#my improper characters drop Miss in their thoughts

[bethanydelleman]

This is perhaps a silly question but did couples in Jane Austen's time always refer to each other by Mr./Mrs. Lastname? It's something I noticed with all of them (even Mrs. Elliot who is very liberal in that regard, much to Emma's dismay). And it's not just in company either, Mrs. Bennet does it in front of their daughters and Lady Bertram when she's alone with Sir Thomas. It just seems very cold and distant in modern times.

Yes, it does feel weird to us and yes that appears to be what they do. In addition, many of the children call their parents "sir" and "ma'am". This is a much more formal society. I would feel just as weird calling someone my own age “Miss Lastname”! However, I know a lot of couples who refer to themselves and their spouses as "Mom" and "Dad" instead of their actual names in front of their kids, so it’s not totally divorced from our society now.

Anyway, one of the reasons we don't know a lot of first names of parents is because they only call each other Mr. and Mrs. Lastname. The exceptions are Admiral Croft, who calls his wife Sophy (her name is Sophia) and Mary and Charles Musgrove. John Mullen argued in his book What Matters in Jane Austen that this shows the contempt that M&C have for each other, but they are almost always among family and they are the same generation as Anne, so that might be why they use their first names. Mrs. Croft never calls Admiral Croft his first name back, by the way.

There also may have been a change in manners between the earlier and later novels. We hear women call men “Lastname” in S&S and P&P, but not in the later novels, then only men use that short form. Emma is highly offended that Mrs. Elton would say “Knightley”, though that may have more to do with their recent intimacy than a social rule, and Mrs. Elton does always refer to her husband as “Mr.” even if she shortens his last name into “E.”

What I find very interesting is that if you pay attention to when Mr., Mrs., Miss, and names are used, you can see how one character thinks of another. Fanny Price always thinks of Mr. and Miss Crawford, never Henry and Mary, even when other characters become less formal around them. When Elizabeth talks to Wickham (post-marriage to Lydia), Wickham uses the informal “Darcy” but all Elizabeth’s thoughts use the formal “Mr. Darcy”. Mr. Bingley is just referred to as “Bingley” about 50% of the time, but “Darcy” only about 30%. This probably has to do with the characters disliking him, but also with his station in society. Even the narrator is respectful!

Which is why I actually love the formal names/Christian names dynamic because you can get so much information just by how people refer to each other. Charlotte Lucas, Elizabeth’s friend, calls her “Eliza” and we can understand this as a representation of their intimacy. Yet when Caroline calls Elizabeth, “Miss Eliza”, it is rude, she hasn’t earned the privilege of a nickname. Similarly, Mary Crawford calling Miss Price “Fanny” before she is actually engaged to Henry is too much too soon, especially since Fanny has not extended this right in friendship.

And when Wentworth says, “but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne.” It’s not just the praise, he says her first name. It is a sign, on second reading, that his feelings for her have returned.

Last note, given how formal Mr. Darcy is and how respectfully Elizabeth refers to him even when they are engaged, they are calling each other Mr. and Mrs. Darcy everywhere except the bedroom! At least that's what I suspect.

[danmeiljie]

Just Say It: 说

Remember this scene:

It is one of my favorites from Advance Bravely.

We get Flirting. Awkwardness. Tall actor/models making other tall actor/models look tiny. The almighty Loom. So it made me want to remind myself how this scene played out in the novel.

I thought the phrasing "just spill it" and "dont be mouselike" was a bit odd sounding to me, and since American English is my first language and Im forever inexplicably interested in Mandarin, I wanted to do some research.

DISCLAIMER: This post is in no way attempting to criticise or put down the original translation team and their work on this novel. They did a fantastic job with this insane story! Im just being a very curious language learner. Neither am I claiming to have any training as a translator or in the Chinese language. I am just taking advantage of the few tools available to me.

@sugarbabywenkexing helped me think this thru and got me the screenshots from the show. Thank you friend! She also worked on updating a translation for her own gif project and was the one to catch the difference between the book and the drama. We both found that they adapted the scenes from the book very faithfully as they could!

Note that the line in Mandarin in the novel and the line in the show are a little different. Notably, the show drops the little bit at the end and takes out a character:

Line from novel: “下次再想吃就直接说，可怜劲儿的。”

Line from script: 下次再想吃直接说。

First I decided to see what google translate does with the line. Google is usually hit or miss for me, but I find if you include enough context it comes out okay.

Line from the novel:

Line from the script:

(Im ignoring the improper usage of "I want" since I already know the subject of the sentence is "you" or Xia Yao and not Yuan Zong, the speaker)

I noticed the difference between "mouselike" and pathetic and decided to consult Pleco, my favorite chinese dictionary app.

Seems that it checks out.

Also the Mandarin verbage of "直接说" which google is saying means "speak directly", seems to be fairly straightforward enough, and my guess is, the phrasing "spill it" is trying to invoke his casual tone by relying on english slang. It made me think at first there was a euphamism going on here since this novel is chock full of sexual innuendos, but it seems the Mandarin here is not a slang term. (Native speakers welcome to correct me!)

CONCLUSION:

I love the flirting tone of Yuan Zong here. Xu Feng does a great job portraying that with his performance and the voice actor who delivered the line had great inflection. I guess the script writers decided to cut out the "its pathetic" comment, but I like it for this scene in the book.

I think the original fan translation does a creative job of expressing Yuan Zong and his teasing of Xia Yao, but like I said it felt a bit unnatural in English and if I were to take a stab at the line, I'd go with something closer to the MTL.

"Next time if you want to eat some, just say so. It's pathetic."

Why does any of this matter?

*shrugs*

It doesnt really like I said before I love languages and am curious about translation and wanted to see for myself. The gist of the scene as written in the novel comes across accurately in the fan translation and the drama adaptation.

Remember, if you want something, just say it. ;)

Thank you to the original translation team for allowing me to read this danmei novel! Unfortunately I like it too much.j

[that-mom-friend-talks]

Ranboo Rant

I’m watching streams I missed and istg this man

The way he’s conditioned us with the music disk, to the point where we hear it and immediately go to hold hands through the emotional turmoil we know he’ll put us through.

And, something not enough people focus on about his acting, is the sheer power he holds for not breaking character. The donos are always the most hilarious when we’re distracting from impending trauma, and he literally doesn’t break character. Nothing. He gives you nothing. No slight change in tone, no questionable exhale or inhale, he just holds it and keeps powering forward. As someone who acts if anyone says a joke while I’m acting I break like a kit kat so I have so much respect for him for that.

How well thought out his character is. He says he has a whole paper about his character, full improper essay and analysis, and I love him so much for it. He knows so much and he just casually introduces little things. His new habit of picking up blocks and just rearranging them, I’m almost 100% sure his avoidance of creepers is purposeful, and his memory book?? Brilliant, superb, so ingenious.

He also just drops some words sometimes where I just realize how smart this guy is. “the manifestation of my own catastrophizing” like what???? And he just had that line, casually?? I’m gone, he’s so cool.

There is something on the horizon for Ranboo, and I cannot wait to see where he goes with it.

[melanielocke]

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 17

AO3

Taglist: @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised

Previous Chapter: Chapter 16

Next Chapter: Chapter 18

Lucie spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden trying to figure out how to do magic. It didn’t help that she had no idea what she was doing or how magic worked and instead she was just trying some methods she remembered from her favorite books. So far, nothing happened. After some time, Jessamine came outside to watch.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Trying to do magic,’ Lucie answered, a little frustrated with her lack of progress. ‘You don’t happen to have any clue how that works?’

Jessamine looked shocked. ‘About magic? Of course not, why would you think such a thing. I’m a good Christian.’

Lucie guessed she should have suspected such a thing. ‘Jess, in all the time that you’ve been here, was I the only one who could see you?’

Jessamine thought for a while.

‘Actually, no,’ she said. ‘There was someone else, years ago. The sister of Mr. Gray. She travelled to the manor shortly after my death, to express her condolences to my family, and she could see me and spoke to me.’

Mr. Gray’s sister… Her mother couldn’t see ghosts, but perhaps she was somehow distantly related to his woman and to Jessamine’s old suitor through her mother. Perhaps that power did travel in families.

‘And was there anything else she could do?’ Lucie asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Jessamine said. ‘Mr. Gray always thought his sister was odd, occupied with things not suitable for a young lady. She rarely came to balls, even if she was old enough to be out and looking for suitors. But he thought discussing what his sister was up to would be inappropriate for the proper ladies present, such as myself.’

‘She must have been a witch too then,’ Lucie speculated.

Jessamine looked horrified. ‘Witches don’t really exist, do they? Mr. Gray’s sister was certainly odd, everyone knew that, but I never thought she could be a witch.’

‘Jess, you’re literally a ghost. And I can see you and speak with you, just like Mr. Gray’s sister did. When I’m near you can pick up hair brushes, which you normally can’t.’

‘All this time, you’ve been bewitching me?’ Jessamine asked, her voice small.

‘No, not like that,’ Lucie said. ‘That wasn’t something I did intentionally, and I never forced you into anything. Although I’m thinking maybe I could. Jess, my friend is in danger and I need to save him. Are you willing to help me?’

Jessamine looked reluctant. ‘What will you do to me?’

‘Just test a few things, figure out what I can do,’ Lucie said. ‘I’ve always made you stronger, I have no idea what you could do with my help.’

She looked down, resigned. ‘Alright, Lucie. I will see what I can do. What is it that you ask of me?’

Lucie looked around, and noticed a stick lying on the ground.

‘Can you pick that up?’ she asked, pointing.

Jessamine looked confused, but bent down and picked up the stick, holding it in her hands. Usually, ghosts could pick up things they cared for around her. In Jessamine’s case, hairbrushes and dolls. Lucie didn’t think Jessamine cared much for sticks.

‘That looks odd,’ Thomas, who was sitting in a garden chair next to Alastair, commented. ‘Like you just made the stick float.’

‘Yes,’ Lucie said. ‘But that’s not exactly helpful, is it? Jessamine, can you touch Thomas? Usually you’d pass through him.’

Jessamine dropped the stick and rubbed her hand even if there was no dirt remaining on her ghostly form. She walked over to Thomas, who'd stood up out of his chair, and shook his hand, curtsying politely. Thomas yelped, which indicated that he could feel her. Interesting.

‘Do gentlemen not kiss a lady’s hand anymore?’ Jessamine asked.

Thomas turned red, and lifted his hand up, taking Jessamine’s hand with him, and kissed her. To Lucie, this looked relatively normal, but Thomas couldn’t see Jessamine. This had to be awkward. Jessamine let go of Thomas’ hand.

‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,’ Jessamine said.

Lucie repeated Jessamine’s words to Thomas.

‘Ah, it is a pleasure to meet you too, miss,’ Thomas said, looking over her head instead of at her.

Lucie sometimes wondered if Thomas got neck cramps from having to look down whenever he was talking to other people.

Jessamine let go of Thomas’ hand. ‘In my day, the gentlemen certainly had better manners,’ she snorted.

Lucie started laughing. ‘Jessamine is not impressed by your manners, Tom,’ she said.

Thomas turned an even deeper red. ‘I am terribly sorry, miss, that my manners are not up to your standard. Wait, is she still there?’

Jessamine scoffed. ‘I’ll never understand the gentlemen of this century. If you can call them that. People are so contradictory. I always felt like public displays of affection are frowned upon nowadays, especially between gentlemen, even if they are very close friends. But your two gentlemen seem to be very affectionate and improper with each other.’

Lucie started laughing. She suspected Jessamine had seen Alastair and Thomas kiss each other the other day, she’d seemed very shocked by it, but Lucie didn’t realize she’d interpreted them as having a very intimate friendship. Some decades before Jessamine lived, such a thing had been more normalized though, known as the romantic friendship. Although Lucie suspected at least some of those “romantic friendships” were really concealed gay relationships. ‘Oh no, that is not considered normal in this day, but Alastair and Thomas are not simply close friends.’

Jessamine looked absolutely horrified and Lucie decided to change the subject. She did not feel like discussing sexuality with a ghost from the Victorian era, she didn’t think that conversation would end without anyone getting hurt or offended.

‘What did she say?’ Thomas asked.

‘Jess is very confused about the gentlemen of this day. Usually they are not so affectionate towards each other as you are with Alastair,’ Lucie summarized.

‘I,’ Alastair announced, ‘am very glad to live in this day and age and not whatever century this lady must have been from.’

Lucie could imagine, the modern day might still be a mess but she would certainly prefer it over being a 19thcentury lady. She imagined she would have married young, a gentleman she’d thought she was fond of, but didn’t really feel romantic attraction to, and then she’d be trapped. That wouldn’t happen to her main character Eloise though. Eloise and Mabel would find a way, although of course writing a story about a sapphic couple in the 19th century had its limitations in their happy ending.

‘So Jess can touch objects and people who don’t see her,’ Lucie continued. ‘Anyone has any other ideas?’

‘Could you make her visible to us?’ Alastair asked.

‘Jess, show yourself,’ Lucie said.

Jessamine frowned. ‘I don’t know how to do that.’

Nothing happened, at least not that Lucie could tell.

‘She looks a lot like I pictured her,’ Thomas said.

‘I thought her hair would be darker,’ Alastair commented. ‘I don’t think bleach for hair existed back then, and I’m pretty sure no one has hair that’s naturally this light.’

‘I think it depends on where you’re from,’ Thomas said. ‘Light blonde hair is more common in Northern Europe.’

Cordelia snorted. ‘Just because you used to bleach your hair, does not mean everyone who is blonde does the same.’

Thomas frowned. ‘You bleached your hair?’

‘I dyed it back to black, and it’s mostly grown out now,’ Alastair said. ‘It was too much effort to maintain, I had to touch up the roots every four weeks. It looked good though.’

‘It did not look good,’ Cordelia commented. ‘He looked like a turnip.’

Lucie’s eyes went wide. It worked. They were seeing Jessamine. Lucie was feeling a little faint, but did not let it distract her.

‘Come on, pay attention. You’re looking at a ghost for the first time in your life, isn’t that more interesting than Alastair’s hair?’ Lucie shouted.

‘Almost,’ Thomas said. ‘Have you seen Alastair’s hair?’

Alastair rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s pay attention to the ghost. Alright, blonde people are real. And her dress is very nice, I always liked the bustle style.’

‘You can see me?’ Jessamine’s smile lit up. ‘Oh this wonderful. It is such a long time since a gentleman has been able to see me. And it is a lovely dress, I had it made when I visited Paris with my mama.’

She pronounced Paris the way the French did. Lucie knew Jessamine loved to talk about her gowns, although she wasn’t fond of modern clothes. She wore a green day dress with a bustle, something Lucie imagined was a bit unpractical. So many layers. Not to mention the corset.

Alastair looked up thoughtfully. ‘How long do you imagine she’ll stay visible, Lucie?’ he asked. ‘What about if you step away from here? Go inside?’

Lucie took several steps away from Jessamine, taking hold of the door to open it.

‘She’s gone,’ Thomas said.

Lucie turned around and walked to Jessamine. ‘What about now?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ Cordelia said. ‘I think once she disappears, you need to ask her to become visible again.’

‘Show yourself,’ Lucie repeated.

‘There she is,’ Alastair said. ‘She looks surprisingly human. I always thought ghosts would be more transparent like in movies.’

‘If they were, do you think I would have mistaken ghosts for living people?’ Lucie asked. ‘If you look carefully, ghosts have a bit of a shimmer but beyond that they look just like people.’

‘Living people, that is,’ Jessamine said. ‘I consider myself a person still, thank you very much.’

‘Of course you are a person,’ Thomas confirmed, indicating that he could hear as well as see her. ‘It is odd to think you’ve been here for such a long time, and always invisible.’

‘It has been very difficult,’ Jessamine said. ‘For a long time, no one could see me until Lucie came here. And modern times are so confusing. Why do ladies wear clothes that reveal their ankles at all times? Worse, the knees? In my day, the occasional ankle slip was to be expected, of course, but visibility of the calves and knees was unheard of. Have people lost all sense of propriety?’

‘Because it’s more practical to not wear floor length dresses all the time,’ Lucie said. ‘Also, no one cares about ankles nowadays. Or knees.’

Lucie did like wearing dresses and skirts, but didn’t like them too long. She was short and therefore the hem always dragged over the ground, which meant she either tripped over the skirt or got it dirty when she wore it outside.

‘But it’s so improper,’ Jessamine insisted, horrified. ‘How could people just stop caring about such things? If this continues, it will not be long until humans go out with no clothes at all and society will fall into chaos.’

‘Now that is generally frowned upon,’ Alastair said. ‘I do not expect that to happen anytime soon.’

‘It would be uncomfortable,’ Cordelia added. ‘And also very cold. The point of clothes is to stay warm.’

‘Does anyone have an idea on how to open a gateway to the land in between?’ Lucie asked. ‘Because that is different from what I can ask of ghosts.’

Cordelia frowned. ‘Maybe you could ask Jessamine.’

‘Jess, can you open a gateway to the land in between for me?’ Lucie asked.

Jessamine frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I do not understand what you ask of me.’

That wasn’t it, then. Lucie guessed opening the gateway was something she’d have to do herself. Making Jessamine visible, that was also something she did, she commanded it and Jessamine could not do it without her. Then perhaps it was about commanding.

‘Or you could ask for a gateway,’ Thomas suggested.

‘Like, open sesame?’ Lucie asked.

‘Be specific,’ Alastair added. ‘What is it that you want to happen? Perhaps Thomas is right, perhaps all you have to do is ask.’

Lucie tried to remember what Grace said, that her magic was dark magic. Perhaps she needed to ask the darkness, or shadows, or something like it? Grace had hinted at this too. Careful what you wish, you just might get it.

‘Darkness, open a gateway to the land in between that is only open to myself, Thomas Lightwood, and Alastair and Cordelia Carstairs,’ Lucie said, remembering to be detailed. Perhaps that was what Grace had warned her about, that what she asked for would happen but not the way she’d intended. ‘A gateway that will not close until all four of us made it back safely to our world.’

It didn’t look like a gateway exactly. There was just a hint of shadow, and when it touched Lucie her friends disappeared. There were no ruins here, the change was subtle beyond her friends being gone. The air was just a touch darker, the breeze a little colder. Some of the color had faded, the grass was a bit duller. There was a fog hovering above the ground. The house was still there, but from here she should be able to see her father’s car and that was gone.

Cordelia, Thomas and Alastair appeared beside her, Cordelia with cortana in hand.

‘I don’t see any ruins,’ Thomas commented.

‘I think the land in between is layered over our land,’ Lucie said. ‘So perhaps to find those ruins, I need to open a portal around where the ruins are. Or I guess we could walk there, but then we’d leave a portal open here and we’d have to walk all the way back once we find it in this world.’

‘I imagine you could open another portal,’ Alastair said. ‘But finding the place the ruins should be in our world and then opening a portal is likely safer. Come, we should get back. This place doesn’t feel right.’

Alastair had a point. Lucie looked around to the way back. In their own world, the gateway looked like a shadow. Here it was a ray of light in an otherwise dark and gloomy environment. She watched her friends step into the light and disappear and then Lucie followed.

The four of them were back in the normal world, her parents both in the garden, concerned. The gate of darkness disappeared behind her. Lucie had asked it not to close until all of them were back, she guessed on its own it didn’t stay open for long and would close if she didn’t stop it. She made a mental note of that, she didn’t want to have to open another portal while they were being attacked by something. The portal closing behind her while all four of them were back was a good way to make sure nothing else came through.

She was feeling a bit more faint than before, light headed. She should have expected using magic would come at a price, but perhaps it was like exercise and she could improve her magic stamina.

‘Where did you just come from?’ Tessa asked.

Lucie looked around for help, but figured since this was her power she was to explain it. She started with Grace visiting again, with her telling her that she had more power than she knew and that she could open a gate.

‘I figured out how to do it,’ Lucie concluded. ‘So we can go into the woods and find Grace’ skin.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to come along?’ Will asked.

Lucie considered it, but it was a long time since her father had fought anything and her mother had barely any experience. It wouldn’t be safer with them there. Cordelia had a sword, Lucie was the only one who could open the gateway, and Grace seemed under the impression that it was also necessary for Alastair to come, that his memory would be essential. At least one person with the sight would also be useful.

‘I think it’s better if you didn’t,’ Lucie said. ‘But there’s something else you could do in the meantime. According to Cordelia and Alastair, their father has lots of notebooks from their ancestors, and one must have described a witch similar to me. Perhaps you could call Elias, or uncle Jem, and ask for them.’

Will frowned. ‘Do you think Elias would help us now? He was so opposed to Cordelia coming here with us before.’

Cordelia hadn’t been allowed to come at first, but then her mother had moved out and taken her children with her and her father couldn’t stop her anymore. Sona had decided it would be good for both her children to have some time away and had encouraged them to go. Lucie agreed it was unlikely Elias would be any help on his own accord. She couldn’t say she understood him or his relationship with his children well, all she knew was the damage it had done to Alastair and Cordelia.

‘Father does listen to Jem at times,’ Alastair said stiffly. ‘I think perhaps he could reason with him.’

‘I’ve been meaning to call Jem anyway,’ Will said. ‘If you do not return before dinner, we will come looking for you.’

