#maybe i need a hatpin

[annaholak]

Wyrd Sisters Abroad

For this year's inktober I'm reimagining the three Lancre coven members, from Sir Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels, as modern day witches (and sending them on a trip to America).

So let me introduce you to:

Gytha "Nanny" Ogg (canon version)

Gytha is the optimist of the coven. She has buried three husbands (and that’s just the official count), she has fifteen children, innumerable grandchildren, an evil cat named Greebo, and only one tooth. She likes smoking her pipe, eating, drinking, playing her banjo while taking her bath, and singing (mostly “the Hedgehog Song” and “A Wizard’s Staff has a Knob on the End”). She always checks under her bed before going to sleep in the hope that there might be a man hiding under it (you never know…).

And:

the reimagined Gytha "Nanny" Ogg

Don't let her pink velour tracksuit fool you; she’s not one of the working out types of octogenarians (in fact she doesn’t do anything tiring if she can help it) - but she does like to be comfy (and maybe a little bit sexy - though she probably wouldn’t admit that). Her sneakers were chosen by one of her many grandchildren and “they’re red because Nana likes red and they have stars on them because Nana is MAGIC!”. Her witch’s hat has a red ribbon on it because she does indeed like red. Not pictured is her foul-tempered, evil-smelling, one-eyed cat Greebo whom, despite all evidence to the contrary, Nanny considers to be a sweet, harmless kitten.

Esmerelda (Esme) "Granny" Weatherwax (canon left, reimagined right)

Esme is the most intimidating of the coven. She is very confident in her abilities. When she says that something is impossible she usually means “for anyone except herself”. Accordingly she is not a good loser (she hasn’t had much practice); from her point of view, losing is something that happens to other people. She’s never scared of walking through a dark forest because she knows that the most terrifying thing in it is herself. Her implicit belief that everything should get out of her way extends to other witches, very tall trees and, on occasion, mountains. Despite being an extremely powerful witch, she prefers to use headology instead of actual magic whenever possible; she is a firm believer in giving people what they need, not what they want. She is Good and she is Right, but she's not Nice. She is feared and respected, but generally not liked.

In canon she is the most "traditionally" dressed of the three Lancre witches: all black, simple dress, sturdy boots, tall witch's hat fastened to her tight bun with hatpins, and the occasional vest. Her goal is to look as much of a witch (and as intimidating) as possible.

In the reimagined version she is still dressed in all black but I opted for a different kind of intimidating-older-woman style: the ageing punk rock virgin with the evil stare.

And last but not least:

Magrat Garlick (canon version)

Magrat's name is an accident; her mother wanted to name her Margaret, but didn't know how to spell it. She is the youngest member of the Lancre coven, and the least confident in her magical abilities (probably the reason why she rarely wears her witch’s hat - instead she prefers to wear glamorous green dresses that would suit more curvy figures than hers, and slightly wilted flower crowns on her unruly hair). She also has a huge collection of occult jewellery, is a vegetarian, and believes in folk songs and the Cycles of Nature. She is the most bookish of the three witches and an excellent herbalist - something even Granny Weatherwax (who usually calls her a “wet hen”) reluctantly admits. In “Witches Abroad” she inherits a Fairy Godmother wand, but is unable to master it; the only effect she is able to produce with it is turning things into pumpkins.

And:

the reimagined Magrat Garlick

As a vegetarian on a quest to save Mother Earth, she wears clothes made of natural fibers, vegan sandals, and reusable tote bags. She’s also wearing a witch’s hat (purely because I couldn’t resist the aesthetic appeal), but it’s dark green instead of the traditional black and the shortest one of the group. She still has a soft spot for crystals and magical jewellery though. She wears an ankle bracelet with tiny bells on it (she finds the soft tinkling weirdly soothing).

