have been another life lost.

He realized he was clenching his jaw and forced it to relax. He concentrated on his own breathing, in and out, two stitches per breath. Medical training or not, Miss Baxter had gotten there in time and done what needed doing. Once stitched up, the only worry would be the possibility of infection, and he told himself that wasn’t likely. Not here. Not in Downton Abbey. Here there was no trench mud to work its way into the wounds, no sweat to wash contaminates into them. He didn’t need to worry about gangrene taking hold, not with such able care takers as resided in the Abby’s walls. And even if, for some reason, Thomas’s own bed should become unusable, there was no shortage here. There would be no need to kick someone out in order to keep the injured man from lying out under a canvas tent, with insufficient shelter from the elements and pests.

It wasn’t the war.

And he tried not to think about the war. He tried not to think about that lieutenant that Thomas had liked so much. He didn’t think there had been anything in it, really, at least not from the other side, but looking back on it he should have known that sending the young soldier away would break Thomas’s heart. He should have expected a fight. And of course, he hadn’t gone, not the way he was supposed to. In the end the doctor wondered, if he’d been able to act differently, if he’d had the luxury of letting the lieutenant stay or reason things out with Thomas rather than simply exerting his authority as an army Major who couldn’t, under any circumstances, let his underlings question him and his judgment, if things would somehow be different now. If the lieutenant would have lived, if he’d have kept contact. If that touch stone would have meant he wasn’t sitting here with his needle.

It didn’t really matter, though, did it? It didn’t matter because he hadn’t had that luxury. Instead he’d had more injured than he had beds, had not enough medicine at any given time, had notices flooding in from his superiors to expect more and make room for them. He’d had nurses and orderlies with family who, had word gotten around that he’d made allowances for Thomas and Lady Sybil, would have press ganged him into filling every bed with their injured loved ones until they lost more men to infection and pneumonia than they saved.

He had tried, in his way, to make up for it, promoting Thomas to acting sergeant without even a pretense of a fight when Lady Grantham asked, but it was a feeble effort at best. The war had been too big for him to defeat.

He was about three quarters of the way through when he noticed something small and dark along the edge of the wound. The fear of infection flared brightly in his mind and was ruthlessly squelched. It was too soon for anything to have set in, he told himself. The cut simply wanted a bit of cleaning, that was all. Probing gently at the little black line revealed it to be a thread from the bandage, stuck in the congealing blood and easily lifted out. He pressed on, repeating his assurances to himself and adding the reminder that Thomas had survived a light infection the summer before, so it would take something quite serious to kill him now. He firmly ignored the fact that in the younger man’s current, weakened state, even an abscessing side would be difficult to recover from. There was no one to administer tainted placebos and false promises, not here. Here there was, once again, Miss Baxter, steadily becoming the greatest, reassuring light in the darkness. The woman who had brought Thomas to him when fear would have kept him away, now matter how clearly ill he was.

The fact that she’d had to bring him, that fear had that great a hold, left Doctor Clarkson with that same, inevitable despairing feeling. Yes, he’d been able to treat the infection, but he hadn’t been able to get anywhere near the source of the problem, had he? He could offer as many pretty words of advice as he liked, but it wouldn’t cleanse the infection of an intolerant society. Perhaps if he’d been less aware of Miss Baxter’s presence, or more confident in her caring, he could have done more. Perhaps if he’d assured Thomas more thoroughly that he, himself, didn’t care about such things, that he wanted the younger man to be whole and healthy despite it all, that would have fixed something. But he’d been wary of giving wrong impressions or offending delicate sensibilities. The world was too big for him to defeat.

With a sense of relief he stitched the last stitch, tied off the thread and cut it, and re-bandaged Thomas’s wrists. Mechanically he gathered his tools, washed them in the basin of water Mrs. Hughes had thoughtfully provided, and tucked them away in his bag where they belonged. There was nothing to keep him there. And yet he stood, for several minutes, simply watching Thomas lie there, unmoving, listening to him breathe. Finally he reached out, smoothed backed a few strands of hair that had been mussed in all of the fuss which he was quite certain Thomas would have hated if he were awake, and turned to leave. He wasn’t quite certain where he was going. Downstairs, first, to let Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes know that all should be well. Then? The hospital was the obvious answer. There would be other patients, other fights to win or lose. There was paperwork for the merger that, despite his surrender, he was still uneasy about. The afternoon had not left his mind any more at ease with the thought that, despite promises, he might one day not be able to personally watch over the people he cared about, but rather have to send them to York, to someone he’d never met. He didn’t want to face that, not yet. He could go to the pub, but he wasn’t hungry. A year ago he might have called on Mrs. Crawley, invited her to tea or some such, divided his burden with her, but he wasn’t yet comfortable taking that liberty with Lady Merton. The wedding had not ended the friendship, but it had changed it.

The last option was to go home to his empty house, maybe make himself some tea, and try to read or fill the time some other way that didn’t leave space for brooding. He rejected that option out of hand. Loneliness was too big for him to defeat.

#downton abbey #downton abbey fanfiction #fanfiction #12 days of christmas #doctor clarkson #richard clarkson #thomas barrow #attempted suicide #brooding #angst #series spoilers

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punebeauty-blog · 5 years

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