‘I could leave the gate open for you,’ Lucie said. ‘But we cannot be sure about the time. It doesn’t run the same way, we could spend only a couple of hours there and we’d be missing for a whole day. We cannot keep track of time in there.’

‘Dinnertime,’ Will repeated. ‘I won’t blame you if you’re not back, but we will come looking.’

‘Perhaps we should go tomorrow,’ Alastair suggested and Lucie wondered if maybe after this morning, he did not feel up for it and needed rest. ‘I think it is unlikely we will finish before that time, and if we go tomorrow early in the morning, it is far more likely we can finish before dinnertime.’

Lucie had to admit his line of reasoning had merit, even if she was impatient to get out there. Besides, that gave her time to practice. Cordelia returned to her practice with cortana, whereas Lucie tried asking the darkness for other favors. She practiced opening and closing gate. The gateways all worked and did what she asked of them, but it was tiring though. After four more gates Lucie collapsed onto a garden chair and took to watching Cordelia practice, too tired to get up. Perhaps Alastair had a point in postponing going for the skin, and she imagined even if he was feeling better now that he was exhausted after this morning. She’d had a break down on a rare occasion, autism and stubbornness didn’t always go well together, but never as bad as Alastair had. She knew how exhausting it could be.

Cordelia’s stamina had to be a lot better than Lucie’s, because she kept going for a long time and didn’t seem to get tired. She certainly had a weak spot for girls with swords, and Lucie made a note to use that in one of her novels. Cordelia had tied back her dark red hair in a high ponytail, and was wearing a wide shirt tucked into a pair of jean shorts, something a bit more practical than Lucie’s yellow jumpsuit. Well, it was comfortable to walk around in, but a struggle to go to the bathroom. Cordelia had begun to break a sweat, a few drips on her forehead, but that didn’t stop her. Perhaps later she’d want to go swimming to cool down. Thinking of water, Lucie realized she hadn’t drunk anything in a while. And considering Cordelia had been training for some time, she had to be dehydrated.

‘Do you want something to drink?’ Lucie asked.

‘I could use a glass of water,’ Cordelia said. ‘I always forget to drink when I’m training.’

Fortunately, Lucie was there to make sure Cordelia drank enough water. She tended to forget herself too, especially when she was busy writing. Sometimes she’d complain of a headache, only to realize she hadn’t drunk anything since breakfast.

She went inside to find Alastair and Thomas were about to leave, both carrying a bag.

‘Where are you going?’ Lucie asked.

‘Just to the lake,’ Thomas said. ‘We won’t go too far into the lake, but it’s getting too warm pretty much everywhere. Maybe you and Cordelia can join us later when you’re done training.’

‘I’ll ask Cordelia,’ Lucie promised. ‘Have fun, in the meantime.’

She returned outside with two glasses of water, putting one on the table.

‘The boys have gone swimming,’ Lucie said. ‘Thomas said we were welcome to join once we’re done.’

‘Sure,’ Cordelia said. ‘Just let me finish.’

Cordelia went through a few more repeats of her training, and then transformed cortana back into its necklace form.

‘I get tired a lot sooner than you,’ Lucie admitted.

‘I can’t do magic,’ Cordelia said. ‘I have no idea how exhausting opening or closing a gateway is. I imagine it is a lot more work than simply swinging a sword.’

Lucie guessed perhaps that was true, magic ought to have some limitations. If not, then how could Cordelia’s ancestor have defeated the witch from Grace’ story? ‘I’m curious what else I can do. Grace said something about controlling the dead and making them fight, but that seems a bit unethical. Jessamine isn’t a fighter, and I’d never make her fight something on my behalf.’

‘It depends on the situation, I guess,’ Cordelia said. ‘We don’t know what it takes to stop Tatiana and save Thomas.’

‘No, but I do need to draw moral lines for myself,’ Lucie said. ‘I feel bad for that witch from the story, and I don’t want to end up like her. I don’t want us to become enemies.’

Cordelia took her hand. ‘I’ll never become your enemy, Lu.’

‘Then I guess I’ll have to stay on the safe side of that ethical line. I know how easy it can be, to have the end justify the means, but that’s something I’d rather save for my stories.’

[whatstheproblembaby]

Fic: Points of Contact

PG-13, 2325 words, intended to be a character study but just kind of turned into a pile of fluff and banter? /shrugs

Also on AO3.

As much as she loved a quiet meal at home with her family, Shelagh appreciated their monthly invitations to dinner at Nonnatus House. The little ones were in ecstasy, surrounded by all of their favorite adults, who had no excuses not to play with them. She herself got to enjoy a meal in which she only had to cook one of the dishes, and now that Cyril and Fred were part of the guest list, she knew that Patrick looked forward to a little time with “the lads,” as he was (unfortunately) wont to call them.

She felt a smile blossom across her face as she re-entered the dining area from the kitchen, fresh cup of tea in hand. The others had adjourned to the parlour, where they were waiting for Doctor Who to start. Patrick, Cyril, and Fred had all dragged dining chairs to the far side of the room and were chatting away animatedly, though Cyril kept turning his gaze to the television every so often, clearly not wanting to miss a moment of the show. Sister Monica Joan was on a low stool, no more than a foot of space between her and the screen. Her focus, though, was on the children, who were listening somewhat attentively to her explanation of what to expect from the programme. Violet had had to step out on council business, so Sister Julienne and Phyllis had commandeered the armchairs, leaving the rest of the nuns and nurses to pile onto the sofa or sprawl out on the surrounding floor. Shelagh scanned the space, trying to see where she could squeeze in, when a gesture between Trixie and Sister Frances stopped her cold.

Trixie had perched on the arm of the sofa, one arm draped across Sister Frances’ shoulders. Even that level of public affection was a surprise to Shelagh, who hadn’t realized that Trixie’s comfort with casual, friendly touches extended past her fellow resident midwives, but Sister Frances’ response was the real stunner.

Sister Frances leaned contentedly into Trixie’s loose embrace, tucking her head as best she could onto Trixie’s shoulder and throwing her right arm over one of Trixie’s legs. She showed no fear of being caught doing something improper - indeed, Sister Julienne looked on with a smile as Sister Hilda finished relating an anecdote and the whole sofa burst into laughter.

Shelagh felt her breath catch. She only realized she had been hovering in the doorway a little too long when a concerned “Shelagh?” came from Patrick’s side of the room.

“Forgot to add milk,” she quipped, raising her cup and hoping the laugh she added at the end sounded less forced to everyone else’s ears. She turned and headed back to the kitchen, where she rummaged through the refrigerator with unseeing eyes.

A religious Sister is holy and separate, Sister Adelaide’s voice swam up from her memories. She rejoices and mourns with the community she serves, but she is not of the community. She cannot confuse the comforts of being a sister of man with her higher purpose fulfilling God’s commands with her Sisters in Christ.

Shelagh pressed her lips together wryly as she imagined Sister Adelaide’s reaction to the current display in the parlour. She knew her former instructor in the religious life had since passed on, but she hadn’t realized quite how different the lessons for the newer Sisters would be.

“My love, are you sure you’re all right?” Patrick reached down and took her teacup, setting it on the counter before securing both of her hands in his. “You’re taking an awfully long time to add milk to your already milky tea.”

“Maybe I want the extra calcium,” Shelagh said, smiling up at him. “These old bones could use some shoring up.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that statement, in order to not incriminate myself in the process,” Patrick said with an echoing smile. The love in his eyes still caught Shelagh off-guard, even after years of marriage. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine, Patrick,” Shelagh said tenderly. “The times have changed, that’s all. Now, we’d better get back to the parlour before Sister Monica Joan turns all of our children into mystics and Romantic poets.”

Patrick huffed out a laugh. “You know I’m going to ask you to explain what you mean by that first statement later.”

“I will. I just need a little more time to process it for myself first.”

Shelagh noticed the sensation of Patrick’s hand on the small of her back a little more acutely than usual as he guided her back to the party, marking how he removed it once they were properly in mixed company. Later, too, she became aware of how there was always a careful space left for her amongst the women, close enough to ensure she was included, but not so small that she was nudged playfully in the shoulder or brushed by someone crossing their legs to the other side.

The warm weight of her son in her arms at the end of the evening was her anchor. Teddy was dozing off by the time they left, and May and Angela weren’t too far behind. Thankfully, Sister Julienne offered to carry Angela out to their car to keep Patrick or Shelagh from having to make two trips down the stairs.

“Thank you for inviting us to dinner. We always have such a lovely time,” Shelagh said, rocking Teddy as she waited for Patrick to settle May in the back seat of the station wagon.

“The pleasure is all ours, Shelagh,” Sister Julienne said. She reached out and squeezed Shelagh’s arm once, maternally. “You know you’re part of our family. You are always welcome here.”

Shelagh just smiled, unsure of what her voice would do if she tried to respond aloud. By then, Patrick had secured May, so she focused on getting Teddy into the car next without waking him or disturbing the girls. Once all was in order, she and Patrick wished Sister Julienne a good night and waited for her to get back inside safely before they drove off.

In the car, Patrick started to say her name, but Shelagh cut him off by sliding across the bench seat and dropping her head on his shoulder.

“Get us home, Patrick. I’ll explain once we’ve got the children squared away for the night.”

The ride home was quiet, the soft sound of the radio the only real noise as Patrick navigated the streets of Poplar. Shelagh eventually shifted so her hand was resting loosely on Patrick’s above the gear shift, to allow him to manoeuvre the car better, but she stayed close by his side as they unloaded their children and got them in bed, earning a pleased yet confused look from her husband.

“You’re tactile this evening,” he observed mildly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they walked down the hall to their own room.

“I’m tactile plenty of evenings,” Shelagh replied, handing Patrick his pyjamas from the wardrobe before fetching her own. “I just don’t always allow myself to act on it.”

“Because of-” Patrick broke off, freeing himself from his vest before continuing, “Because of something I’ve done? Shelagh, I’m so-”

“Not because of you, Patrick,” Shelagh said decisively. “Quite the opposite, in fact. But I’m not explaining while you’re changing - I don’t want you to smother yourself with your own clothing!”

They separated long enough to get their pyjamas on and wash up for the night, giving Shelagh one last moment to collect her thoughts.

“Come here,” Patrick said when she reentered the bedroom, holding his arms open from where he sat on his side of the bed. “If you’re still allowing yourself to be tactile, that is.”

Shelagh slid under the covers and into his arms gratefully. “I’m going to try. I don’t want to display too much affection in public, but...I think I may have been holding myself to old-fashioned standards.”

Patrick just raised an eyebrow, looking down at her with curiosity.

“Tonight, at Nonnatus, I saw Trixie and Sister Frances cuddle up to each other without a second thought, and I didn’t know what to do for a moment,” Shelagh explained. “When I was a Sister, casual physical touch was not encouraged. One was supposed to focus on one’s commitment to God to find sustenance and support. Perhaps after one’s life vows, or at a funeral for another Sister, there could be a quick embrace, but on a typical day, there should be space between one and one’s Sisters on the sofa at recreation, and one should not even think about touching or embracing a layperson unless they were experiencing labor, bereavement, or a medical emergency.”

“Really?” Patrick asked. “I’ve always thought of the Sisters as the most nurturing community presence - but now that you say that, I can’t count many times I’ve seen them actually offer a hug. An encouraging squeeze of the arm, perhaps, or a parcel of food or clothing if it serves.”

“We were expected to love as God loves, of course,” Shelagh said. “But there were ways we could do that while staying ‘holy and separate.’ Or so I was taught.”

“It would appear that whichever Sister was in charge of your lessons isn’t instructing anymore.”

“No, she’s long gone, may she rest in peace. And perhaps this new embrace of - well - embracing others is more of a Nonnatus trend than a result of any teachings from the Mother House. Still, it caught me by surprise tonight.” Shelagh tucked her head into the crook of Patrick’s neck as she finished speaking.

Patrick kissed Shelagh’s temple. “Because you were uncomfortable?”

“Because I was jealous,” Shelagh replied. She closed her eyes briefly to hide her embarrassment at saying so, but when she straightened up and looked at Patrick again, she saw nothing but understanding in his eyes, emboldening her to go on. “I spent ten years of my life keeping my distance from other people, believing it was the right way to show my devotion to God and my vows to Him. Still, I saw every moment I could have hugged a frightened mother and didn’t, or every moment I refrained from comforting one of the resident nurses at Nonnatus. I didn’t even let you hold me in public for the first year of our marriage because I was afraid everyone would think I was so starved for affection that I left the church the first time a man so much as looked at me. And now the Sisters can just casually curl up with the nurses on the couch in the parlour?”

Shelagh couldn’t restrain her frustrated tears any longer. Before the first of them were even finished trickling down her cheeks, she found herself wrapped in Patrick’s arms, her head cradled against his shoulder. He murmured soothing nonsense in her ear, assuring her he was in no rush for her to pull herself back together.

“I’m sorry, Patrick, I got you soaked,” Shelagh said once she was finally able to sit upright again.

Patrick wiped her cheeks with his thumbs. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I see the reasoning behind what you were taught as a Sister, but good intent doesn’t make up for years of you suppressing instincts that are now being supported by that very same institution.”

“Thankfully, I’ve also had years to work on retraining myself,” Shelagh said, a tentative smile on her face. “You’ve been quite helpful there.”

Patrick’s forehead crinkled. “I have?”

“Maybe not in so many words, but you reached for my hand when I was still afraid to name what I was feeling for you. You wrapped me in your coat when I was lost and cold on the road back to Poplar. You’ve held me time and time again as I’ve cried without me having to say a word - not five minutes ago, even! You have shown me that physical affection can be simple, natural, and meaningful, and it doesn’t diminish the quality of our love or our professionalism.”

“And here I thought I was merely capitalizing on my chances to show my devotion to my lovely wife,” Patrick said, squeezing Shelagh’s hands where they lay in his own. “I’ll always be here if and when you reach out, Shelagh.”

“I know, Patrick. I’ve always known that.” Shelagh leaned up to kiss her husband at that. “And I’m going to let myself reach out to you and to our friends more. I don’t want to give people a show, of course, but I’ve barely let myself hold your hand in public out of concern for propriety. I think we’re still within the bounds of good taste if we go a little beyond that, don’t you?”

“I should say so,” Patrick said, pressing another kiss to Shelagh’s smile. “But I could have a hidden agenda.”

“A hidden agenda? I’m not sure what you mean,” Shelagh teased, rolling onto her back and pulling Patrick on top of her.

“Let me explain.” Patrick leaned down and proceeded to illuminate his agenda quite thoroughly, adding a few items to Shelagh’s own in the process. When they had finally finished, Shelagh curled up with her head on Patrick’s chest, feeling sleep begin to claim her.

“Somehow I don’t think I’m going to add any of what we just did to my ideas of what’s appropriate in public,” she murmured, laughing softly. “But I’m happy for some things to remain just for us.”

“There’s a time and a place for everything,” Patrick agreed.

The last thing Shelagh felt before drifting off was a light kiss to her hair, an action she was all too willing to repeat the next morning as they opened up the surgery. The almost comical look of shock on Miss Higgins’ face in result gave her another reason to keep pushing her former boundaries - after all, where else was she going to find this level of amusement?

[lumau]

Day 6 - Li Ming

Okay, here’s the thing - under no circumstances did I want to miss Li Ming day today! But to fit his chapter into the arc with the others, I still need to write an interlude which I haven’t yet found the time to do.

However, this part also works on its own - so unless you rather want to wait, here’s already the main part of Li Ming’s chapter.

You can also read it as a stand alone! ❄🤍❄

╳

Li Ming could make out the pulse under his fingers, present even through the cold. He felt it slowing from a rapid race to an unsteady rhythm. They were knealing in front of each other, hands on each other's necks. But the other hands began to loosen their grip, shiver and cramp away from his skin. Both men were perfectly still, like a set of statues in the snow swirling around them, the frost slowly crawling up and across both of their bodies. But while the other’s heart was stuttering, Li Ming’s was racing. 

The sound of a large bell rang out across the square, and it took a few seconds before Li Ming registered that it was over. With a conscious effort he pulled his hands away, and the other body slumped forward without his support, gasping heaving breaths into almost empty lungs. Li Ming looked down on his opponent. He would live, for now. It was not his choice to end him - should his family require it, it would be their responsibility. 

Only now that he stood up, Li Ming felt how the pain began to spread from his own injuries. They had started their duel with swords, and while they had dropped them pretty quickly to exercise their natural abilities, he had received a rather deep wound from a cut down his arm. 

He himself was panting heavily, still full of adrenaline from the fight. Blood had sputtered onto the white floor around them, and it continued seeping through the fabric of his robe on his left shoulder. Li Ming had to consciously fight back the dizzying feeling of nausea. His body was on the verge of collapse after a week of excessive strain, but he would not allow it to slip one bit. Not yet, not now.

He only had to hold on for a little longer, while the results would be declared. They had spent the last days and nights in the examination cells, working on various written tests. From there they had been lead right to the plaza to face off against the other candidates, and there had been no time to rest in between. Li Ming was fairly confident that he had done his best in the academic and cultural examination conducted by the Ministry of Rites, and that he would fulfil at least the basic requirements for the application to the Department of State Affairs or the Secretariat. 

The last duel among randomly chosen pairs was a prerequisite for a potential future appointment into higher offices. It was more of a quality evaluation of the scholar's character, behaviour and perseverance than of skills in combat. So even if he had taken out his opponent in the fight, the verdict might still be negative if the King was displeased by something he saw. Because this, the final test, was overseen by the King of the Northern Ocean himself. So Li Ming forced himself to stay still and upright, calm his racing heart and wait.

The King passed around the plaza in a gleaming black litter, stopping by each of the pairs of contestants. A servant called out the names of those who had been able to win the King’s approval. Those who had failed… well, they would answer to their families next.

As the convoy approached his corner, Li Ming was almost grateful for the opportunity to sink down on one knee, unsure how much longer his legs would have kept him upright otherwise. He bowed his head low and touched his fist to his left shoulder, suppressing a wince at the sharp pain from his wound. Behind him, his opponent had not moved from where he was slumped on the ground since the end of their fight. It was clear that, while he must still be alive, he had given up.

There was a pause, as the assistant stepped close to the opening between the curtains that covered the sides of the litter to receive the King’s instruction. Li Ming waited patiently, listening to the hammering of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Then, the servant stepped forward and announced in a loud, clear tone: “His Majesty the King of the Northern Ocean acknowledges the presented scholar Lord Li Ming, son of Lord Shantsu of the Yellow River family, student of pure rank.”

 Li Ming suppressed a shudder of relief at the words, and waited whether there would be any words for his fellow contestant. But the servant turned to move away again already. Out of the corner of his eye Li Ming noticed a brief movement. There was a sudden flash of brightness, as the sword swung up behind him. Li Ming instinctively jerked around, brought his hand up above the hilt and with one precise, clean strike of his uninjured hand, his opponent's head cracked sideways. With a clattering noise the sword fell from his slackened fingers as his body hit the icy ground.

It took Li Ming a second to realise what just happened and that he was standing in the middle of a small blizzard. He forced himself to focus and reign in his power, clenching his claws into fists. He looked down at the body in front of him. What a fool - even desperation could not account for such impertinence!

Then he remembered that he was still in the presence of the King. He whirled around, dropping back down on his knee and into a deep bow. The litter and the convoy of servants had come to a sudden halt. The assistant stepped close to the window again, listening intently for a short moment.

“You may rise,” he addressed Li Ming, his voice calm and indifferent. “Is there anything you have to say for yourself?”

Li Ming forced his legs to carry him again. His thoughts were racing. He had acted intuitively. Had he just lost the King’s approval, just a moment after it was announced? 

“Your Majesty, I beg you to forgive my improper behavior,” was all that he could muster.

Of course he had been in the presence of the King and other monarchs before, seen him at festivals and ceremonies, but he had never been so close to one of them, never in their direct regard.

The assistant looked back towards the litter. Li Ming felt a sudden urge to slightly lift his gaze, just for a brief look. The King’s face was completely hidden in the darkness inside the litter, but his eyes shone a gleaming red. There was a faint shimmer as he leaned closer to the window, and for a second Li Ming felt that their eyes met. A shock ran through him, as he sensed the King’s full, raw energy and quickly bowed his head again.

The servant stepped forward, and addressed Li Ming.

“His Majesty the King of the Northern Ocean acknowledges Lord Li Ming as a student of superior competence. You may inform your family that His Majesty has no complaint about your behavior.”

There was another flicker of red behind the curtains, before the litter went back into motion and the convoy moved on.

Li Ming stood frozen for a long moment. There seemed to be an emptiness in the air in front of him that the King’s presence had left behind, the atmosphere suddenly bland and less real without the sheer power that he radiated. Maybe one day, he thought, many decades in the future, he might be accomplished enough to serve the King, if he worked hard enough. And maybe he might get the chance to feel his personal regard again.

╳

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

NSFW Prompts

RULES: Must be sent through an ASK (I will not accept direct messages). Choose one (1) character and can go up to three (3) prompts (you can just drop the number, no need to write the sentences). I will mostly write for F!Reader / F!s/o, unless there is a way I can make it gender neutral. I MAY NOT ANSWER ALL ASKS - I will mostly do those that inspire me. So don’t worry if I don’t answer your ask. This is mostly just for fun 💜 I will accept asks up until a certain point, then I’ll close them in order to get working 👏 HERE WE GO!