#I had fun with these #wish me luck with inktober #usually all hell breaks loose whenever I start a drawing challenge #discworld #fanart #gnu terry pratchett #witches #inktober2022

[fridaythe13ththeseries]

Reflecting - Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Jack sat at the desk in the store, looking around at the large collection of antiques they had for sale. They had a quite an inventory available, and the shop itself was doing well enough to keep himself, Micki and Johnny from starving. The building the store was located in was owned outright by Micki and Ryan, so that helped with their costs. And the fact they lived here helped, as well.

Micki and Jack had also decided it was only fair to keep sending Ryan his portion of the store profits, which helped his mother care for him. He deserved so much more, since he had paid such a high price for inheriting this place with Micki.

Jack rubbed his temples, tired from working all day with his friend, the mystic Rashid, to try and locate the missing manifest. They needed to get that book back. Lewis had kept track of all his sales in it, since he first made the deal with the devil. It was a sort of scrapbook of horror. Now, it was their only way of knowing which items were still out there in the world, causing mayhem and death.

Rashid had left for the night, promising to return tomorrow with a fresh eye and a renewed spirit. Jack hoped he could offer the same. Truth was, he was exhausted. Between keeping the store stocked with good antiques, finding and retrieving the cursed items, mentoring Micki and Johnny and working with Rashid to keep Lewis from making another attempt at returning to life, Jack had more than enough to do for a man half his age.

The sound of Micki and Johnny entering through the storeroom in back caused Jack to grab a book, pretending to read a spell he already knew by heart. He didn't need to worry about the two of them worrying about him.

As the two of them approached the desk, he looked up, smiling. "Any luck?" he asked, his voice as carefree as he could muster.

Johnny slumped down on the sofa without a word.

Micki came up close to Jack, putting her arm around his neck and shoulder. "No, Jack. Nothing." she answered. "We asked as many questions as we could, but we didn't want to appear too nosey. It was the woman's funeral, after all."

Jack just nodded. This morning, he read an obituary about a woman dying in quite a mysterious way. She had been stabbed to death with an old hatpin. He had remembered something from the manifest, something about an antique English hatpin. But, he couldn't remember the details, of course, and without the manifest to look them up, they were at a loss. The best they could do was poke around, try and find something out from people who knew the victim. Or the killer. Apparently, that hadn't worked out too well.

"Tomorrow, I can print up some sort of documentation to get one of you into police headquarters. Maybe you can locate the hatpin in the evidence room or something." he shrugged. It was the best he could offer right now.

Micki had sensed his stress and began rubbing his neck and shoulders. "Jack," she said. "You are way too tense. Don't worry about it, Johnny and I can figure something out. You don't have to solve all our problems yourself, you know."

Jack patted her hand. "I know, I know. It's just frustrating, Micki. The manifest has been missing almost a week now and we aren't any closer to getting it back than we were the day it was stolen. Maybe when one of you goes to the police department, you can also check and see if someone possibly turned it in."

Johnny laughed, the first noise he had made since he came in. "Yeah, right, Jack. Somehow I doubt that creepy old book would turn up in some police lost-and-found."

"You never know, Johnny." Micki said, not liking Johnny's flippant tone. "There are still some good and honest people in the world, no matter what we may think."

A customer had come into the shop while they were talking, and just then asked for help with some old books. Jack stood up and went to her, being the most knowledgeable of the three of them when it came to these particular items.

Micki looked over at Johnny, sitting so forlornly on the sofa. "Come on, Johnny, don't look so glum. Things will get better."

Johnny looked up at her and shook his head. "Really, Micki? Better? From what I have seen over the past year here, things just keep getting worse, a little at a time. This is just the latest setback in this never-ending search."

Micki tensed up at Johnny's brief tirade. "You have to look on the positive side. We are still hunting down the items, even with the loss of the manifest. We have a job to do here. You know, you'd never find Ryan..." she stopped then, realizing she was about to compare Johnny to Ryan again, even after she had promised herself not to do that anymore.

"What? Never find Ryan what? Tired? Angry? Sick of the whole damn thing?!?" Johnny yelled suddenly, the frustration rising as his voice did. "Well, you know what? I am not Ryan, okay Micki?"