“I love it when you moan my name”

“Just a little harder”

“Let me give you a reason to stay in bed”

“No panties?”

“I want you now”

“Use your tongue”

“Please don’t stop”

“I can’t sleep without you here”

“Do you like that”

“You need a place to stay for the night”

“Spend the night with me”

“You can get louder can’t you”

“Look what you do to me”

“I want to taste you”

“Open your mouth”

“If you want to come you better beg”

“That feels so good”

“Don’t cum yet”

“Strip. Now”

“Take off your clothes”

“Bite me” ”If you insist”

“Can you feel what your doing to me”

“This is a one time thing”

“Tell me how you like it”

“Get on your hands and knees, right now”

“I wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it”

“I just want to please you”

“Each of my thoughts about you are improper”

“I love it when you kiss my neck”

“Don’t be gentle”

“I’ve never want to fuck you more than I do now”

“You wanna have sex with me”

“You’re not going out dressed like that”

“I’m afraid I can no longer remain professional”

“Make me”

“You’re mine”

“I love it when you talk dirty

“I’ll let you do anything if you just touch me now”

“I’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly”

“Don’t give me that look”

“Like what you see”

“Stay quiet”

“I told you to stay still

“I promise I’ll be good”

“Just shut up and fuck me”

“You feels so good”

“I want you inside me”

“Be a good girl and spread your legs”

“Don’t worry I’ll take of you”

“Don’t tempt me”

“I’ve never done this before”

“Don’t be afraid it’s just me”

“You’re more than just a one night stand”

“Don’t forget who you belong to”

“Would you just shut up and kiss me already”

“Try to stay quiet understand?”

“We’re in public you know”

“Don’t be so rough there can’t be any marks”

“Are you sure? Once I start I don’t think I’m able to stop”

“No I’m supposed to make you feel good”

“Stop teasing me so much”

“Bed. Now”

“First one to make noises loses”

“I love the way you look with my fingers inside you”

“I guess I’ll just get off all by myself”

“These walls are pretty thick which means you and I can be as loud as we want”

“Did you touch your self while I was gone”

“Mine”

“We can’t do that here”

“Oh kitten don’t make me tell you twice”

“Behave”

“What did you just say”

“Come here”

“If you can’t sleep how about we have sex”

“If you interrupt me one more time— so help me god”

“Tell me what you want”

“Y-you’re not…. w-wearing anything under that are you”

“There is no way anyone is that innocent”

“You taste like fucking candy”

“The only way you’re getting off is on my thigh”

“You make a sound it’s game over”

“I haven’t even touched you and you’re already wet

“Were you just masturbating”

“Want help with that”

“You’re so fucking hot when you’re made”

“We’re not just friends you know that”

“What? Does that feel good”

“I’m not jealous! It’s just…. you’re mine

“If we get caught I’m blaming you”

“We have to be quiet”

“You have no idea how much i  want you

“If we weren’t in public right now I’d have my head between your legs”

“I’m going to fuck your so hard you’re going to forget that guys name”

“I really want to kiss you right now”

“Wanna fuck?”

“You’re not taking me to bed ever” “who says it has to be a bed”

“How do I look”

“If you don’t like my teasing why are you moaning”

“Don’t fucking touch what is not yours”

“We’re…. just friends”

“Friends don’t do this kind of shit”

“How quickly can you cum”

“Think you can warm me up”

“Touch me and you lose”

“There’s people here”

“I don’t care what you do just fuck me”

“Guess I’ll have to cum inside you then”

“I don’t know what to do” “Then let me teach you”

“We’ve been at it like rabbits and you’re still horny”

“Please remind me why we’re having sex behind a tree”

“If we get caught I’m killing you”

“Use you’re mouth”

“Show me”

“Come and sit on my face and I’ll show you how much I missed you”

“I forgot my towel”

“You’re naked aren’t you”

“Take it off slowly”

“Your wish is my command”

“Come to my room there’s this thing I wanna try”

“No one can ever find out about this”

“For your safety I’ll be gentle”

“Are this handcuffs”

“I don’t feel like sleeping”

“What are you going to do about it”

“You won’t be getting any sleep tonight”

“Why so shy?”

“Don’t worry I’ll make you feel really good”

“You’re the one who aroused me so let’s have some fun”

“Why don’t we move this to the bed”

“Would you like to go somewhere a little private”

“I know the fastest way to release anxiety”

“These are so wet aren’t you gong to remove them?”

“I was just about to wash up care to join”

“This feels dirty” “Thats because it is”

“You feel amazing”

“Fuck” “Already did”

“Don’t pretend to be so innocent”

“I want you to touch yourself”

“Just let yourself go”

“What has you so excited”

“I’d be more than happy to show you a good time if you’re looking for one”

“I want you….here…. right now”

“Bend over and spread your legs”

“I can’t hold back anymore”

“It’s been along day why don’t we help each other unwind”

“Do it like you always do”

“Oh don’t mind me I’m just enjoying the view”

“Your lips make me wonder what you taste like”

“I don’t like being told what to do unless I’m naked”

“You’re so sexy when you’re hot and bothered”

“I’ve been thinking about this night”

“Don’t cover you’re face, I want to see you”

“You’re so beautiful all spread out like this… just for me”

“Lay back”

“I bought a few pieces of lingerie. Want me to model for you?”

“I can’t believe how wet you are already”

[jowritesthingss]

of being known (and loved)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): LoSleep (Logic | Logan + Sleep | Remy)

Rating: Teen (for very mild swearing and innuendo)

Content Warning(s): Logan’s coming to terms with being quoiro, so there are very vague sexual mentions/innuendo, just FYI, but nothing graphic

Length: 4,539 words

Brief Summary: Part of the @sanderssides-secretsanta gift exchange! This is my gift as Secret Santa to the lovely @demigodbookdragon ! Features the requested prompt of Logan coming out to his partner(s) as ace and/or quoiromantic, as well as one of the requested pairings—LoSleep!

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

*

Logan Sanders. Logic to one Thomas Sanders, voice in his head and vision in his view, informing and (according to Roman) annoying twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year, so it goes. And yet.

Logan Sanders. Who is Logan Sanders, really?

If there exists anyone out there who knows the answer to this question, Logan would really like to know, because he himself isn’t quite certain. Logan Sanders. Logic. Voice of reason. The smart one. The nerd. And yet.

Who is Logan Sanders?

And who could ever truly know Logan Sanders, if he doesn’t even know himself?

-

Logan Sanders enjoys order. He likes to know where things begin and end, to keep neat and tidy and color within the lines. He likes to present a clean image, to stay organized and orderly and crisp and clean, even as the other sides grow chaotic and wild and confusing around him.

Logan enjoys the chaos now too, he thinks, in small, manageable doses. Certainly in Remy-sized doses.

-

The other sides are...nice.

They’ve long since reached a point of not-quite-resolution, of almost-understanding, of mutual cooperation. And Logan is...he’s working through some things. But then again, so are the others.

They all slip, certainly—himself included—and there’s a long way for them to go yet. But the sides have the rest of Thomas’ life ahead to get there, and they have each other to metaphorically (and occasionally literally) lean on.

All the same, it’s just easier to talk to Remy, sometimes.

Technically, as Sleep, Remy isn’t actually one of the sides. He’s somehow still there inside the Mindscape, and no one is particularly sure why.

Remy simply appeared one day out of nowhere, scaring a young Virgil to the point that he refused to come down off the fridge for hours. He was known only as his function—“Sleep”—for a period of time before deciding out of the blue that his name would be Remy.

Logan has been puzzling this occurrence over for decades, but has long since given up, acknowledging that it will likely forever remain a mystery, just like what it is, precisely, that exists at the bottom of the ocean. (Further, the existence of any of them is very much in defiance of any science Logan has ever heard of, really, so he isn’t exactly one that can judge.)

Remy is a bit of a metaphorical wild card. He goes where he wishes, does what he wants. He’ll disappear for weeks on end, follow them around nonstop for days...he goes on ridiculous coffee binges before swearing Starbucks refreshers are the only “valid” drink...he lures Thomas into napping on the couch but refuses to cooperate at bedtime...Logan isn’t entirely sure why Remy does what he does beyond simple whimsy, and it puzzles him incessantly.

However much Remy’s behavior might confuse him, it’s...actually quite pleasant to have him around. Random disruptions and interruptions generally are not something that Logan delights in, but aside from Janus, Remy is the only other side with an appreciation for sarcasm, and his presence as Logan works is...enjoyable tolerable.

Then there is the veritable fact that, unlike the others, Remy always listens to Logan.

Logan knows that the others mean well. And they do—they have since assured him that they truly do. But they get so carried away in their excitement sometimes that having someone a bit more grounded like Remy around to converse with is nice. And in turn, Logan always makes sure to listen to Remy. As loath as he is to admit possession of any “feelings”, he knows how it can feel to be ignored.

One of Remy’s favorite things to discuss is Mindscape gossip. Logan doesn’t understand the appeal of gossip, but he’s sure that Remy doesn’t understand the appeal of the history of the telescope, either, so he listens.

Today, the “hot” topic seems to be Patton and Remus. Or, rather—the relationship between Patton and Remus.

“I’m not kidding you, gurl!” Remy flops backwards in Logan’s bed. Logan refrains from telling him not to muss up the carefully-made bed; it hasn’t worked the past forty-seven times he’s asked, and he doubts it would work today. “I legit walked in on them when I came home last night.”

“You ‘walked in on them’?” Logan asks neutrally from his desk, fondly brushing aside Remy’s improper usage of ‘legit’. He turns the page, looks at Thomas’ schedule for January, winces. Double-booked on January eighth, and in the middle of a pandemic, of all things? How ever did he allow that to slip past him? “Doing what, exactly?”

“They weren’t doing the do, if that’s what you’re asking about,” Remy responds.

“‘The do’,” Logan quotes, puzzled momentarily before the realization hits him. “Oh, you mean intercourse, don’t you?” He pauses in his work to make a note in the margins about updating his vocabulary cards.

“Duh.” Remy pauses to roll over and sip at his drink. He’s on one of his tea detoxes; Logan predicts it won’t last more than a few days this time. “But they were, like, snuggling. On the couch. And watching a romantic movie.”

That makes Logan pause. “Remus, watching a romantic movie?” He pauses and glances over at Remy briefly before continuing to write again. “That does seem a fair amount out of character.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Remy exclaims. “Remus wouldn’t subject himself to something like that willingly. No way. That’s why I think they’re dating.”

“Mm-hmm,” Logan agrees absent-mindedly as the events of January twenty-first catch his attention. Then he pauses. Computes.

Logan abruptly drops his pen and swivels around in his chair. “Apologies. Did I hear you correctly, Remy? You believe Patton and Remus are,” he struggles to get the word out momentarily, “are dating?”

“Yeppers!” Remy nods. He slurps noisily at his tea before popping it back on Logan’s bedside table. Rolling to hang his torso upside down off the side of Logan’s bed, he says, “it’s not the first time I’ve seen anything hinting at those two throwing goo-goo eyes at each other, but that pretty much cements it in my mind.”

“‘Goo-goo eyes’?” Logan frowns as the realization further sinks in. Dating. Patton and Remus. Dating? “Wait, am I to understand that sides can date?”

“Like, of course.” Remy’s face is starting to go red as blood rushes down to it. “Did you miss that whole awkward fling between snakeyboi and prissy mister prince back in college? God, seeing them interacting for the first time in years was so awkward.” He snickers loudly. “Glad they didn’t call me to the stand back during that whole dumb courtroom thing.”

“I...no, I don’t have any recollection of any such thing,” Logan murmurs. He briefly wracks his memories, blue pen scratching crisply against the page in front of him, and comes up empty.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s probably a good thing, babe.” Remy slides off the bed and onto the floor then, hissing as blood starts to rush away from his head again. “Honestly, whole thing was a train wreck to watch. Patton and Remus are pretty cute, though. I guess opposites really do attract, huh?”

“Ah...yes, I suppose so,” Logan murmurs, but as Remy launches into a play-by-play detailing the embarrassment on Remus’ face and Patton’s sheer terror at being the one busted for once, he’s already tuning the other out.

Dating. The other sides date. Which means, of course, that they...feel things. Well—yes, the sides are capable of individual emotions. That has been established prior, Logan knows. But this means that they feel love things.

Sides can feel love?

That question, however, goes unasked and unanswered, as Remy drones on about how flustered Remus had been when he was caught being “lovey-dovey” and Logan’s schedule blurs out in front of his face.

Unasked. Unanswered. Yet still it lingers in the back of Logan’s mind as he finally convinces Remy to let them sleep for the night, as he lies awake in bed staring at the blinking red numbers of his alarm clock:

Sides can feel love?

-

Logan Sanders enjoys understanding. He loves learning—loves looking up to the stars, down at the ground, in front at the path ahead of them all, even back at where they’ve come from sometimes. He loves to be known to know. Yes, Logan Sanders likes understanding.

This entire debacle, however? Logan does not understand.

-

Can the sides feel love?

The question follows Logan for weeks as he goes about his days, carefully maintaining Thomas’ schedule and gently bullying the other sides into doing their tasks and taking care of themselves. He refuses to let it interfere with his job, but in the moments he pauses to take a breath, the question is there to steal his breath away again.

Love. Love, love, love. The one thing Logan absolutely loathes—or, if he were to be honest with himself (and as much as he hates the truth, he tries to avoid the practice of denying truth), the one thing that Logan is absolutely terrified of.

He’s known for a while that the others love him, and that he (fortunate or unfortunate as it may be) does love the others in his own way. But that’s easy, and it’s obvious. It’s a purely familial thing—or so Logan had thought.

Then Patton calls a family meeting and awkwardly informs them that he and Remus are an item now. And Roman is groaning over-exaggeratedly, Virgil is hissing, Janus seems all too unsurprised, Remy is gleefully vindicated, Emile looks away while Remus licks Patton’s cheek for all to see, and Logan?

Logan has his answer.

So the other sides—or, at least, some of them—do, in fact, experience some sort of romantic or sexual connection to others. So the sides can feel love, then.

Only—what about Logan? What does he...what does he feel?

Logan metaphorically looks into himself. He isn’t sure what he (again, metaphorically) finds.

As much as he might struggle to understand figurative language, Logan isn’t completely unaware of it. To make full usage of such metaphors, it all seems a confusing jumble of darkness and confusion and occasional swirls of odd colors.

What are those sorts of attraction even supposed to feel like? he puzzles as he sits on the couch beside Patton and Remus, a thick tome about astronomy perched in his lap as he takes in exactly none of the words on the page it’s opened to. He’s always assumed that, as sides, they wouldn’t feel such human emotions, or then again, as Thomas’ sides they would echo his sexual orientation.

But Logan...Logan feels...nothing. Right?

Or, well. Patton and Roman have been very adamant about how love comes in all different forms, and it makes logical sense. Familial love, romantic, platonic, and so the list goes on. And there’s no use in denying that Logan certainly feels things. Logan can’t always recognize it, but he’s trying now. He’s trying to figure it out.

All the same, he still hasn’t felt anything in particular towards Thomas’ past relations—not any love-related feelings, at least—but then again, they were Thomas’ partners, not his own. Logan has never himself felt anything. He feels nothing.

Or does he?

There is something that he feels in there, Logan knows. He knows he loves the others platonically, regardless of how little he says it aloud. And then there’s Remy, of course.

Goodness, Remy. Reluctant as he may be to admit it aloud or even to himself, Logan knows he loves Remy, with his smirk and his snark and his ridiculous leather jacket and his odd yet enlightening ways of using modern slang.

So Logan does love. Somehow. In some way. But he’s never thought to feel anything romantic; can he feel anything romantic? Will he even know when he feels it?

And there’s a lurking thought—likely irrational, Logan reasons, even as his mind tries to convince him otherwise—what even is the purpose of feeling anything romantic? What is the point? Logan steers clear of Roman’s romance novels, but he picks up tidbits from everything Thomas reads. Is there any use of potentially-romantic feelings?

It might be nice, he thinks as Remus drags Patton into the kitchen to bake something that will probably not end up edible. Romantic relations are often the pinnacle of any and all relationships in the eyes of society, for one thing. And while the amount of closeness and understanding conveyed between partners seems daunting, it seems as though it could be somewhat relieving as well.

But Logan’s views on romance mean very little if he has never felt anything of the romantic sort, do they?

Sighing, Logan abruptly shuts his book and stands to walk upstairs to his room. At this point the only thing he’s doing is confusing himself, and that won’t do him any good.

All the same, still the thoughts linger, even as he forces himself into more actively productive tasks for the rest of the day.

Logan feels nothing. Or he feels something. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t enjoy not knowing.

-

Logan enjoys simplicity and complexity in equal measure. He takes pleasure in the simplicity of a black coffee every morning and a honeyed chamomile tea before bed—in the complexity of a full, well-organized schedule or an alluring mystery novel.

Love, for all it ought be simple, is a complexity that Logan has always struggled to understand in any and all forms. And to his utter chagrin, it seems romanticism and sexuality are no different.

-

It all comes to a head one dreary, drizzly afternoon in the Mindscape. (Logan wishes the “drizzly” part weren’t literal, but alas, Roman and Remus’ experimentation in the Imagination went wrong somehow, and now tiny rain clouds hover above every single room and hallway in the Mindscape.)

All things considered, it hasn’t been a great day for productivity—which means that it of course hasn’t been a great day for Logan, either.

Stress has been piling up from internal emotional struggles alongside external scheduling issues. It is to the point that Logan—and he isn’t a fan of flowery metaphors and figurative language—all Logan can think to do is compare the roiling in his mind to a brewing storm, rain falling within his mind as it pours down and soaks his clothing and skin within the Mindscape.

Logan is pacing about his room—doing his best to “wear a path into the floor”, he thinks the saying goes—when Remy bursts in, dressed in an obnoxiously pink raincoat and squeaky polka dot rain boots.

“Oh, thank god. Sanctuary.” Remy very nearly throws himself onto Logan’s canopy bed upon noticing that it is miraculously still dry. The tarpaulin Logan and Virgil wrangled up over it earlier is somehow still holding up; Logan has no idea how and isn’t in the mood to question a spot of good luck.

“Aight, who pissed Roman off this time?” Remy asks

“Surprisingly enough, no one,” Logan answers before realizing that Remy is dripping all over his bed wet. “Please take care to dry yourself off before getting on my bed.”

Remy huffs but complies, unceremoniously stripping off his outer garments. He wriggles his eyebrows at Logan while he tosses his boots over the side of the bed. “Damn. If you wanted me to undress, all you had to do is ask, babe.”

“I—um,” Logan says eloquently. He awkwardly pauses mid-pace before jerkily continuing a moment later. Remy says things like that all the time. Is Remy flirting? Is he not? Does he mean it? Does he not? Logan wants to know, but one isn’t supposed to just flat-out ask these sorts of questions, are they?

“Why don’t you join me where it’s dry, gurl?” Remy scoots over and pats the spot next to him. “C’mon. I’ll even, like, move over and give you some room. So gracious of me, right?”

The corners of Logan’s mouth unconsciously quirk slightly upwards, and he ceases pacing to head over to the bed.

“Uh-uh, gurl,” Remy shoos him away, and Logan’s eyebrows furrow in puzzlement. Had he not just said—

“Strip,” Remy says, and Logan’s mind goes blank in a momentary haze of confusion and panic.

“I—what,” he stammers, and his head feels light and fuzzy.

Remy sees the look of panic in his eyes, and his expression softens slightly. “Logan. If I can’t be wet on the bed, neither can you, babe.”

“Ah,” Logan says faintly. He moves over towards his wardrobe and almost mechanically pulls out a pair of his pajamas. He manages to get them out and over to the bed before they get too wet, where he sits on the edge and quickly shucks off his usual day attire of jeans, a collared shirt, and a crisp and calming blue necktie.

Logan keeps his back carefully turned as he changes. It’s ridiculous that such a thing feels odd now; they all are roughly the same physically, and it isn’t as though they haven’t changed in front of each other multiple times. But all the same, something still feels off this time.

Clothed in pajamas, Logan debates attempting to get his sopping day clothes into the laundry hamper, looks up at the gray little clouds still crowding the ceiling, gives up. He leaves them in a little dripping pile on the floor by his bed before turning to crawl up to the headboard where Remy lounges, leaving a tiny space on the left side of the bed for Logan to weasel his way into.

“Don’t be shy, gurl. We can huddle for warmth and all that jazz.” Remy holds out his arms invitingly, and it takes a moment before it registers in Logan’s mind that he’s offering a hug. “Unless you don’t want to, ’course.”

“I don’t think—” Logan starts before cutting himself off abruptly. He pauses, sucks in a tiny breath. “I do not think I am amenable to a hug at the moment.”

“That’s chill,” Remy assures. He adjusts his position on the bed, allowing Logan space to sit comfortably without touching him. Then he reaches up and drags his sunglasses down off his face, looking carefully at Logan with a searching gaze. “Hey. You good? You’ve been acting a little weird lately, but you’re, like, especially weird today.”

Ever the teacher, ever the educator, ever the answerer of questions, Logan wants to answer. He does. He just isn’t sure that he should.

Logan quietly sits and gets himself comfortable (“criss cross applesauce”, he’s never been able to quite break the silly elementary school habit). Then....

“I am...confused, I supposed,” he finally admits, and for a five word sentence, it is surprisingly difficult to get the words out. But Remy always listens. He’ll listen now—when it matters—correct?

“What about?” Remy asks, leaning back against the headboard and popping his sunglasses back on again, masking his expression.

“I—are you flirting with me?” Logan bursts out abruptly. To hell with his uncertainties—he has to know. He’s itching, twitching to know, to understand. “Have you—is that what this is? Is that why you’re always ‘hanging’ with me?”

“Is that what this has been about?” Remy laughs, but it isn’t malicious, Logan doesn’t think. “About time, TBH. I thought you’d never notice”

“I didn’t notice,” Logan says. “Well—I did notice, eventually, but I didn’t...I don’t—”

“Look, if you don’t feel the same way, that’s...fine,” Remy says, and his voice sounds different, devoid of his usual mischievous tone. Somber, almost. “It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to, babe. I do, like, genuinely just enjoy being around you, you know?”

“But why?” Logan asks, and something in his voice cracks. Inwardly he curses, hoping that Remy won’t here.

“There’s something bigger going on here, isn’t there?” Remy shifts next to him in the bed, and suddenly he’s leaning closer to Logan. The sunglasses are off again, and Remy stares into Logan’s wide eyes with that more solemn expression again.

“I don’t—” Logan cuts himself off again. He looks up towards the tarp hanging from the corners of his four-poster bed, attempting to organize his thoughts the best he can before speaking this time. It proves to be a difficult task; his thoughts are all jumbled and clumped together in a hopelessly confused mess. He just doesn’t understand. Logan likes to understand, but for once he doesn’t. Emotions have never been his strong suit, and these emotions are proving stubbornly elusive.

Logan clears his throat before speaking next. “Up until you brought up the relationship between Remus and Patton, I had never realized that we as sides could feel romantic or sexual attraction independent of Thomas,” he explains. Unconsciously his left hand goes up to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “It had...never occurred to me.”

“Oh.”

Logan waits for Remy to continue even as he stolidly refuses to turn and look at the other. When Remy says nothing else, he haltingly continues.

“As you and the others no doubt know, I often struggle at identifying emotions,” Logan continues. “Now that I am aware the others have a capacity for other attractions, I have attempted to find them within myself, and I...can’t seem to find them.”

“So you’re aromantic then?” Remy asks, his voice sounding neutral.

“No!” Logan rushes out before pausing. “I, ah. Perhaps? I’m afraid that I don’t know. I do not know what it is that I am feeling.”

“But you feel something.”

“Yes, I....” Logan finally finds it within himself to turn and face Remy. “I do indeed feel something. I feel many somethings. Towards you. But I’m afraid I don’t know what it is, and that...” he swallows, “...that isn’t fair to you.”

Remy is silent, his face impassive, and immediately Logan worries that he’s ruined everything about their relationship, whatever it is, whatever it may be.

Over the years Logan has grown to quite enjoy the lack of pressure and expectancy between the two of them whenever they spend time together, and the snarky conversation between the two of them has been quite refreshing. Not to mention the rare occasions that they do actually touch, or converse more seriously. Is he about to lose all that? Has Logan ruined all of that?

“...Do you think that you might be, like, quoiromantic or something?” Remy asks slowly.

Logan blinks confusedly behind his glasses. “I’m sorry?”

“Quoiromantic. It’s under the aromantic umbrella,” Remy explains. He frowns, tapping a finger over his lips contemplatively. “Hmm. Roman might be better at explaining this, since he’s actually aro. I’m demisexual, but I’ll admit I don’t know as much about the aromantic spectrum as maybe I should.”

“Quoiromantic,” Logan sounds out. “What does that terminology mean, exactly?”

“It’s like....” Remy frowns. “Mm. It’s like, you don’t really know how to tell the difference between romantic and platonic feelings, I think. You’ll wanna double check with Roman on that though, babe.”

“I...yes. That...does sound accurate,” Logan realizes aloud. “Quoiromantic.”

It’s like a metaphorical puzzle piece clicking into place inside his brain. Quoiromantic. Not being able to distinguish between romantic and platonic feelings...that certainly sounds a lot like what Logan has been puzzling over for the past few weeks.

“Quoiromantic,” Logan tests the word. “I would need to perform more extensive research, and perhaps examine my...emotions more before I can arrive at a proper conclusion, but...yes, that sounds...correct. That sounds....”

Good. It sounds good.

However.

Ice prickles through Logan again. He looks back at Remy. “But what would all of this mean in regard to the two of us and our relations?”

“What do you want it to mean?” Remy asks simply.

There comes the darkness again, rushing, followed by swirled colors of confusion.

“I...still don’t know,” Logan admits.

“That’s fine.” Remy shrugs. He looks at Logan, and with his sunglasses still off, Logan can see the earnestness and—fondness, is that fondness—in his bright brown eyes. “We can figure it out as we go. D’you wanna just, like, keep chilling like we’ve been doing?”

Logan licks his lips, adjusts his glasses again even though he really doesn’t need to. “...Maybe with some more hugs now?” he cautiously requests. “And with, ah...I believe it is called ‘cuddling’?”

“Lit. I’m down if you are.” Remy grins, flings himself back and out on the bed, looking not unlike a starfish as he does so. “Get in here then, babe. Can I still call you babe?”

Logan waits until he’s nestled into Remy’s side to respond. “Certainly,” he murmurs into Remy’s side, and Remy hugs him tighter. And goodness, it’s so warm and nice there on the bed with Remy that he can’t help but wonder why they hadn’t done this much sooner.

So warm and nice...that is, until the tarpaulin laden down with rainwater above his bed finally gives in to the weight.

The thing splashes down on the two of them, soaking them and causing a shrieking Remy to drag Logan out of the room in search of an umbrella and a dry towel. Even then it is still kind of nice, if a bit soggy and much colder, and Logan has to bite back a smile as Remy curses and leads him to go tell off Roman and Remus...holding Logan’s hand all the while.

And perhaps...perhaps Logan doesn’t exactly know how he feels on a larger scale. But he knows how he feels in the given moment—content. And that’s all he needs to know for now.

-

Logan Sanders enjoys solitude plenty, but he has more recently discovered enjoyment for the company of the others as well. All things considered, all confusions included, he enjoys it. He loves quiet nights of coexistence, and maybe he loves Remy romantically. Or maybe he doesn’t. He’s not quite sure, but he doesn’t need to be—not yet, perhaps not ever, even. They’ll work it out.

Most importantly, he thinks, Logan Sanders enjoys the company of himself, whoever “himself” might be or become.

-

Logan Sanders. Logic to one Thomas Sanders, voice in his head and vision in his view, informing and (according to Roman) annoying twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year, so it goes. And yet.

Logan Sanders. Who is Logan Sanders, really?

If there exists anyone out there who knows the answer to this question, Logan still would like to know, because he still isn’t quite certain. Logan Sanders. Logic. Voice of reason. The smart one. The nerd. And yet.

Who is Logan Sanders?

Well. He is himself. Regardless of who or how he loves, Logan is himself. He is known, he is loved, he is himself. And he has his network of fellow sides and of Thomas and of Remy to help him, to know him, as he learns and knows and understands understands more about who Logan Sanders really is.

It’s a journey he’ll enjoy not being alone for.

Fin

*

Happy belated holidays! I decided to try participating in two Sanders Sides Secret Santa fic exchanges this year, and this is the product of the first of the two. I am SO thrilled to reveal myself as Avie’s Secret Santa! I hope that everyone enjoys this fic—especially you, Avie! <3 Goodness knows I had fun getting to write it for you :D

Want to be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

[joezworld]

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Next from the mind of Joe - a Sudrian tale about The Most Wonderful Time of The Year, Past and Present.

Ghosts of the Past 

Wendell the works diesel was a very happy engine most of the time, but around Christmas, he always seemed... well, quite unhappy, for lack of a better term. 

Because he lived in the Crovan’s Gate Works, which shut down for the last two weeks of December except in emergencies, most engines never saw this side of the otherwise cheerful blue diesel, and those that did assumed that it was due to him being shut up in the works over the holidays, away from his friends. 

December 24, 2019

Gordon sighed as the workmen rolled the door shut behind them. Of all the days to fail! He thought to himself with irritation. Christmas Eve! Damn that replacement fireman and his improper training! I shall miss Christmas and New Year’s!

A quiet snore behind him brought him out of his ruminations. Wendell was fast asleep behind him, lifted into the air on jackstands in one of the maintenance bays, with one of his traction motors in pieces around him. 

Gordon was surprised. Wendell had the same excitable temperament as Thomas and James, and Gordon would have assumed that the works diesel would be up until the crack of dawn, waiting for Father Christmas. To see him asleep before eight at night was out of character, to say the least. 

Although, the express engine thought as he settled in for the night, he might be onto something. 

The works were warm - almost toasty when compared to the biting December winds outside, and the excess holiday traffic had meant that all the engines on the Island were feeling exhausted by the 25th. 

Furthermore, with no other engines to keep him awake by asking inane questions about ‘what Father Christmas might bring’, Gordon might actually wake up decently rested on Christmas morning, and wouldn’t that be a miracle?

Electing to follow Wendell’s lead, Gordon shut his eyes, and quickly fell asleep. 

-

Have yourself, a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. From now on, all our troubles will be out of sight...

Gordon stumbled back to wakefulness to the sounds of singing. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes, he looked around the works in confusion. 

It was still dark outside, and a digital time clock by the break room showed 23:38 on its face. He hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours. 

Searching for the source of the singing, his eyes eventually landed on Wendell, who was slowly singing an old carol to himself. 

“It’s a bit early for singing, isn’t it?” He called across the room jovially - there was no need to be rude so close to Christmas. “We’ve still got half an hour!” 

Wendell started, clearly unaware that Gordon was awake. “What?” 

“It’s a bit early to be singing, Christmas isn’t for a half hour!” 

“Oh.” The diesel said morosely. “I suppose it is.” 

That was not the reaction Gordon expected.   “You suppose it is? Wendell, it’s Christmas Eve - a time for good cheer and goodwill among us all! How can you be so glum?”

“I don’t like Christmas.” The class 47 said simply. 

“What?” Gordon said with faux outrage. "What did the holiday ever do to you? Did you get coal in your stocking?”

“I have bad memories of Christmases past, okay?” Wendell snapped, sucking the levity out of the room.  

Gordon’s face fell. “My apologies.” He’d thought that the diesel was being difficult, not having an actual emotional event. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No,” Wendell looked pained. “But staying silent hasn’t helped either.”

Without waiting for Gordon to respond, he began his story:

December 24, 1981.

They retired the Deltics at the end of ‘81. All through December and November, they’d run them ‘til they failed, then sent them off to Doncaster to be cut up. I think the ones that survived were retired in January or something - I wasn’t around to find out. 

I was waiting, at York, I think it was? - No, it was actually Doncaster, I remember now. 

Anyways, I was waiting - I’d brought in a fast goods up to this yard from London, and I was going to take a rake of old coaches that were being transferred to a new Depot to the west.

The coaches were coming in on the night express, and it was getting later and later and still the train didn’t come. The men were readying me to go out and rescue the train when it finally limped into sight. It was a Deltic, being towed along by a Class 37. The poor thing had failed halfway out of London, and they’d just hauled it along with the train, because they sent the 55s to Doncaster anyway when the end came. 

And they just dumped the train there on a bay platform - backed the consist in so the 37 could be taken off, and then just left it there. 

“That’s terrible,” Gordon said. “To be left like that. Especially on Christmas Eve.”

Oh yes. And it managed to get worse: it was so late by the time that they got in that my crew had gone home! So I was just left there on a siding until boxing day, right across from the Deltic - who had blocked in my coaches too! 

And,

and,

And she doesn’t say a word for almost the entire day after her crew left her. She said goodbye to them, wished them a Merry Christmas - which I am still shocked by to this day - that she was able to do that without crying, and then said nothing all night or the next day - Christmas day. 

Wendell paused to collect himself. Gordon noticed, but didn’t say anything about the tears beading up in the diesel engine’s eyes.

She was totally silent, until maybe a bit after eleven that night? Probably right about what time it is now, actually. And, there was a family, who was walking home from some party - and they had a radio on as they were walking by the station, and all you could hear in the bleak, snow-covered station was the Sinatra version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. 

And then, the Deltic - who hasn’t said a word to me all day, just slowly opens her eyes and says “I love that song”, and then just closes her eyes again. 

*sniff*

The next day, my driver had me pull the Deltic to the out of use line before we took the coaches. 

I pushed her in between three rows of her sisters and brothers, all covered with snow and ready to be cut up, and then backed away. Just before I’m out of sight, she opens her eyes, and starts singing that damn song to me. 

it

It

*sniff*

It echoed through the yard, and I could hear it until we left. I think a few of the other Deltics started too. 

They had beautiful singing voices.  

-

2019

“It wasn’t your fault, Wendell.” Gordon wished that he could offer more comfort than that. 

“I know.” Wendell said after a moment. “That’s not why I hate this time of year.”

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Then what is?”

“It’s that I could have done more.” Wendell said, tears streaming silently down his face. “We - we were running late as it is - my engine was cold and wouldn’t turn over. My second man and the signalman just wanted me to take the Deltic with me so I wouldn’t miss my path - and then stick her on the back of the next goods train to Doncaster when I got to wherever I was going.”

He paused, his voice thick with guilt. “But, I had just spent two days next to this - this- this living corpse, and I didn’t want to be that close to her for that long. And I didn’t know any better - I was fourteen years old at that point - BR could do no wrong in my eyes, and if they wanted me to shunt that engine to the out of use lines, then shunt her I would. So when my driver said that my second man was daft, and the signalman was dafter - I - i - I didn’t argue.” 

“Wendell -” Gordon began. 

“I’m not finished.” The diesel cut him off. “Don’t offer me sympathy just yet.”

He continued. “And I didn’t want her with me, because I didn’t know where I was going! It was some obscure coach depot that I’d never heard of before - what kind of a name is Tidmouth, anyways?.” 

The penny dropped in Gordon’s mind. “You didn’t come to Sodor in January of ‘82, did you?” 

“December 31, 1981.” Wendell said sadly. “I came here on an empty stock move and got asked to stay forever, because The Fat Controller thought I looked like a useful engine. Imagine what he would have done if I’d dragged a wounded Deltic along with me?”

He would have kept the both of you and told BR to go hang. Gordon didn’t need to vocalize that thought - he could see in Wendell’s eyes that he was thinking the same thing. 

There was a small *chime* from the digital clock on the wall - it’s red numerals now read 00:00. 

“Would you look at that,” Said Wendell bitterly. “Happy Christmas, Gordon. Did you ask Father Christmas for anything?”

“Not this year, no.”

“Maybe it’s for the best - he never gives me anything either.”

“What do you ask for?”

“The chance to do it all over again. To agree with my second man and the signalman.”

“Wendell, as crass as this may sound, but perhaps you need to move-”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Wendell looked pained. “For most of the year, my troubles are miles away, and my heart is light.

But for right now Gordon, please don’t ask me to have myself a merry little Christmas night.” With that, the Works Diesel closed his eyes and fell asleep. 

Gordon - more than a little stunned by the night’s developments, took quite a bit longer to fall asleep - the digits on the clock reading 02:10 before he began to nod off. 

His last thoughts before he finally went to sleep were directed at Father Christmas: 

I don’t know if you’re real, and I don’t know if you can do what the children claim that you can - but please help Wendell.

-------

December 26, 1981

55 010 was barely conscious. There didn’t seem much point to it now - she’d meet her end whether she was awake or asleep, wouldn’t she? 

The 47 had shoved her into the sidings between Ballymoss and Highlander, but they were long gone mentally. A few of her family had been able to join in the singing, but most were nothing more than cold, dead metal. 

She supposed that she might have had a name once, but she'd forgotten it - BR had taken away everything else, so it was only fair that she got to take something as well. 

The yard was silent for a few hours, until an engine approached from the end of the line. It looked like the same 47.

--

Wendell was having the dream again. He was back in the dead lines at Doncaster, rolling among the silent locomotives like a spectre. He knew where he would eventually end up, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it - right in front of 55 010. 

If he was lucky, she wouldn’t start singing again. 

If he wasn’t, well, Gordon had already seen him cry once tonight. 

He rolled over the points at the end of the siding, his wheels screeching against the old rails as he trundled down the long line of dead Deltics - somehow there had been two long rows with an empty line in the middle - perfect for a long and heart-wrenching approach to a diesel that he’d condemned to death.

The engine’s eyes opened slightly as he drew near. 

“Weren’t you just here?” She said dreamily.

“Probably.” He whispered - she’d never spoken to him before. 

“Why have you come back?” Her voice drove into him like a cutter’s torch. That she didn’t even seem accusatory made it all the worse. 

“Because I’m sorry.” He said, voice barely audible. 

“Whatever for?” 

“For putting you here.” He didn’t stop rolling until his buffers were fractions of an inch away from hers. 

“You didn’t do that. I failed. I know why I’m here.”

“But I did. I could have taken you - taken you away from here. To Sodor. They would have saved you.” He was openly sobbing now.

The Deltic had opened her eyes fully, and was looking at him not with anger, hatred, or even pity, but instead downright bafflement. “What do you mean ‘would have’? I’m not going anywhere.”

Wendell tried to explain - to tell her that she was a figment of his imagination, that she should hate him, or be angry, or something...Anything...

But instead he broke down crying, his sobs echoing across the works yard. 

-

010 stared at the 47 in total confusion. Nothing about the last few minutes made any sense, least of all the grief(?)-stricken engine in front of her. 

At a total loss for what to do, she remembered something that Alycidon would do when someone in the shed needed to be calmed down. 

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Alycidon might have used Vera Lynn, but had always stressed that the emotion of the song was more important than the lyrics. 010 sang the song low and slow like a lullaby - cribbed from seeing hundreds of mothers calming their babies on station platforms. Each verse took much longer than normal, but it was very soothing. 

Let your heart be light

The 47 began mumbling the lyrics of the songs through his tears

From now on, all our troubles will be out of sight

Neither engine noticed the sparkling white mist pooling around their wheels

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

The 47 stopped openly weeping, but kept singing with his eyes shut.

Make the yule-tide gay

The sparkling mist was now encircling both engines completely. 

From now on, our troubles will be miles away...

The mist covered both engines entirely. As the word ‘away’ faded in the wind, the mist dissipated. Neither engine remained. 

Silence fell over Doncaster once more. 

-----

December 25, 2019

Here were are as in olden days

Gordon awoke to more singing. He mentally groaned and cracked an eye open, assuming that Wendell would once again need a friendly ear in the middle of the night. 

Happy golden days of yore

Sunlight was streaming in through the windows. Perhaps Wendell had managed to sleep through the night. 

Faithful friends who are dear to us

Gordon’s other eye slammed open as he realized that the singer was female. 

“Gather near to us onc-What on earth?!” The singer abruptly stopped singing. 

Gordon looked around wildly for the source of the voice, his eyes practically spinning around in their sockets before landing on -

on-

on- a Deltic. 

A Deltic who had been singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. 

“Excuse me,” he said in what he hoped was a calm tone. “But who are you?”

The Deltic opened her mouth to speak, and was cut off by Wendell, who had opened both of his eyes, realized that he was back in the works, discovered who was in the works with him, and began screaming so loudly that he fell off of the jack stands and crashed to the floor. 

The resulting clamour brought the Works’ security officer, who saw the engine that hadn’t been there last night, and called The Fat Controller. 

--

Stephen Hatt was experiencing many different emotions, most of them at the same time. 

The baffling appearance of previously-scrapped Deltic in his works - in factory fresh condition no less! - with no sign of how she got there, was not how he wanted to spend Christmas morning. 

Even more baffling was the story that Wendell, Gordon and the Deltic told him - none of which made any sense whatsoever. 

“Maybe it’s a Christmas Miracle?” His wife suggested over the phone. 

“Yes, and maybe I’m secretly the Easter Bunny.” He said back to her. “I’m not looking forward to finding out who this engine belongs to.”

“You can do that after Christmas dinner, dear.” Helen said in a tone that meant there would be repercussions if he wasn’t home ASAP. 

Hanging up the phone, he took another look towards the Deltic. Something was wrapped around its buffer...

Upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be an elegant piece of red silk, tied into a bow, and a note. 

The note was done on heavy, cream coloured paper, and the text seemed to have been done with an old fashioned dip pen. 

Dear Wendell,

I apologize for the late delivery of your present, but I hope you understand that some presents require more work than others. Hopefully this will ease your slumber. 

Santa Claus. 

Stephen goggled at the note for a moment, before reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone so he could take a picture. His fingers didn’t close around his phone, instead grasping a small round object. 

Pulling it out of his pocket, he was shocked to see that he was holding a small, but beautifully decorated Easter Egg. 

[fleckcmscott]

The Vanity

Summary: Arthur tries to get ready for work. Y/N joins him.

Warnings: Smut, swearing

Words: 3,774

A/N: This request comes from the marvelous brain of @ithinkimawriter. Again, thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for beta-reading!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

After he started street performing and getting gigs again, Arthur found he needed a better place to put his supplies for work. The two small shelves in the bathroom were already covered by his and Y/N's toiletries, so they didn't fit there. He'd been keeping it all in a plastic bag in the closet, but that wasn't ideal. The enclosed space had a tendency to get too hot due to how the heat worked in the apartment, which made his make-up dry out. And the brushes were getting damaged because of improper storage.

Having to borrow money from her wasn't the only reason he was hesitant to mention he would prefer a vanity. Y/N would often sit on the closed lid of the toilet, watching him lean over the sink while he applied greasepaint to his face. If he had his own work area, he assumed she'd probably hold back from him when he was in it, like she did when he was in his writing nook. It was one of the ways she showed him respect. But he loved her keeping him company when he'd get in costume, how they would discuss the day and plan for the evening.

She'd begun asking more about his job, seeming to be genuinely interested in it. They were simple questions: how long he'd been a clown ("About ten years. Maybe twelve?"); what he liked best about it ("Every day is different. And making kids laugh."); and what the hardest part was. He pondered on what answer he could give, one that was accurate, but wouldn't cause her concern. He hadn't wanted to tell her he still had to deal with mean people (though incidents were seldom and he was better at handling them). If he did that, she'd probably insist on riding with him, despite his reassurances he could take care of himself. "The commute can be rough," he'd admitted. Then he'd bent down to her and tapped her nose lightly with the tip of his brush. "It's good knowing I have you to come home to." Her wide smile and gleaming squint had been full of adoration, in spite of her reaching for a tissue to wipe her face.

Eventually he told her, though. "There's a cosmetic table at Donahue's Department Store," he said, giving her the flyer they'd gotten in the mail as he sunk onto the sofa cushion beside her. He pointed at the picture of the vanity, with its dark brown veneer and two drawers on both sides of the sitting area. The oval mirror had sides that folded in at an adjustable angle, which, he explained, would make it easier for him to ensure the white base covered every part of his face. "We could put it on my side of the bed. By the window. It's only a couple feet long, a foot deep. I already measured the space."

She looked intrigued. "Mr. Fleck, you want to put a giant mirror next to our bed?" The glint in her eye was obvious.

He blinked at her. "I need a space to put my make-up. The lighting will be better there."

Studying the page, she leaned her head on him, a smirk in her voice. "Of course."

He wondered why she was joking around when he was being serious. But he continued with what he had to say. "I don't want you to stop watching me get ready if we buy it. It'd be yours, too. It's not expensive. But- But I'd need to borrow a little from you. I could pay you ba-"

"Don't start with that," she interrupted. "I'll call them right now." With a kiss to his shoulder, she got up and walked to the phone. He eagerly waited in the kitchen entrance, worrying his pockets while she sat on the counter making notes. Then she hung up and gave him the good news: the store would be able to deliver it Friday afternoon, cash-on-delivery, fully assembled for a small fee. Arthur grabbed his wallet, took out all $22, and shoved it at her until she rolled her eyes and stuck it in an envelope for the payment. "I'll put a couple mascaras in there," she said wryly. "Then maybe you'll stop worrying about the money."

~~~~~

The party would be starting at 1:00 PM. Arthur had to hop on the red line from Burnley, transfer to the blue line in Hinckley, then take the train to Gotham Village. The commute would be just under an hour if there were no delays (which had become more frequent ever since the prior year's budget cuts). Gary had assured him he didn't have to worry. He'd worked for a friend of the family before and they were nice people. The kid liked magic tricks and balloon animals. It'd be easy. And he'd be home for the Saturday Night Made-for-TV movie Y/N wanted to catch with him. (Courtroom dramas weren't his thing, but he wouldn't miss the chance to settle his arm around her and pretend to be engrossed.)

Sitting at the vanity, with its round stool and solid, cream color cushion, made him feel like a professional getting ready to face the day. Even if he was a clown. The light shining through the sheer, muslin curtains of their bedroom was bright enough to get started. After removing his shirt and raking his brown locks back, he dabbed the brush in his pot of white foundation. The bristles ran across his forehead and strong brow in even lines, over the straight bridge and rounded tip of his nose, then down his right temple, careful not to get the pigment in his sideburn. Tilting his head and holding steady, he painted curved, smooth strokes over his sharp cheekbone, down to his jawline, then repeated the motions on the left side of his face. His mouth parted as he colored the area under his nose, his thin lips, and chin. When the paint was distributed evenly, he blended it with a sponge, using small, circular motions.

Y/N's soft footsteps approached as he finished the blue triangles above and below his left eye. "What kind of sandwich do you want to take with you?" she asked from the bedroom doorway.

That turned the corner of his mouth up. Whenever Arthur had a job around lunch, she packed him something to eat. He hadn't yet gotten use to being taken care of. The attention made him feel self-conscious. He wasn't certain he'd ever believe he deserved it. But more and more often, he found himself able to simply appreciate her thoughtfulness. "Anything will be okay. Wait - do we have turkey?"

"Yeah. I'll make it soon." He watched her in the mirror as she walked up behind him and sat on his side of the bed. "You don't have to leave for a couple hours," she said, working on her thumbnail with a file. "I'm surprised you’re in here already."

It was a bit early to be preparing for the gig, but he didn't want to be late. If these people really were as gracious as Gary claimed, maybe he'd be able to perform again at their next party. Or they'd recommend him to other families. Then he'd definitely be able to pay off the ring he was buying Y/N and give it to her in October, as he'd planned. He finished working on the triangle under his right eye, having already done the one on his brow. "I wanna make sure I get it right," he said. "I used to do it every day."

She got up and propped herself on the edge of the table, dropping the emery board on it. "You're much better at that than I am," she said as he drew the outline of an exaggerated smile, then filled it in. "I'm lucky I don't poke my eye out with my liner."

Chuckling, he let his gaze flit up to hers before continuing. It was difficult not to be distracted by her proximity; she was pretty even in her casual, weekend outfit. The black, white-seamed tank top showed off the contours of her breasts. And its slits, stopping just above her hips, enticed him. Glancing at her legs, he admired the curves exposed by her matching, form-fitting track shorts. The stray hairs on her calves were few, leftovers from her electric razor - he’d have to remind her to change the blade.

She scooted closer. "Do you know how beautiful you are in that?" she said, indicating his make-up. "You took my breath away when I first saw it. Well, that paired with your good hair."

A scoff left him as he put red eyebrows midway up his forehead. The paint helped him get into character. But he was aware his visage was more weathered than most thirty-five year old men. And he disliked how the color would accentuate the lines and crevices in his face. "It shows my wrinkles," he murmured, to himself as much as to her.

"I love your wrinkles," she said. "And your squishy cheeks." Then she cupped his face. He recoiled almost instantly, grasping her hand. A bit of paint had gotten on her. "Oops, I smudged you." Before he could protest, she grabbed the white brush from the jar behind her and perched herself on him. It caught him off guard. But after a few seconds, he put his left arm around her waist to steady her.

The tension in his body grew and his eyelids drifted shut. The bristles tickled with Y/N controlling them - he'd never had someone else do his make-up before. The wet of the paint and the weight of her on his lap reminded him of one of his earliest fantasies of her. He'd imagined bringing her to HaHa's and showing her off to his co-workers. (In particular, Randall, that asshole who'd been married and divorced twice, constantly complained about his exes and whoever he was seeing, and probably didn't even know what a clit was.) Even though they'd made fun of him, and he didn't understand all their comments about women, he could have proven he was worthy of a girlfriend.

Arthur sighed. He didn't like how the tenderness she was showing him prompted his thinking to go to such a bitter place. Especially since he felt he was doing better and believed he was moving on. Not wanting to spoil the lovely morning he was having with her, he concentrated on the physical space around him, the way Dr. Ludlow had taught him. He focused on the warmth of Y/N's form on his thighs, the hint of her pleasing natural scent over the chalky smell of the greasepaint, the way her fingers curled on his chest as she tried to fix the smear she'd made. The burning in his shoulders alerted him to the fact that he was flushing, and he ducked his head slightly.

It wasn't the best moment to get aroused - he really did want to get ready for work. But then she leaned into him, her breasts flush with his torso, and his heartbeat quickened. Her pebbled nipples through the thin fabric of her top prompted him to slowly trace the hem of her shorts. With his blood rushing to his groin, he nearly didn't hear her sound of displeasure. "What?" he rasped.

"I'm making this worse."

He moved to look past her, in the mirror. The carefully formed triangle still had a wide base, but one side was uneven, the tapering causing it to look like an icicle. He shook his head and seized the brush, pretending to be annoyed. "This is why I started early."

"Really?" she replied, tousling his hair. A couple stray curls fell onto his forehead. "I was hoping it was so we'd have time." The slight scrape of her nails on his scalp, and the invitation in her eyes made his mouth run dry.

Since they'd gotten together, he'd been learning his boundaries and figuring out what he liked. Y/N was understanding and patient, and happily answered any questions he could bring himself to ask. And when he misinterpreted something or made a mistake, she accepted it with humor. Her easy manner and generosity healed any embarrassment, even when he needed a few minutes to stop being flustered.

Making love with his clown face on wasn't something they had discussed. But if she wanted to, he wasn't opposed. He huffed, put the brush on the table, then let his fingertips slide down her neck. When she adjusted her legs and bumped his erection, he dipped under the strap of her shirt. "Time for what?" He hoped he sounded confident enough to tease her. The kiss she gave him was urgent but he drew back. "This stuff doesn't taste good," he warned.

"I don't care," she breathed, dipping to his mouth again, arms going around him. At that, he reached up her shorts, in a hurry to have her as close to him as possible. Lips continuing to pull at hers, he helped her stand and take them off, along with her underwear. He wanted to watch as she straddled him, but her kisses were demanding, and he was losing the ability to think clearly. Instead, he palmed her ass, savoring the feel of her slow but enthusiastic undulations against his length. Eventually, she broke away from him, pressing her forehead to his. "I made a mess," she giggled.

He looked down between them. The stain of her slick had gotten on the front of his blue pants, its faint whiteness shining in the bright sunlight. "Oh..." He licked his upper lip at the sight and shuddered. "Y/N?"

"Yes?"

One of her requests had been that he attempt to be more explicit, to tell her what he wanted. He might as well try it again now. Swallowing thickly, he forced the words out. "I need to fuck you."

The light laugh that left her was delighted. "I'm right here," she purred as she helped him shed her shirt.

Once it was gone, he lifted her off him and sat her on the vanity, suddenly overcome with the need to take her. He threaded his fingers through her hair, angling his head upwards to tangle his tongue with hers. The grip she had on his biceps was almost bruising but he loved it. It made her inexplicable desire for him tangible. Slowly, he traced down over her stomach to hold her hips. His mouth reached her chest, and he panted between his sucking of her nipples and open-lipped kisses on her breasts.

He backed away, taking in the make-up he'd smeared on her body and face. The possession he felt at that shocked him, but he enjoyed it all the same. Then he gazed down at her core with hooded eyes and groaned. She was beautiful, splayed before him like she was, her center red, swollen, and so wet her arousal was on her thighs. He placed his palm on the crease of her thigh, licking his lip as he stretched to toy with her engorged clit. Her grip moved to his shoulder as she jerked up into his touch. He nuzzled her sternum as he continued, rapidly moving the pad of his thumb back and forth over the sensitive nub. The motions of her pelvis quickened, matching his fervor. But as his lips began to trail down to her abdomen, she stopped him. "I want to come with you in me."

After gathering himself, he stood and slipped out of his trousers and briefs. He bent to pick them up and put them on the bed, and she hopped off the vanity and turned around. It confused him at first. But then she braced herself on the table with her forearms. “Come on,” she whispered.

The sight of her bowed over like that, asking him to fill her, was undeniably arousing. But this was something new. They'd been exploring gradually. Despite his complete trust in her, he had to question it. “It’s- It’s hard to see you this way. Your face.”

“That’s what the mirror’s for.” Her eyes were wicked when they met his in the glass.

Ah. He chuckled, feeling silly for not knowing that. Then she pressed back, the swell of her buttocks nudging his hard-on. When she held herself open for him, he stopped doubting. Letting the clutch of her walls and her soft moans guide him, he slowly entered her.

When he was engulfed in her completely, he stilled and gazed at the mirror. The reflection made him snort - his greasepaint was smeared all over, the white, red, and blue smudged together inseparably, much like their two bodies. It was odd to see himself standing there - he wasn't sure if he liked it. So he blinked down at her face; he held his breath. He hadn’t even done anything, and she looked like she was about to get off. Then he felt the flicker of her fingertips on his cock. Reaching around her and between her legs, he said, “Let me.” She obliged, allowing him to entwine their fingers as she stroked herself.

Her words came out as a whimper. “Arthur...” She pushed towards him. “I need you to move.”

Eagerly, he withdrew and bucked into her, grunting and quickly speeding up. But he was too clumsy and slipped out of her. They both laughed as she grasped him and lined him up with her entrance. “Just go easy,” she said. “Don’t pull out too far.” Concentrating, he put his other hand on her hip and did his best to control the shallow rocking of his hips. The one or two inches of friction wasn’t enough for him; it seemed to be working for her, though. But it was hard to maintain his rhythm when the sound of her ass and thighs hitting him was making him want to lose himself completely.

Releasing her hand, he straightened a bit and allowed his gaze to rove over her. She was writhing beneath him, bent forward as she chased her pleasure. His touch ghosted up her spine, gentle along the faint knobs (much less prominent than his) under her smooth skin. Kneading her left shoulder, he looked at her reflection. Her head was tilted back, her brows stitched together as she strove back towards him. The lips he loved to kiss parted with every whine. And her breasts swayed with each thrust, their stiff peaks grazing the surface of the table.

A groan escaped him. He’d seen her expression contort in bliss a lot at this point. But it felt voyeuristic, watching her like this. Almost as if the mirror separated them in spite of their joining. A shiver went up him at the thrill of it, and he plunged faster, his palm on her side pulling her towards him. She met him, move for move, even as her hips stuttered, and he felt the familiar spasm of her muscles start around him. He drove inside her, hard, when she fell apart, and stayed buried deep while she rode out her climax. It wasn’t easy to do, the pulsing grip of her core nearly inducing him to move. She sobbed, her frame curling as she lowered her head to her vanity. Gasping, she squeezed his hand on her shoulder. The trembling of her legs caught his attention, so he rubbed her thigh soothingly and kissed her.

Once she’d relaxed, he left her body long enough to turn her around, set her on the table, and fill her again. Now he wasn’t patient. His lips devoured her mouth as he rutted within her, her walls around his hard cock flooding his senses. He hoped he’d never get use to this. At the building tautness of his muscles, he propped himself up on the vanity and grit his teeth. One of her hands held his hip, the other digging the small of his back, guiding him as he fucked her with abandon. “Arthur, don’t stop."

His movements faltered when her legs encircled his waist, then sudden, white hot fire consumed him. Everything disappeared as he moaned in the crook of her neck - everything that wasn't her. She gripped him tightly, her soft "Yes" caressing his ear and his heart. His toes curled into the carpet and his pelvis locked with hers, his essence pouring inside her, his length throbbing, surrounded by her heat.

Finally, he was able to straighten and catch his breath. He could feel her smile against his temple, and he patted her flank gently before he withdrew from her. First he sat on the edge of the bed, then let himself lay down and raked his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. That had been intense. And a work out. He could feel the sweat on his scalp. He’d have to shower again.

He hadn’t realized Y/N had stepped out until she reclined next to him and pressed a warm washcloth to his forehead. “Sorry about your make-up.”

“I think I can forgive you,” he laughed. His fingertips dragged up her side as he looked at her washed face in wonder. The gentle way she was dabbing at him, the love she radiated, would never stop being remarkable. This was one of the moments she made him believe he was the luckiest man in Gotham, despite the wretchedness that had been most of his life, and the conditions he struggled with.

Arthur accepted the cloth from her and sat up, watching as she stood and washed the vanity's surface. “Did you like it?” she asked.

“Yes.” He wiped the greasepaint from his skin. “Were you always like this?”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder. “Like what?”

Unsure how to describe it, he gestured at her vaguely.  “I dunno. Out there?”

"Out there?" she snorted. "I think you mean vocal." With a shake of her head, she knelt in front of him and rested her forearms on his knees. “That came with experience. And you may not be. That's fine. You'll figure it out.” Then she nuzzled at his nose. “It helps when you're with the right person.”

His chest swelled at that description of him, that she regarded him as such, and he put his arm around her. “Yeah,” he said quietly. Then he quirked a brow at her, touching the marks his paint had left on her chest. “Does this mean you have a thing for clowns?”

The tickling of his ribs wasn’t entirely unexpected. “No." She nestled against him and kissed his jaw. "I have a thing for you.”

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @octopus-plasma

[fe-semi-decent-scenarios]

Hi!! I've just found your blog and really like how you write! If it's no trouble, how would either the blue lions or black eagles react to an s/o that wants to drop out of the academy? Like, would they try to stop them or let them go? (pre-timeskip of course lol)

[Hello and welcome to my blog! Thank you for the compliments, they truly mean the world to me. For this i’ll write for BE considering that I haven’t gotten a request for them in particular recently.You can always tell which characters I write for first because the imagines gradually get longer as I become more invested lol. Hope you like it!] 

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR BLACK EAGLE RUN BELOW

Edelgard: 

Edelgard would approach the situation cautiously. She will not act until she somehow pries every detail out of you.

“I understand my dear...but may I ask why?” - Will lead you through a roundabout interrogation. If there’s any possibility that you’re being cohered to leave by an external source she will find out

Hubert may receive a mission to do some digging

Her course of action also depends greatly on timing. If this issue suddenly appears around when she plans to invade the monastery then she will let you go with a grain of salt. She does not want to fight you in battle if you decide to side with the church 

If she is already certain that you are on her side then she will offer you refuge in Enbarr before the war begins.  

Is also very understanding if one of your reasons for dropping out is not wanting to fight your friends and/or develop emotional attachments 

Whatever you decide will not change anything. One way or another you’d be leaving Garreg Mache, who is she to call the shots on how?

Dorathea:

“I will not stand to let you go without an explanation” - Please do not let her find out through a secondary source 

Seriously. 

Dorathea is not the loose girl that people peg her to be. She is kind, headstrong, and will whip your butt if you plan to just up and leave her 

Depending on your reasoning she will try to stop you. It’s such an effort to earn a place at the academy, and leaving is truly a waste in her opinion 

Might actually drag the professor into the conversation if you don’t convince her fast enough. Yes, she will resort to any tactics necessary

Being away from you might actually break her heart. She knows it’s selfish but if you leave then the chances you’ll ever be together are slim 

In the end she’ll give in, saying that she loves you. If you end up staying she’ll be overjoyed

If you leave...well, she won’t change. To the average eye she’s the same person but to those close the fire behind her actions is gone 

Find her after garreg mache falls. Please, don’t leave her wondering if you lived  

Bernadetta:

She’s at a loss. One of the closest people she has is leaving and she can’t do anything

The only way she finds out is through the professor. There’s a knocking on her door that won’t go away, and on the outside there they stand. They ask her to try and convince you; naturally, she attempts to get out of it

“Me?! Isn’t there someone better you could ask?” Initially she’ll freak out before the realization sets in. 

“I can’t do anything...they won’t listen to someone like me”- and with that she’ll hole herself away from everyone. In her mind there won’t be a need for a goodbye if you two don’t meet 

Even if you come to her door every day she won’t open it. Instead she’ll cling to her bear stuffie with bated breath until you walk away

Until one day you don’t show 

She waits, and waits, and waits, and waits. She waits till the sky is dark yet you still haven’t come

Then she’ll creep out of her room, maybe you fell asleep outside while trying to trick her out? When she sees an empty courtyard her stomach drops

She’ll walk to your room in a haste only to see boxes stacked outside. Her heart shatters

“W-w-wait! P-please, please d-don’t go” - Hear her out and talk. She’s sorry for ignoring you, just don’t leave 

Petra: 

Her position is one that doesn’t offer much freedom.

Not enough to travel Fodlan, not enough to help her country, and not enough to follow you. If you leave then that’s it. You’re gone 

Petra will listen to your argument in full. She knows the feeling of being somewhere you do not feel welcome. She wants you to forge the path you wish to walk

“If this is not the place of being in which you call home, then you must do the leaving. I will not be stopping you” 

Petra will want to know what your plans are after you go. Where can she find you? Would you perhaps like to come visit Bridgid after she graduates? 

Petra does not view it as an end, but as a path to a new beginning. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise then she will honestly fight them. They will not take away your right to be free and make your own choices

On the inside she is hurting, greatly. There are not many people at the academy that made her feel at home, with you gone there will be even less. 

She plans to send you letters often. On pen and paper she conveys her thoughts easily, and it will be good practice for learning the language of fodlan 

If you end up staying she will reveal how you leaving would have hurt her, but if you go the relief is still there. 

Knowing you were far from the monestary during the fighting puts her at ease. 

Caspar: 

“You can’t leave! We’ve worked so hard here, and there’s people that need us! Why give that up?!” 

Caspar is not happy. In fact, his entire day is completely soured. When you tell him he won’t even take it seriously at first. He’ll laugh like it’s some kind of ‘twisted joke’. You know, give you a pat on the back and continue talking about something else. Basically he avoids the conversation lol give dima a run for his money why don’t ya

Then he gets defensive. Why even bother enrolling if you’re just going to give up half-way? He honestly rambles so fast that getting a single word in is harder than convincing linhardt to train 

Just let him get it out.

 When he’s done listing off all the reasons you should stay he’ll be out of breath and leaning against one of the nearby tables. Hopefully you chose to have this conversation in private because he does not control his volume

It’s best to not say anything more. When he sees that you’re not swayed he’ll leave to go be alone. Give him some time and then go talk again 

You’ll most likely find him sitting with his head in his hands by the peer. Very ‘uncaspar’ behavior 

“I know it’s your choice- I do, but...I don’t want you to leave” 

This is when you can explain your reasoning to him. He’ll just sit there and take it in silently. Though at the end he’ll reinstate the points he brought up before, and ask you to rethink the situation again. He knows that he makes rash decisions, but that doesn’t mean you have to 

If you decide to stay he’ll try his best to help remedy any issues you have while at the academy, and beyond that he’ll ask you to stick by him during the war 

If you leave he still won’t accept it, but he knows that it isn’t his choice. Just be safe. 

Hubert: 

Hubert knew of your plans long before you brought it up. The moment you two entered a courtship he did an extensive background check, and now constantly keeps track of anything you’re involved with 

Some call it creepy, he calls it safety 

Just so happens that a little birdie told him about you sending in an inquiry about withdrawal papers. First he notifies Lady Edelgard about the possible prospect of losing an ally, and then he approaches you personally 

“Did you really think you could let this sneak past me?” -He’d ask once sure that you two were alone. While improper, he would sneak into your dorm past curfew. He’d find you sitting at your desk as if you were expecting him 

“No, I only wanted to test how your ‘research’ skills are fairing. This must be a new record,”- You’d reply with just as much attitude. A smirk would crawl up his lips at it. You always have something to say 

Before expressing any personal distaste he has with the decision, Hubert’s first priority is to find where you stand with regard to Empire. He’ll snoop by asking your opinion of the church to deduce if you’ll be a possible enemy. His duty comes before his personal opinions 

Then he will calmly ask for your reasoning, and attempt to come up with a different solution. If there is one he will do all in his power to convince you of it. You are a respected ally and cherished companion of “the empire” (we all know he will not say you’re important to him this early on in the relationship. Give it another six years)

If deemed trustworthy, he will take similar action to Edelgard. He offers you a home in Enbarr located near where he will be stationed. When the time comes you can choose to either fight with the army, or do as you wish. There are many less dangerous positions he knows you are well qualified for

Linhardt: 

When he wants to care he will do so. We’ve seen it with how he treats crest research in comparison to something like daily lessons. Linhardt is extremely intelligent and can even outsmart someone as wise as Hanneman if he wants to

He treats his partner like how he wishes for them to treat him: with trust. If there are rumors of your planned departure floating about the monastery he will ignore them. Gossip has never proved to bare no consequence

To be persistent in such a situation holds no merit in his eyes

That does not mean he is not curious. From what he gathered you seemed to be living a pleasant life here at the monastery. There should be no probable cause for departure unless he’s missing something 

Linhardt is the kind to patiently wait. He will not seek you out or ask any of the professors. Instead he will spend his days with you as usual until you bring up the topic in question

This is where it is a battle of wits. He can be quite persuasive when he wishes to be, and right then he’s extra motivated. Though one look at the stressed crease of your brow dials down his normally paramount nature 

He will suggest that you humor him with a list of pro’s and con’s of leaving. Afterwords he’ll throw in his own two-cents and leave you to think on your own 

“If I were you I would not be so hasty. The human lifespan is brief and to dispose of an opportunity of this caliber could prove detrimental to your future” -way to pile on the stress Linhardt 

Just remember that you love him and that he is only thinking in your best interest from a statistical standpoint. On the inside he really is afraid of what might happen to you when he is not around

The boy already hates bloodshed, but your injuries in particular are ones that make him blanch

Ferdinand:  

Lorenz brings up a rumor of you withdrawing during their annual tea. He doesn’t do so out of spite, but merely out of concern considering that you are a good friend. He assumes that if anyone should know it would be your boyfriend 

He did not

Not even a bit 

“You must be mistaken my friend. If such a thing ere to transpire (Y/N) would have informed me immediately” - He would brush it off, but internally his nerves are fried. He decides to see you out once his evening duties are finished 

The entire day he’s anxious to hear from you. It shows in how he completes his tasks. Oh, the shame. What proper noble cannot properly re-shelve library books? 

When he finds you he cannot hide the anxiety in his voice. You instantly pick up on it and address the topic. Ferdinand does not take it well

“Do you hear yourself? To give up on such an opportunity as this is utter foolishness! I thought the rumors were preposterous, but to hear they were true?” - he would be flabbergasted. Dorothea has made it prominent that he tends to push his ideals onto others, but this was completely different

His words hurt. You were already struggling enough as it was to come to a decision. He of all people should be supporting you 

You just leave midway during the conversation. After a moment of recollection he regrets what he said. That sort of treatment is not befitting of a noble...or anyone really 

He’ll go find you and apologize. It doesn’t matter if you’re alone or beside some of your monastery pals, he will beg for forgiveness and will not leave you alone until you give it 

Then he completely butts out. He makes his side of the coin apparent but leaves the ultimate decision to you 

“I apologize. I unfairly lashed out at you after you spoke to me in confidence. I was hurt that you desired to leave everyone...and me. No matter what you decide I will support you”  

[rinusagitora]

The gray comes with you.

Fandom: BLEACH

Characters: Toushirou Hitsugaya, Rangiku Matsumoto

Pairings: HitsuKarin

Words: 1.4k

Summary: Alternate Universe. Ghost!AU. Chapter 1/?, updated on Sundays. WARNINGS- explicit violence;  Toushirou Hitsugaya hasn't lived an easy life. High school is no easier, as Toushirou is being hunted by violent bullies.

AO3

The screech of his alarm clock would open his funeral.

He groaned as he blindly ran a hand over his nightstand in search of his cell. As soon as he was upright, he felt the charge accumulated over his nine hour slumber slough off like water down the drain. It never ceased to amaze him how he stayed on his feet every morning when he was overcome by such a spell.

He opened his music app, played an upbeat pop album to hopefully wake him and cure the dread he woke with every morning with its contagious energy, and then bravely exited the confines of his bedroom.

His home was eerily empty. Momo began to leave earlier and earlier over the course of the last few weeks. She wasn’t home much, but when she was, she locked herself in her room until she left again in the early hours of the morning. His grandmother was a busy editor despite her age. That was alright, of course, but the house was made of early birds and it was surreal when not a thing stirred, like he didn’t belong.

He brushed his teeth, combed his air, quickly tired of his stupid music and tried to find something with more interesting sound, and he left home with a warm Hot Pocket in hand and a creepy podcast in his earbuds. His podcasts were like his friends, the only ones who spoke to him outside of what school required. And he didn’t mind it. Podcasts were only corny, they never made him limp.

The same couldn’t be said for his classmates.

Every morning, when the clock on the face of his school’s exterior appeared over the houses, he felt nauseous. His head turned side to side to scan for company.

The reason he lived most of his academic experience alone was his appearance. His hair was pale, his eyes were unearthly blue-green. The only thing that looked normal about him was his tan. Otherwise, he looked like a wraith. His classmates were unanimously suspicious of him. When he wasn’t ostracized, he wasn’t just picked on, he was often left injured.

He wondered if the omen was the misery it would cause his childhood, or something more sinister he was blind to.

“Hey, Freak-tsugaya!”

His concern was in the present.

He broke into a run for the school entrance. Bazzard and Cang Du, though meatheads, were expert predators. And he was prey, he had little option aside from running.

He rushed through the open front doors and ran head-first into Cang Du’s elbow. He heard the collision, he dropped like a brick to the floor, and stars exploded in his vision as his head landed on the hard tile. 

“Don’t you know to answer when I’m trynna talk to you, freak?” Bazzard asked as he writhed. “Where’ve your manners gone? Do we needa teach you some?”

His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as Bazzard raised his fist. He rolled onto his hands and pushed himself up. Cang Du grabbed him by his neck. He was slammed into the shoe lockers four times. Pain did not capture how it felt: like he was beat against a curb corner instead of thin metal. He spat in Cang Du's eye and kicked him in the groin. Cang Du doubled over with a quiet grunt. When he turned to run, Bazzard grabbed him by his white hair and yanked him to the ground again. His face was stomped on. Blood flooded his mouth, he turned onto his side and spat out his front teeth and blood and mucus.

“What the hell are you sons of bitches doing!?”

Laughter followed in the wake of Bazzard and Cang Du. He cracked his eyes open to meet Rangiku’s grimace.

“Oh geez, they did quite a number on you,” Rangiku winced. She pulled him onto his feet and held him up by his waist. “Kotetsu-san is in today. Let’s get you patched up, kid. You poor bastard.”

He grasped Rangiku’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he told her.

“Me too,” Rangiku replied. “I think you lost some teeth.”

“They’re back there,” he said. “Those two are getting ballsier. I haven’t had any teeth knocked out before.” His tongue ran over the holes in his gums and the cut over his lip. He hoped he didn’t need stitches. He knew better than to hold his breath, though.

“Hitsugaya-kun, we should go to the police. They’re getting out of hand. I won’t be able to swoop in to save you someday, and that may be the day they end up maiming you. Or worse,” Rangiku warned him.

He would have frowned if his face didn’t ache so. He was already such a lonesome boy, Momo and his grandmother knew that. They had their own lives to grapple with and he knew his tribulations only put more stress on them. He couldn’t continue to tax them anymore. “Investigations are lengthy,” he lied, “I understand what you’re telling me, but I can’t do that to my family, Matsumoto.”

Rangiku frowned but said nothing more. He sat on a plastic chair upon entrance into the nurse’s office. The head nurse cursed as she turned around to greet them. He was passed a washrag to catch the blood that poured off his chin onto his top. His uniform was beyond salvaging by that time.

“Can I get a new shirt? I can’t go to class like this,” he asked. 

“You want a new shirt? Hitsugaya-kun, you should be going to the hospital. You need stitches!” Isane scoffed.

“I know you’re trained to handle minor injuries, Kotetsu. Let’s not make a big deal out of this. I just tripped.”

“And got cut that bad?” Isane retorted.

“Shit, I’m not exactly a tumbler.”

Isane’s eyes rolled. “Watch your language. I’ll wash your mouth out with chili peppers.”

“Now you’re only giving me incentive to act even more improper. Momo used to make the best stuffed chili peppers.” He missed his sister’s cooking…. “A-anyways, I would appreciate it if you stitched me up. I’ve got a quiz this morning I can’t miss.” 

“Alright, but I won’t like it.” Isane said. He watched as she prepped topical sanitation and sutures. Rangiku returned with a new shirt for him. He unbuttoned his soiled top and handed it to Rangiku in a bunch. He still oozed blood from the cut across his lips, so he chose to remain topless until he was sewn shut. At least his uniform slacks were a void for stains.

“I hope your sister’s doing well,” Isane said. “The last we met she was acting strangely. She was skittish, and she kept giving me different explanations for her black eye. Do you know anything, Hitsugaya-kun?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t figure out why Isane tried to carry on a conversation when he couldn’t move his face, but he would just be thankful someone took notice of his sister’s behavior too.

Isane made quick work of his face. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional.

“Take an ibuprofen as prescribed on the bottle, clean the seams with isopropyl alcohol. See me again in about a month and a half so I can take those out. And don’t pick at them,” Isane instructed as he licked up the seam on the inside of his lip.

He thanked Isane and then he buttoned up his borrowed shirt. It was enormous on his tiny frame, but it was worn and comfortable so he supposed it didn’t matter.

“There’s an assembly this morning, Hitsugaya,” Rangiku told him as they left the nurse’s office. “Take a wild guess what it’s about.”

“Bullying again?”

“Bullseye,” she replied. The irony didn’t escape him. “You can crash in the faculty room until classes start.”

“I’m surprised the headmaster thinks it’ll do anything,” he snorted. “Who am I kidding? I’m totally unsurprised by bureaucracy’s naive belief that team spirit and making victims shake hands with their victimizers will fix everything. What a bunch of soft bastards.”

Rangiku smiled sympathetically. “My thoughts exactly. You poor thing.”

He sat on the couch in the staff lounge alone. Rangiku had to supervise the hallways, and that was fine by him. He only realized how exhausted he was when he sunk into the gaudy-patterned cushions. He was too tired to occupy his time with mobile games or homework or even his thoughts. He was sore, he felt like he decayed in that place, like his flesh melted off his bones and his juices seeped into the floor. High school was built to enable the strong and murder the weak. He couldn’t tell who he hated more: the entire establishment, or his feeble self.

Later he peeled himself from the couch and made it to class without any fuss from his schoolmates. He lamely stared at the zigzagged hairline of the girl in front of him until homeroom began. He hoped his lumps wouldn’t interfere with his notes….

[enchantedxrose]

The Monster of West End: Chapter Five (follow the link to read on AO3)

A retelling of the fairy tale set in the early Victorian Era.

Viola Weston is desperate to pay off her family's debts. Stubborn and self-reliant, she would rather look for work than seek an advantageous marriage. She is utterly unprepared for her eccentric new employer's beastly appearance--but quickly charmed by his warm heart and cheerful disposition.

Albert Carlyle is lonely: cursed from birth with a monstrous form, but coldly tolerated by society for his wealth. People are afraid of him, no matter how hard he tries to make himself agreeable. He has resigned himself to a quiet life collecting butterflies and ignoring judgmental whispers--until Viola upends his comfortable, complacent existence.

Can Viola set aside her pride long enough to accept his help? Can Albert find the courage to make his affections known? Or will the cruelties of the world tear their budding relationship apart?

         The next morning, with a bank-note from Mr. Carlyle clutched in her fist, Viola prepared to run her errand. She chewed on her lip as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet, torn about whether to take a cab. On a bright spring day, a brisk walk to the shops would have been pleasant, but on a wintry morning with the biting wind on her face—especially on her return journey, when she would be laden with packages—it was a daunting thought.

           Mr. Carlyle paused in his progress up the stairs. “Are you going out, Miss Weston?”

           The practical voice in her head hissed, He is your employer, it’s perfectly reasonable for him to pay your travel expenses. Just ask! Meanwhile, the fragile and proud part of her rankled at the thought of having to ask for a few pence.

           She nonetheless kept her tone light and even. “I was going to visit a few shops on Yaxley Street for a few odds and ends.”

           His face brightened. “I’m actually headed in that direction myself today; I’ll drop you off.”

           “That’s very kind of you, sir, but you don’t have to—”

           He waved a hand dismissively. “No sense in hiring a carriage when my curricle is going to the same destination,” he said with a shrug.

           Viola was grateful he framed it this way: he was being sensible, rather than kind. It was only practical. That quelled much of her discomfort, and she managed a genuine smile.

           “Thank you, Mr. Carlyle. I suppose you have a point there.”

           He pulled on a heavy winter overcoat, but no hat—she supposed it would be an awkward fit between his antlers—and he still wore no shoes. His wide splayed toes probably gave him good traction in the snow, like snowshoes, but did he not get cold? She shook herself, breaking off her stare. It was rather impolite, not to mention improper, to be pondering her employer’s curious physiology.

           Her eyes widened at the sight of the sleek, lightweight curricle that awaited them. It was drawn by two handsome white horses. She had never envisioned traveling in such an eye-catching vehicle.

           Mr. Carlyle misread her hesitation. “Do you suppose you ought to have a chaperone? It’s an open carriage, but perhaps it’s still a bit improper…”

           Viola snorted. “Sir, I’m not a lady. I am your servant. You needn’t worry about my reputation.”

           The rules of behavior for fine ladies did not apply to working women of her class, she knew that much. But a small part of her was touched by his consideration, all the same.

           He offered a hand—a paw?—Viola wasn’t sure what to call it—to help her into the carriage, but she studiously ignored him as she climbed in unaided. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his face fall a fraction.

           Color crept into her cheeks as he settled into the seat beside her. He flicked the reigns and the horses lurched forward. The two avoided each other’s eyes, pretending to be fascinated by the narrow brick houses slowly rolling by their windows.

           Viola’s heart shriveled with regret. What must he be thinking of me now? He was only trying to be a gentleman, and I rejected the gesture. From his point of view, it had surely appeared she was disgusted or afraid to touch him. How could she explain her own stubborn distaste for accepting any kind of help? She scrambled for a way to salvage the situation.

           Eventually she chanced a glance at her employer. Mr. Carlyle smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes. He had curled his free hand into a fist over his knee, hiding the sharp claws in the folds of his coat.

           She tried to apologize by starting conversation.

           “So, Mr. Carlyle, did you—did you grow up here in the city?” Her voice cracked in her attempt to sound airy and unconcerned.

           “No, as a matter of fact, I was raised in a village to the southeast. I’ve only lived in London for three years now.”

           She thought of the wildflower motifs on the furnishings in his home, and wondered if perhaps he was homesick for the countryside.

           The customary inquiries about his family stuck in her throat. Could she ask him that? She was certainly curious about his origins. Were his parents…like him? But she didn’t want to cause him even more discomfort than she already had. What if his past was a painful subject?

           “Miss Weston,” he said gently, not taking his eyes off the road, “anything you would normally ask a new acquaintance, you may ask of me. You have been honest with me about your own history—it would be only fair of me to return your honesty in kind.”

           She exhaled a gust in relief. “I just didn’t want to be impertinent.”

           “That sounds a bit out of character for you,” he observed.

           She shot an indignant glare up at him—even when they were seated, he towered far above her—but the twitch of his lips told her that he spoke in jest. The tension between them broke as they began to chuckle.

           “Very well, sir, I shall proceed to be impertinent,” Viola said, smirking, “since apparently that’s what you expect from me. Are your parents still living? Do you have family nearby?”

           “I never knew them,” he replied evenly. “I was a foundling on the vicarage doorstep, so my blood relations are quite a mystery to me.” He held up his free hand to stop her from interjecting. “And please don’t be sorry. The vicar and his curate took me in and raised me as their own. They are upright and goodhearted men. I could not have asked for better guardians, truly.”

           Viola absorbed this for a moment, struggling for a response that didn’t sound pitying. “The son of clergymen…I would not have guessed that.”

           “I think John—the vicar—had hopes that I would follow in his footsteps and take orders,” Mr. Carlyle said. “But somehow, I don’t think I could inspire much confidence in a congregation. Public speaking is not my forte.”

           “Now that doesn’t surprise me,” Viola said dryly.

           They arrived at their destination much quicker than Viola anticipated. She hopped out of the carriage, eager to warm herself by walking around. The snow drifted lazily onto their shoulders, meandering in the air before coming to rest in clumps on her shawl. She buried her hands more deeply into her sleeves.

           She had wondered what it would be like to walk alongside him in public. To her dismay, it seemed some of her concerns were justified.

           A woman laden with baskets of fruit widened her eyes and crossed to the opposite side of the road to avoid passing by them. Several children pointed and stared, open-mouthed, until their mothers ushered them away with nervous haste. A lamp-lighter froze halfway up his ladder as they approached, not seeming to notice he was off-balance until he toppled sideways.

           Viola glanced sidelong at her employer. Ought she to say something? Or would it be best to pretend not to notice the stares they received? He kept his gaze determinedly fixed forward, features arranged in a pleasantly neutral expression.

           But one of his paws, she noticed, was worrying a loose thread on his coat sleeve.

           “What shop did you wish to visit first?” he asked her, in a tone that was almost theatrical in its lightness. “The haberdasher’s? Or perhaps the curiosity shop on the corner?”

           The shop window to her right caught her eye—a china-shop displaying painted porcelain sugar bowls and teapots. She was particularly transfixed by the blue willow pattern, so like the plates her mother had once displayed in their china cabinet. A lump rose in her throat. She remembered how those dishes had mysteriously disappeared, one by one, from their cupboard—she had not understood until years later that her mother had been pawning them as their circumstances grew more desperate. How it must have galled her mother, to sell her beloved comforts for a pittance.

           Viola had once dreamed of buying them back someday, to bring a smile back to her mother’s grave countenance. Now it was far too late for that. And they were only plates, after all.

           Mr. Carlyle’s voice broke into her reverie as if from a great distance. “Would you like to look around in there first?”

           She laughed. “I do not need any dishware at present.”

           “There’s no harm in looking. It can be amusing to simply look at pretty things.”

           “Well…just for a moment, perhaps. Just to get out of the cold.”

           He made no move to follow her to the door.

           “I think I shall wait here, Miss Weston,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I do not trust myself in a small shop full of breakable items…I suppose you have heard the phrase ‘a bull in a china shop.’”

           “Will you not be cold out here, sir?”

           He waved aside her concern. “My winter coat keeps me quite comfortable, I assure you.”

           It took her a moment to realize he meant his shaggy fur, not his woolen overcoat. She wondered if he even needed to wear winter garments at all, or if it was merely a gesture of propriety. Yet another audacious question to add to the long list building up in her mind.

           Despite her misgivings, she did enjoy quietly wandering the shop and looking at the ceramic curios on every shelf. The shopkeeper must have correctly surmised that she could afford to buy nothing here—her plain work dress spoke volumes—so she was left to her own devices. When she exited the shop, Mr. Carlyle was gazing longingly into the next window, which displayed a variety of men’s hats.

           “I’ve always wanted a top hat for evenings,” he told her with a wistful shrug, “but nothing will fit quite right with these.” He gestured impatiently to his antlers.

           “It’s a pity I know nothing of hat-making. Perhaps you will need to hire one of those next, sir.”

           He chuckled as they moved on.

           It was at the haberdasher’s that Viola obtained what she had come for—a pair of long, sharp scissors suitable for cutting heavier fabrics—but she was reluctant to end their outing. Mr. Carlyle’s company was pleasant, and far from overbearing. She felt so far from her usual troubles and anxieties, as if a physical burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

           She might have invented excuses to continue window-shopping for another hour—had she not seen him.

           Over the course of the morning, the streets had become more crowded. Shoppers bustled to and fro with their packages. Children in shabby clothes darted ahead of pedestrians to sweep the mud and snow from their path in exchange for a ha’penny. Gigs and hackney coaches rattled by. But through the chaos, on the opposite corner, Viola glimpsed a familiar figure.

           A chill run through her bones.

           No—she could very well be mistaken—surely it wasn’t him. The face had disappeared into the crowd so quickly that she could not be sure. Yet she could identify that receding hairline, those greedy, glittering eyes anywhere.

           Even if it was Mr. Beecham—what was terribly extraordinary about running into an acquaintance in a popular shopping district, purely by chance? It did not mean he was following her. Perhaps he had not even noticed her!

           And yet, she swore she had glimpsed a flicker of recognition mirrored in his eyes.

           It was childish to avoid Mr. Beecham thus. He was not a villain out of a penny dreadful, with preternatural powers. He was just an unpleasant man who had ruined her family. Yet he had an uncanny ability to make Viola feel powerless, feel like resisting his plans was a futile struggle.

           The only thing that gave her courage to face him was that he was contained: she sought out his counting-house under her own power, and his presence did not bleed further into other aspects of her life. The thought of confronting him with Mr. Carlyle at her side, the idea that he could taint this new chapter of her life simply by inserting himself into it, made her queasy.

           “Mr. Carlyle,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “would you mind terribly if we turned back towards home?”

           “Of course. Is everything alright?”

           She forced a smile. “Oh, yes. I’m just rather tired, that is all.”

           “If you’d like to wait here, I can have the carriage brought ‘round.” There was a faint note of concern in his tone.

           The notion of being left alone on a street-corner sent an irrational shiver of panic through her. “No need, sir, I can walk with you. Although, if—if it is not an imposition, could I avail myself of your arm?”

           He blinked. “Yes, of course,” he said, recovering from his surprise and offering his elbow to her. As she linked her arm through his, she noticed a lightness in his step.

           I hope I’ve redeemed myself for my earlier rejection of his civility, she thought.

           She glanced backwards at the teeming street, but there was no sign of Mr. Beecham. She released a sigh of relief and tightened her grip on Mr. Carlyle’s arm.

[tastingmellow]

Like That

A/N: This was actually a headcanon request from @thickemadame and I loved it so much that instead of doing a headcanon I wanted to do a fic. I’m not done answering headcanons I just wanted this idea written. Excuse my spelling mistakes, please.

Pairing: Erik Killmonger x Reader

Summary: Erik ain’t got the juice like that.

Warnings: Language. Reader is a black, plus size Q U E E N

Word Count: It’s been a while...but ain’t shit changed

You know those movies where the plus size main character isn’t confident, tries to hide under baggy clothing, has nobody chasing after them? Yeah...inaccurate representation of you. Being plus size is a struggle in itself and that’s without the improper representation. People like Queen Lahtifa and Monique were the ACTUAL representation of you.

You had style, confidence, and an amazing mind as well as the looks to make anyone stop and stare. What’s there to be insecure about? And that question is exactly what attracted Erik to you. He had seen you in a coffee shop, dressed to impress, shades at the top of your head and scrolling through your phone.

You weren’t trying to hide, your back was straight and you were just something he had rarely seen before. When he approached you and you gave home that dazzling white smile he was hooked. He rearranged his entire life to put you at the center of it, you weren’t complaining though.

Everything was going great, Erik was so caring and sweet, he showered you in love and gifts no matter how many times you told him not to buy you anything, and he was just the epitome of what you wanted in a man. He was strong, determined, bossy, hard as fuck, and not to mention pro-black.

However, there were moments that made you think Erik just knew he had his position on lock down. Like when you were out and he entertained random females who were flirting with him. Or when he’d flex purposely to show off. He never took it further than that but it ticked you off because APPRENTLY this broad ass nigga really thinks his position can’t be filled with another.

You let it go though, thinking everything was cool and smooth between you two until while you were looking for someone’s number in his phone (he knew you had it) a “Jass 🍑” popped in his notifications. You tilted your head and before your brain could register what you were doing you clicked on the message.

In their thread, clear as day was a picture of this woman’s pussy on full display with a message underneath that read “she misses you.” You tilted your head, sucking in your cheeks before scrolling up and seeing all of which he had gotten himself into.

“Huh...” your facial expression was blank as you calmly walked into the kitchen where Erik was munching on a sandwich. Hearing your footsteps, he looked up, a smile on his face as he chewed his food. “You find the number?”

You shook your head and smiled softly while making your way over to him. You hopped on the counter and sat beside him. “Nah, you didn’t have it. However, I did find something else.”

You dropped his phone in front of him, the screen showing Erik’s messages with his side chick. You swung your legs as you smiled at him. “Who’s Jess, E?”

Erik gulped down some juice before picking up his phone. His expression was blank as he stared at the woman’s vagina displayed on the screen. His heartbeat sped up as he looked up at you, seeing the seemingly unbothered smile on your face. “Princess—“

He was cut off by your hand in his face, shaking your head. “Nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked because you were just gonna make up an excuse. I need you to go into the bedroom and get all the shit you left over here. Thanks.”

You patted his back and began to walk away. “Get my shit? Y/N, seriously? It’s your fault for going through my phone anyway. You shouldn’t have been so damn nosey.” You continued to walk, shrugging your shoulders. “Maybe I was, you still need to get out.”

Erik lightly bit his lip as he saw you plop down on the couch. “Y/N...”

“Get out, Erik.”

—————

The next week for Erik was rough. He expected you to blow up, cry, even hit him when he realized you knew but your calmness scared the shit out of him. He had cut off Jess, telling her she isn’t what he was looking for. He felt a bit better but still felt like ass knowing he fucked up.

He saw a few of your posts on Instagram, a few of them posted days after you kicked him out and you were glowing. That made him hurt worse and that is currently why he’s standing at your doorstep, knocking at your door.

“One moment!” He heard your voice yell and his heart skipped a beat. He held the roses in his hands a bit tighter as he heard the lock turn and saw the doorknob twist. His smile fell upon seeing another man opening the door. He was light skin, had a fade and beard that connected.

“What’s up, potna?” The man spoke and that’s when Erik noticed he was shirtless and in a pair of basketball shorts with socks and slides on. “Who the fuck are you, nigga?” Erik spoke up just as you poked your head around your friend’s shoulder.

“D, you mind sitting in the parlor while I talk to Erik?” You asked sweetly and Damion smiles at you and kisses your cheek before walking off. You stood at the door in a leggings and a cami, a silk robe draped over your shoulders with your hair pulled into a bun on top of your head.

Erik stares for a moment before coming out of his trance while you snapped in his face. “Stop staring, it’s rude.” You stepped outside, shutting the door behind you and crossed your arms. You eyes the flowers in his hand. “Those for me?”

Erik looked down and cleared his throat before handing them to you. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, Y/N...I’m sorry. I know I destroyed your trust. I don’t even know why I cheated, maybe because I thought you’d let me off. There was really no reason to cheat, you’re everything a nigga wanted and more. I fucked up. I’m sorry, mamas. I hope you can forgive me.”

You stared at him for a moment before nodding. You reached into your bra and pulled out your phone. You unlocked it and opened your Instagram before going to your DMs. You handed him your phone and stood there. “Don’t open the messages but just scroll through and see how many I have. From random ass niggas who would have loved to be in your position.”

You looked at Erik as he scrolled through, his eyebrows knitting together as he saw the messages. Some of them were the typical “Go to bed.” Messages, others were simple greetings and some of them were the weirdest, most disrespectful shit he had ever seen.

You grabbed your phone from his hand and went to your actual messages, scrolling down a bit so he could read the “I miss you” texts from numbers that were no longer saved. When you showed them to him his heart clenched a little. This was the first time he realized that having you and keeping you really was privilege. You could’ve entertained all those niggas but you didn’t. His fucking ego had him thinking he had you on lockdown.

“And Damion? He’s one of the few that didn’t want me how every other nigga wanted me, but just wants a friend.” You handed Erik his flowers back and placed your hands on your hips. “Listen, E. I really fuck with you, I do. But you fucked that up with your big ass ego. You can either understand that as a big girl I don’t have to be meek and treated any sort of way...or you can dip.”

Erik stares at you and nodded. “I know, I know. I understand that. I’ll make it up to you. I swear.” Erik grinned as a small smile appeared on your face. “Alright then, Erik. I forgive you.” Erik leaned in to kiss you but was stopped by your hand mushing his face back.

He stepped back confused. “What?” You laughed loudly, leaning your head back. “You thought you were back in that easily?! HA, nah, baby. You better work for this the exact same way you did the first time.”

You twisted your doorknob and walked into your house before turning around and giving him a wide smile. “Have a nice night, Stevens.” You blew him a kiss before shutting the door and locking it.

Erik stood there, stunned and confused. He looked around, then down finally registering that you rejected his flowers. His shocked expression turned into a grin as he slowly backed off your porch. “I still got a chance...” he rushed to his car and got in, pulling out of your driveway and speeding off down the road, thanking God he still had a shot.

—————

A/N: Did ya like it? I loved it, hope you did too! Share and comment! Send in requests and headcanons!

Erik/Trevante Taglist:

@destinio1 @ljstraightnochaser @chaneajoyyy @raysunshine78 @shookmcgookqueen @tip222u @bakarilennox @here-for-your-bullshit @asweet-serendipity @l-auteuse @thickemadame @missshae @toniilaney @simscrazyfangirl @blackpinup22 @bitchacho25 @furiousduckpeach @shegoego @eye-raq @goddessofthundathighs @doublesidedscoobysnacks @soufcakmistress @ladye103 @artsninspo @chasingsunlight22

Permanent Taglist:

@ladye103 @chaneajoyyy

[duckyaltalt]

「herman tommeraas & cis male」⇾ mercer, ducky, the junior radcliffe student’s records show that he is a pisces and 21 years old. he is studying business, living in gorham and can be tenderhearted, nimble, compliant & taciturn. when i see him i am reminded of fear hidden behind a stoic stare, bleeding from your nose and from your gums, and the night sky with all its stars, with all its mystery and unknown . ⇽「james & 21 & est & they/them.」

hi :D this is the last of my OG characters ... the next two will b sexy n new bt they wont arrive fr a while bc i <3 need 2 hv a steady pace <3 anyways hes. rly sad so. good luck charlie <3 okay bye :D

TW CHILD ABUSE / DOMESTIC ABUSE / ABUSE, VIOLENCE, INJURY, TRAUMA, MENTAL ILLNESS, DRUGS / DRUG ABUSE / ADDICTION , GANGS.

aesthetic.

bruises; from beneath your eyes to the edge of your jaw, aligned against your stomach and the sides of your waist and the groves of your knuckles. bleeding noses and bleeding gums, spat out teeth, tattoos scarred from improper treatment, a facial scar; jagged and old, now, from above your eye to beneath your lip. worn hoodies and scuffed sneakers, sunglasses inside. the night sky, and it’s many stars, and how brightly they shone during the 2019 blackout, and wanting to be up there, with them. knowing constellations by heart. wishing to be the face on the moon. beer bottles and secret exchanges. dark alleys. fear, through the very core of your heart. fear, hidden behind a stoic stare.

basic info.

full name: donovan mercer

nickname(s): ducky but i’m 95% sure he hates the nickname it’s just. Stuck with him.

b.o.d. - march 15th, pisces :)

label(s): the allegiant, the despondent, the grifter, the malleable, the vacant, etc.

height: 5′11″

hometown: hell’s kitchen, new york

sexuality: bisexual bt make it closeted.

pinterest

stats

inspired by: lip gallagher (shameless), freddie mcclair (skins), frankenstein’s monster (frankenstein), fez (euphoria) … that’s it i don’t know any other characters KJNSGLDNVLSDJNFDS

biography.

born in hell’s kitchen to vinny mercer and a mother who ran out of the hospital as fast as she could, as soon as she was able. she’d gone so quick that she’d never given ducky a middle name - just donovan. the younger brother of mercy (shoutout 2 bri)

his father’s the right-hand man of a well known mob boss named lars amaretto, and so, you can imagine the kind of environment ducky (& mercy) grew up in. weapon & drug dealings, interrogations, violence around every corner. a brutal way of living, no place to raise two children.

you can correctly assume that they grew up in a heavily abusive environment, and can imagine the sort of things the two have gone through. ducky was, maybe, the least favorite of their father’s -

- for numerous reasons, and one being that ducky’d always been a sensitive kid. kinder than his brother, and far kinder than his father - kindness is weakness, and ducky was filled with it. too much so, with big brown eyes and a smile that should’ve been able to melt ice. should’ve - but didn’t. and never did, either.

he cried often, and was punished often for it until he learned to stop crying - at least in front of their father, and mercy too, at some point. only in the comfort of his room, with doors locked and blinds drawn closed.

he dreamed, too, dreamt often. he’d been obsessed with outer space since childhood, as long as he could remember. school had once shown man landing on the moon, and ducky wanted that. wanted to be that, wanted to be there, up with the stars, discovering the unthinkable.

but it was discouraged, heavily so - projects destroyed by an angry fist only to be reconstructed to the best of ducky’s ability, with mercy’s help, all throughout the night. he’d saved up for a telescope when he was thirteen, but it’d been destroyed almost immediately when discovered. not a day went by that their father didn’t tell ducky that he was, first and foremost, stupid - and would always be.

to the point where he stopped trying, simply. his grades fluctuated frequently, and it’s a surprise that he hadn’t dropped out of high school altogether.

anyways … at the age of fifteen, he’d have enough. he was sick of the abuse, the pain - the crying behind closed doors, the sneaking around, the constant feeling of needing to escape, impending doom, anxiety attacks in the shower and in school bathrooms and at the back of the bus where nobody sat besides him because he was - that boy, the son of that man, the brother of that brute. he’d been a teenager and he’d already been an outcast by all means - an outcast in his family, no matter how hard he tried to appease vinny, and an outsider everywhere else.

the plan took months of preparation, paper ripped out from the back of his school notebook and stuffed beneath his mattress, details of his escape from a checklist of essential items to makeshift maps of bus routes to different cities.

all for nothing, the moment vinny discovered it, the edge of a map sticking out after a rushed morning.

it’d been the same day he’d gotten the nickname - ducky - the way the wound wrapped below his mouth, and the way it’d begun to heal - puckered, at first, like a duck’s bill. a better name than eyepatch, at the very least. the scar’d run from the arch of his left brow, across his eye, down his cheek, and below his lip, the entire left side of his face a bloody mess afterwards. his eye sustained injury, and not allowed to see a doctor about it, it never healed properly. corneal scarring, impairing his left eye. astronaut dreams destroyed, but not in a matter of seconds. in the matter of an hour, maybe more - and that’d been much, much worse.

he stopped trying to run away after that. tried to be more like their father, more like mercy - more brutish, less feeling. spoke less, and less. spoke hardly at all, unless spoken to first.

still didn’t matter. still lived his days in fear, still knew it’d never change. nothing would ever change.

graduated high school and had been on-and-off attending community college since then. he’d miss days at a time, flunk an entire semester’s worth of classes - gpa dropped further and further. wanted to try, but life got in the way. always got in the way.

hadn’t intended on transferring to radcliffe, but their father’d been missing for a few months then, leaving ducky to handle the drugs side of their business in hell’s kitchen - and mercy’d disappeared, too, leaving their branch in lovell completely open. in a split decision - an opportunity, and opening - something he couldn’t miss, or he’d maybe never get the opportunity again, ducky bullshitted a scholarship essay (plagiarism, tsk) and transferred to pick up where mercy’d left.

this wasn’t very well thought out, because that meant there were no mercers in new york - and lars amaretto? not a very understanding man. more of a brute than their father was, by far. to keep a story short - ducky is missing a tooth (molar, luckily, this time) and is … more rough’d up than he’d like to be, for sure. but mercy’s back, now, and he’s still at lovell, at radcliffe.

and that’s enough.

UPDATE: heehaw. mercy is gone & ducky’s still here. feeling a bit lost - dealt with a lot of shit this summer, new wounds and old wounds and just. a lot. started an underground fight club on campus for some extra cash, reasons unknown. being blackmailed by someone named rocky - someone who knows ducky is skimming cash. god. i don’t know ... danger danger danger danger. nightmare-ville. wrapped up in more walls than ever.

personality.

he’s actually very? intimidating? when you first meet him. mercy’s younger brother, with a criminal’s record almost as long as his - a scarred face and a mean resting face. it takes at least five minutes of conversation beyond small talk before it starts to weigh on your mind that maybe, he’s not as bad as he seems.

and - well, he isn’t. but he’s guarded - so guarded. more-so than mercy, because mercy’s quicker to anger, quicker to react, and ducky tries so hard to drown out the noise. but he’s not a robot, and his facial expressions can give him away in a second.

he’s seen what happened when mercy had a glimpse of something good in his life (though, it wasn’t actually good at all - mercy had someone, at least. at the very least) - and how quickly it’d all fallen, and so ducky puts a barrier between him and others. distant, as much as he can be.

it hurts, because ducky isn’t by any means antisocial. he doesn’t hate people - he wants to be normal, wants to have friends and a girlfriend - or maybe even a boyfriend, god - but he’s so afraid. ducky is, by nature, a very scared person. terrified to his very core. he knows there is always eyes on him, and mercy too, and he knows that nothing is worth getting someone else hurt.

you know him as mercy’s little brother, and he’s quiet you know that - but his name is ducky, and you think - he’s not too bad. and he knows this, knows the doubts. knows that it’ll get back to mercy, eventually, that his brother is nothing more but a pussy. so he fights more than he’d like to, against the guilt that buries itself deep within his chest with every thrown fist. he throws up, afterwards, in the garbage can outside. too much to drink, he says, rare grin - because grins are convincing, and grins with bleeding gums are intimidating. he learned that from his brother.

violence makes him sick to his very stomach. he can’t watch horror films, or even action films, without feeling queasy. there’s been more times than he can count where he’d thrown up after a fight, or after an interrogation, usually in private but in the occasional presence of mercy.

they fight, a lot, sometimes - ducky’s too soft, too weak, and it’s bad and it’s terrible and ducky knows that mercy’s afraid. for him, of their father, and his wraith. ducky knows that if mercy isn’t hard on him now, their father will be harder - and his hits will be, too. still. there’s resentment, small but there, like the flame of a match. he doesn’t know what’ll happen when there’s nothing more to burn, but he doesn’t want to find out. he’s afraid to find out.

he’s still in love with the moon and the stars, and the planet’s - and their moons, too. its subdued, now, though. a silent passion - one that is often not watered, left for rot. he sneaks into engineering lectures, occasionally, or physics - or anything that isn’t business, because he hates his major, but he knows it’s the only chance he’s got to stay at radcliffe. and that’s to follow his brother, to follow his father. a business degree treats you well, teaches you skills you’ll need to know for this type of work.

commits small acts of kindness when nobody looks. doors held open, the meals of elderly folk eating alone suddenly paid. picks up litter besides trash bins, and always cooks extra than what he needs, only to leave it in the gorham community fridge with no name, something for somebody who may need it. it’s these small things that make him feel, just the slightest, better about himself.

because god - there are layers and layers of self-loathing, the result of years of abuse. it’s a labyrinth, and he’d never speak of it - but he can’t stand his own reflection. doesn’t keep photos of his family, only a few sparingly of mercy. his room is messy, but still oddly barren. nothing on the walls except for a poster or two, sheets a standard navy blue and a row of empty liquor bottles on his windowsill.

a liar, sad to say. has little experience with. ehem. intimacy, and the bodies of others, but lies often and says that he does. mostly to his brother, but word travels quick - and he’s not nearly as much as a fuckboy as is rumored, having only been with a handful of girls, if even that. it’s better this way - if people know that he throws others away like they’re nothing. sex is uncomfortable for him, he always feels gross afterwards. wrong, sometimes.

he ghosts often, too, if he does get to talking with anybody. the moment ducky feels a spark, something pulling at his poor heart, he ghosts. he develops feelings too easily, too often than he’d like. has left many friendships without explanation, because of this. you know the priest in fleabag season 2? the scene where he comes to fleabag’s house? yeah. tht’s ducky!

has maybe half the amount of clients that mercy does, but he’s working on it. it’s his first semester at radcliffe.

pretends he doesn’t care as much as he does. pretends a lot, like there’s nothing soft to him. but a trained eye can see clearly through this. even so - even if you can see that there’s more to ducky than violence and drug deals - you’d still have to break through a dozen walls.

in the rare occasion you get him talking - i mean, talking a lot - he’ll talk about space. ramble off a dozen useless facts about dwarf stars and black holes and all of jupiter’s moons. about a video game he likes, about nothing and everything at all. but as soon as he begins, he stops - embarrassed. apologizes, shuts his mouth, disappears to wherever. anywhere but there.

uuuhhh. god. okay so ducky’s got an addiction to xanax. it’s numbing and it’s better than feeling, and he’d rather this than that and it’s. a Thing. we won’t go further into it. besides that - he does smoke weed, does try out some of their products to make sure it’s not … fucked, for their clients, but otherwise fucking hates drugs. social drinker, but still doesn’t like it a lot. hates beer but drinks it often.

overall just … he’s a soft boy, with a big heart - bigger than anybody else in his family, that’s for sure, but his exterior is far different than that, and it’s hard to tell.

purposely loses fights so that he doesn’t have to severely hurt someone. because sometimes he just - he was raised in a violent environment, and sometimes he snaps. sometimes ducky just fucking snaps. and his vision goes red, and he can’t control himself - because need to survive kicks in, and violence is all he knows. if someone pushes ducky - pushes him enough, he breaks. he fights back. it’s all he knows. it’s all he knows. it’s all he knows, and that’s not an excuse - and he knows this, and god, he’s so tired. he is so. tired.

wanted connections.

clients… first n foremost. he needs people to deal to. i don’t think he handles the Hard Shit like mercy does, but like coke and mdma? works for him.

f…riend..s?… like it’s so hard for ducky to be sincere with people but if you don’t mind like … an emotionally distant man who doesn’t even hit 6′ then maybe? he’s your guy? maybe you can break him down a little? chip away at his cold shoulder?

a close…r friend… maybe not like. the best of friends. but at least one normal friend whose world does not revolve around fucking drugs and violence would be nice for ducky. someone he can be a little soft with, as a treat.

hook-ups… not many, because ducky doesn’t really enjoy sex too much but y’know. that’s just how it is. he do be having needs, tho. KDSJGSHDKLFSE god.

fisticuffs!… someone he got into a fistfight with. multiple people he’s gotten into fights with. he’s probably lost them (on purpose) but - mayhaps, some of them, he did not?

gorham roommate… god… i don’t know what these two cld get up to but! maybe give him a sexuality panic but who knows.

unrequited feelings… there’s probably a few of these. whether people are drawn to his fucking ~mysterious~ demeanor (he just has fucking anxiety, man) or mayhaps. mayhaps he has the feelings.

flirtations… he’s never been in a relationship so i can’t really include exes, but he can flirt with people i’d like to think … when he’s drunk. :-)

ghostees… everybody he’s ever fucking ghosted because he’s stupid and is afraid of both friendship and relationships and romance and platonic? feelings of warmth? so sometimes he panics and ghosts people forever. :) spite!

new yorkians… who are familiar with his family or the business they have there

enemies… god. i’m sure he has a lot of these even without attempting to make them. just like, by association, you know? sometimes ducky hates people because mercy does. sometimes he hates people because mercy likes them. JKSDGDSJGFSNLKF

i won’t lie i’m very tired and am having a Troubled Time coming up with connections please. bare with me.

annoyances… i don’t know if ducky can get annoyed very easily but? thorns in his side? something lighthearted? alternately, something Not lighthearted and then ducky :/ goes rogue JKDNGDSNLFK

idk something soft… literally anything soft. please :) give me something soft and cute :) and peaceful and not stressful :)

something ANGSTY and AWFUL… literally. i don’t know. duality of man.

ok i have been awake fr too long i’m going to bed goodnight.

[baeklination]

구름 도시  (Cloud City)  pt.1

Warnings/Contains: None really. Some light cursing. General talk about the case, but nothing explicit.

au: members of the justice system

Characters: Baekhyun, Kai, Suho, Sehun

WC:3400

Date:200523

Masterpost      Part 2

                                           ¤¤¤

APRIL 17th

  Jun-myeon poked his head out of his office.

“Byun, we’ve got a girl reported missing, go talk to her parents will you?”

Baek-hyun grabbed the holster from his chair, out of habit more than anything

“How old?”

“She’s twenty-six, Cho Min-young, lives in Hammer Hill. Her parents are waiting”

Baek-hyun slowed down and raised an eyebrow at his boss.

“Jun, you know I’m not a star case- guy, but a missing twenty-six year-old..? I thought you meant a kid. She’s probably at a boyfriend's house-”

“Nope”

“Girlfriend then-”

“They’ve called everyone they can think of, and she didn’t show up for work this morning. Come on, Byun, as a favour; it’ll be in and out. Take the new guy with you, show him how the pro’s do it”. Jun-myeon shot a wide smile at him, knowing he’d won Baek-hyun over.

  In the middle of the stations commotion sat a young detective, trying his best to look as if he hadn’t overheard the conversation between Baek-hyun and the lieutenant, but he felt like a kid waiting for his fun uncle to collect him.

“Come on, Jong-in, you heard the boss”, Baek-hyun said, approaching him. “Is it alright if we drop the honorifics, can I speak informally to you?”

“Yes, it’s okay, Mr.Byun, you can speak informally.” Jong-in nodded with a slightly nervous smile.

“We, Jong-in. We speak informally. No mr, hyung, or nim, please.”

 Having reached the car, Baek-hyun waited for Jong-in’s reaction( although if anyone asked, he’d never admit to such vanity).

“Shit, this is your car? It’s a beauty!”, Jong-in exclaimed when he realized what ride was theirs. “You’re in to the classics?”

Baek-hyun chuckled and feigned embarrassment.

 “Yeah, this is my Old Betty”, but the charade only lasted a moment. “70’s Coupe Deville - Cadillac, obviously. My father brought it back from the States in the 80’s”. Seeing the question on Jong-in’s face Baek-hyun continued “He went to college over there, and saw this darling; dirt cheap if you ask him - a prettier penny than that if you ask my mother. He retired it a while back, and let me buy it. Actually, he would never let me buy it - I’ve been paying for their weekly grocery shopping without him knowing for the past two years now” he laughed, and Jong-in, now more relaxed, rolled his eyes in a I-know-the-type-way. Reaching in and popping the hood he gestured for Jong-in to follow him.

 “See” he pointed to the machinery “the engine was alright, but I know a mechanic, so I had it fitted with a V8, and the normal updates; better versions of things they had in the original. I know, I know, the original is the soul and all that - but I don’t want my girl going bust when I’m doing 110 on the highway chasing bad guys, you know”. Jong-in nodded, but this part was beyond him. “Now she’s got 600 HP and manages 130 km and hour, easy”, Baek-hyun shamelessly bragged as they got in the car. It wasn’t any wonder really, the car was in top condition; the body a dark, almost black, brown, grill and hubcaps gleaming like they were newly polished, and the inside a creamy dream of tan leather and red details. 

“So, do you also have a classic?”, Baek-hyun’s eyes were shining with anticipation. Jong-in might’ve opened a Pandora’s box here, and he didn’t want to make a bad impression on their first day together, but decided that honesty was always the best route.

“No, I wish..! If I knew anything about cars then maybe I could buy an oldie, fix it up myself, you know, but I’ve never been good at cars. And buying one in good condition…”, he sighed.

Baek-hyun whistled “Hell, I couldn’t afford that, and I’m a couple of pay grades above you..!”.

“Yeah, and with my kid, I think it’s better to save than splurge. Our Honda runs good enough.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you  have a kid. Boy or girl? Give me the deets.”

“Girl, Yong-sun. She’s eight months old, home with mommy - my girlfriend. We’ve been together seven years”, Jong-in said, almost stumbling over the last part, in case Baek-hyun would find it improper that he had a child before getting married.

“That long..! Congrats man, then you know it’s tried, tested and true”, Baek-hyun said, calming Jong-in’s nerves. Driving out of the garage he changed tone to a serious, albeit still relaxed, one “So, what d’you think; girl really missing or just out of reach? Pitch me some scenarios, rookie.”

                                                   ¤¤¤

  Having parked on the side of the street, Baek-hyun stepped out and surveyed the area for a while. Hammer Hill was a nice neighbourhood; not the highest echelons of society, but definitely upper middle-class. 

“Pretty nice place for a single twenty-something to live in, no?”

“Pretty nice for anyone”, Jong-in replied. “But those online stars make a lot of money, you know”.

“This much?” Baek-hyun frowned in disbelief. “You think she’s doing something on the side? Catering to a different audience, so to speak? Wouldn’t be the first time”, Baek-hyun sighed, while he started up the stairs. Jong-in, not wanting to offend anyone, erred on the side of caution 

“I don’t know, anything is possible. But making this much money in a…” he hesitated “...pure way is also possible”.

“First lesson passed, rookie: avoid jumping to stereotypical conclusions”, Baek-hyun said with a dunk on Jong-in’s back, as they walked up to the door. After ringing the doorbell Baek-hyun turned to Jong-in and hurriedly said:

“But don’t mention prostitution to her parents, okay? Don’t say anything to alarm them further. We want them to remain calm, so they don’t forget to mention anything. Besides, she’ll probably pop up in the next day or so. Just try to...get a feel for the situation. You’ll be doing a lot of these house calls, trust me”.

The door was opened by Min-young’s mother, a woman in her fifties, without any especially distinguishing features, except for the worry in her eyes. 

“Mrs. Cho, I’m detective Byu-”

“Oh, finally, thank god, come in”, Mrs. Cho exclaimed with relief, and moved so they could go in. “I apologize, it’s a mess, but I didn’t want to touch anything in case…” her voice faded. She ushered Baek-hyun and Jong-in to the living-room, where an older man - presumably Mr.Cho - and a younger man stood up to great the detectives. Baek-hyun gave it another try.

“Good afternoon, Sir, I’m detective Byun, this is my colleague detective Kim”, he said and took the man’s hand with a warm smile “you must be Mr. Cho”.

“Detective Byun, Kim”, Mr. Cho said with a short nod to them “Thank you for coming.” Gesturing to the young man he continued “this is Oh Sehun, Min-young’s friend”. They exchanged remaining pleasantries and sat down. 

“So, tell us, what’s going on; the lieutenant said you haven’t heard from Min-young - is it okay if I call her Min-young?” he interjected, remembering his manners. After getting the okay from Mr. and Mrs. Cho he continued “So, still nothing new from Min-young since...yesterday evening, was it? Tell us what happened”. Mrs. Cho, with a slight tremble in her voice started 

“Well, it wasn’t anything special yesterday, really. It’s not that we had plans and she didn’t show up. But I tried calling her in the evening, but she didn’t pick up the phone. We tried calling a couple of times, but when it got late we figured maybe she was just really busy, and decided to wait until the morning.” 

“But she hasn’t picked up today either”, Mr. Cho chimed in. “I tried calling at eight thirty, right before she goes to work, but she didn’t answer, so I tried her office...nothing. They still haven’t heard from her” he said, holding his palms up. Baek-hyun sensed Mr. Cho was more perplexed than scared, which would be helpful in locating her, as opposed to Mrs. Cho, who might overlook something because of the stress she clearly was under.

“Excuse me”, Jong-in said in a low voice, and the whole company looked at him with surprise, almost having forgotten about his presence. “You said she went to her office; wasn’t she a social media personality? She didn’t work from home?”

Good catch, Baek-hyun thought.

“Oh, no. She used to, but she felt a bit cooped up working from home, so she moved to a small office space in Rolling Hills; in the Gigamex complex.” 

  Baek-hyun let Jong-in take the lead, try his wings, so to speak, and focused more on scribbling down names and dates in his police issued notepad (he found that it made people feel as if he really listened if he used pen and paper instead of some smart device). This also gave him the opportunity to gauge their reactions to any questions, to make sure they were on the up-and-up. And what of this Sehun character? Up until now he’d been quiet, only a few nods and nervous hands clasped together. Interrupting his train of thought, Jong-in continued

“And who was it you talked to at the office?”

“Michelle. We don’t know her last name, but she’s Min-young’s assistant, she helps her with editing and her calendar, I think”. One could tell that world wasn’t Mr. Cho’s arena, but he was close enough with his daughter to have heard a bit about it. Mrs. Cho picked up her mobile, and after a few scrolls held it out for Baek-hyun to copy

“Here. This is her number. She couldn’t say much, but if you want to talk to her...” Baek-hyun received it with a barely distinguishable bow and took her number down.

“Do you know if anyone was...less than nice to her online? Did she ever mention anything specific?” Jong-in knew the price of putting yourself out there often was people being rude, nasty, or worse, so he wanted to make sure he covered at least some of the bases. And to be honest, as distasteful as it may sound it was exhilarating; his first interview in the field. And he seemed to know a thing or two more than Baek-hyun about this topic, so he got to shine a little. But her parents were adamant about her job not being an issue here. 

“Her channel is about arts and crafts, making things from scratch, baking and those kinds of things. The people who write her are kind. Sure, there are a some rude people, but most of them are so sweet”, Mrs. Cho said.

“What about a boyfriend, was she seeing anybody?”, Baek-hyun asked and looked at Sehun, as did her parents “Are you..?”

For the first time Sehun let go of his hands, and waved no. 

“No, no. We’ve been friends since middle school, she’s like my sister. And jogging buddy. We go running a couple days a week, have dinner or coffee after. We were supposed to go yesterday evening, but she cancelled”, Sehun explained.

“When was that?” Baek-hyun recognized the sign of voluntary M.I.A. Sehun unlocked his phone and showed the caller log to Baek-hyun “17.12. We usually meet up around five thirty, so it’s odd that she cancelled with such little notice”.

“Did she say why, or sound different in any way?”

“No. She said it wasn’t anything special, she just had something to do. But when I asked her again she wouldn’t say. I was kinda annoyed, but now...” Sehun shrugged his shoulders and looked so hopeless he almost made Baek-hyun think something had happened to Min-young. But being the veteran he was he knew the majority of these cases ended happily - a lost phone, a drunken night, or a secret boyfriend - so he composed himself and gave them a smile.

“I know you’re all very worried right now, but trust me when I say we get a lot of calls like these, and it almost always ends up being some kind of misunderstanding. But we’ll follow up on these tips you’ve given us when we get back to the station, of course. Could we just have a quick look around the apartment, to see if anything seems amiss?”

                                           ¤¤¤

  Having seen nothing suspicious in Min-young’s apartment they assured the Cho’s that they would call them the next day, and said their goodbyes. 

“You did good up there, Jong-in”, Baek-hyun complimented his partner for the day. “What are your thoughts?”

“Thank you, Byu-Baek-hyun” Jong-in stuttered, making Bae-hyun laugh.”I feel bad for them. But like you said, they almost always come back. So...do we talk to her assistant, get phone records from Min-young’s cell provider?”

“Phone records takes more than...” Baek-hyun looked at his watch “than the two hours we have left. Let’s call the assistant, and you can run down locations of CCTV in the area”.

“To see when she left the apartment and which way she went…”

“We’ll take a closer look tomorrow morning if she’s still not back. So her friend, Oh Sehun…” Baek-hyun let the question hang in the air.

“Yeah. Do you usually see friends joining this early? He’s probably telling the truth, but…” 

“But..?” Baek-hyun echoed for Jong-in to continue.

“Well, he was the last one to talk to her. And did she really not say anything to him?”

“Exactly. I don’t think he’s hurt her, but it’s possible - likely even - that he might know more than he’s telling. Remember what I said about catering to a different audience? Let’s do a quick background check and talk to him tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be more open when the girl’s parents aren’t around.”

  Back at the station Jong-in started working on the CCTV footage while Baek-hyun went to update Jun-myeon.

“Hey, boss...”, he knocked on the frosted glass window, but didn’t wait for a reply before he opened the door. Jun-myeon was on the phone, but gestured for Baek-hyun to come in.

“...twisted baguettes, not ordinary ones, got it. Bye, love” he said, hung up and shared one of his life lessons with Baek-hyun “happy wife, happy life. Now, how’d it go?” Baek-hyun ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

 “As expected, I’d say. They were worried, but it hasn’t been that long. We’re gonna run down some leads they gave us before calling it a day”.

“Okay, sounds good. And Jong-in?”

“Yeah, he did good, boss. And he likes my girl”, Baek-hyun smiled.

“Ah, Byun-ah..!”, Jun-myeon exclaimed “That’s why you like him, ‘cus he likes your car..!”

Baek-hyun choked a smile “No, he’s good, honestly. But why does he get to be “Jong-in” while I’m still my surname?”, he asked, raising an eyebrow. Jun-myeon countered by raising both brows.

“Because I don’t want nine guys in my office every time I ask for Kim, is why he’s “Jong-in”...”. Baek-hyun clicked his tongue and pointed at Jun-myeon.

“Got it. Well, I’m gonna do some digging with the time I’ve got left”, he said and stood up.

“You’re a star player, Byun. Fighting!”, Jun-myeon said jokingly as Baek-hyun closed the door.

                                           ¤¤¤

  Baek-hyun and Jong-in had punched out after checking off their list. There wasn’t much to see, really; the assistant, Michelle, hadn’t seen Min-young so she couldn’t offer much assistance, ironically enough. And as far as Sehun goes, he seemed to be harmless; no citations, no odd-ball photos or rants on the internet...just a guy. Nonetheless, Baek-hyun had begun to feel a touch uneasy about the whole thing, so after shutting the engine off in the driveway he called the precinct and asked the officer on the night shift to send a request for Min-young’s  phone records. 

Better safe than sorry, he said to himself. Locking the car door was his queue to give his work mind a rest, and it wasn’t hard to do when he saw the note on his front door: 17.25 You have a houseguest, B!(Cover shift) It was signed with a winking smiley inside the O of the name “Veró”. Baek-hyun chuckled, spirits lifted. He had barely opened the door before a little corgi was upon him, tap-dancing around his feet with bright eyes. Baek-hyun put his blazer on a valet stand and bent down to greet his guest.

“Well, hi there, Mongi..! What are you doing here?” he said while playfully wrestling with the dog “Did you tell mommy to drop you of at the fun house?” He looked at his watch; an hour ago. “We might as well go out now, nugget. And then it’s dinner for the both of us - I’m famished!”. 

  With his parents living a couple of hours away, having Veró and Mongi was a real blessing to him. It’s not every day you meet someone you’re almost a hundred percent comfortable with; may it be in silence, changing clothes, physical interaction, crying or ugly laughing. Veró (short for Verónica) had moved in next door almost three years ago, and they instantly hit it off. Well, it wasn’t the right hit at first. They had dated for about four months when they both realized that they weren’t lovers’ material. The reason they felt exceedingly comfortable with each other was because they were best friends. They called it quits on the romantic part and now hung out as just friends; dinners, talks through the night, even sleepovers - and of course the semi-shared custody of Veró’s dog Mongi. Baek-hyun had fallen in love with him the first time he saw him, and insisted she name him Mongryong, but Veró was dead set on “Miguel”, a latin singer, or “the sun of Mexico” as she called him. They ended up having a marathon of games and soju to decide who would get the honours, and to Veró’s dismay Baek-hyun won, and the rest is history. 

  Since Veró left so late he knew she was covering for someone from the night shift and therefore didn’t expect her to be back until early morning at best, so after dinner they both curled up in bed: Mongi with a bone and Baek-hyun with the latest issue of Journal of Forensic Sciences.

“The things they can find out with forensics these days, Mongi, I tell ya...” Baek-hyun sighed, and Mongi looked at him, breathing heavily from his ferocious battle with the bone. “That’s right, pay attention, so you don’t go out in the streets acting like a fool.” He put the magazine on the nightstand as well as taking off his t-shirt before turning off the light - the queue for Mongi to curl up in the crook of Baek-hyun’s knees. 

“Good night, nugget.”  

APRIL 18th

  Baek-hyun was the quintessential morning person, so when the alarm went off at 06.00 he immediately got up. The same could not be said about Mongi.

“Rise and shine, Mongi. Time to do some laps”, Baek-hyun cooed while putting on his sweats. But it would take the sound of food being prepared for Mongi to bounce out in to the kitchen. 

“You try it every time, and I tell you every time: walk, then food.” 

  The air was chilly, a typical late spring morning, and there was an overcast hinting rain would come before long. He may not look it, but the dog was a top runner, so Baek-hyun could jog at a pace that made his heart rate go up a few notches, all the way down to the river, about twenty minutes away. He stopped by a drinking fountain, giving Mongi a few palms of water and splashed his face and water-combed his hair back. The clouds had lifted by the horizon, and the sunrise stained the clouds a yellowy apricot and Baek-hyun took it all in; these precious still and silent mornings were the favourite part of his day. He felt a tug on the leash, so he snapped out of it and they started back home for breakfast and a shower.

  He wrapped a towel around his waist, draped a second one over his shoulders and made his way to the kitchen. A lot of Baek-hyun’s colleagues ate at work, but he preferred to have a quiet breakfast at home before all the hustle and bustle, so he sat down with his cup of black coffee and rye porridge. He was halfway through his meal when his phone rang, so his slippered feet shuffled to the bedroom:

“A call this early is never good, boss.” He sat down on the bed with a sinking feeling.

“Sorry, Byun. We’ve got a body, female. Under Pioneer’s Bridge. She hasn’t been identified, but…” Jun-myeon paused.

“You think it might be her.”