Across the store, Jack cleared his throat in an attempt to get the two of them to stop arguing, since they had a now-uncomfortable customer still browsing the shop.

Micki and Johnny were just staring at each other. Before Micki could apologize, the phone rang. She walked over to the counter where the phone stood next to the cash register and answered it.

"Hello, Curious Goods." she said into the receiver. "Yes, I am the owner of the store, how can I help you?"

Johnny looked away from her and towards Jack, who was busy explaining something about some old book to their customer. He regretted snapping at Micki. He knew she missed Ryan. But he was sick of being compared to him. He wasn't Ryan, wasn't trying to be Ryan, and as much as they didn't say it, he could see it in their eyes. He just could never measure up to the memory Ryan had left on them and on this place.

Jack brought the customer to the cash register and rang up her item. Micki was still on the phone, but hadn't spoken in a couple of minutes. She hung up just as the woman thanked Jack and left with her newly purchased first edition novel.

"Micki?" Jack asked, once the door had closed behind the woman. "Who was that on the phone?"

Johnny had stood up and walked over to the counter, as well. He could tell something was wrong, something about the phone call had changed the look on Micki's face. "Mick, what is it?" he asked.

"That phone call." she answered, looking at Jack. "That call was from the person who stole the manifest and your books. It appears they have an antique Uncle Lewis sold, an old mirror, and they are trying to find a way to break the curse. They took all the books to try and find a way to do that."

Jack could see panic growing in her eyes. "Micki, what else did they say?"

She bit her lip and ran her hand through her long, red hair. "Jack, they took the mail that day, too. They took the letter from Ryan's mother."

"The letter?" Johnny asked. "What good would that letter be to them?"

She looked from Jack to Johnny and back again. "They used the letter to find Ryan and Mrs. Dallion. He said we have to find a way to break the curse if we ever want to see them both alive again!"

#friday the 13th: the series #micki foster #80s tv #ryan dallion #jack marshak #curious goods #manifest #johnny ventura #reflecting #fanfic

[zealouscanonindeer]

The Pipe Problem

Dr John Watson:

And what course of action are we employ further?” I questioned.

Holmes had filled me in with the details of the day, I felt nervous at her sudden disappearance. 

“I shall think upon the matter, hopefully we shall have more clarity by tomorrow morning.”

I knew Holmes would not sleep a wink that night. Attaining his usual position, heavy smoking and intense meditation, he would slip into solitude as the hours wore on. Even he admitted, his findings were meagre and could not make for much but I had enough belief in his abilities for both of us. 

The next morning as I made my way to breakfast, I witnessed Holmes neatly dressed, busily writing something. He was in much better spirits that yesterday. It seemed his penance had yielded a beneficial clue.

“Aha, morning Watson. Which one would you say more suited?” he thrust two letters at me. Before reading them, I put forth my queries.

“Well, it is clear enough that she was writing a letter to me, the words my dear Holmes, sherlock, apologies and understand could culminate in that respect. Maybe she wished to inform me of her absence but though better of it.”

“The sherlock need not be in your letter, she could have mentioned you to a third party”

“Good Watson, very good. That is true enough. Now for the wrong and deliberate, they hint at a mistake or ill intentions and they’re deliberateness. Understand also is too loose to be clubbed into one category. The father could show her describing her father’s recent travel. The appreciate I cannot place.”

“It seems easy enough. She appreciates you understanding her absence.”

“But that’s the thing. Both the words are too far apart, with understand on what one could make the second line of the letter while appreciate does not appears until the very end of the page.it could serve a similar purpose, nonetheless.”

“What of the letter she supposedly received from you?’

“The most acceptable conjecture would be thus. She received a letter, one that was to deceive her but she realised the hoax and wished to unfurl the person behind this. She did as per the letter, making her escape in the night. Her attempts of the letters are more difficult to explain for she would undoubtedly inform me. She must have used her father’s departure as an excuse to mask her own.”

“How about she was being watched and her attempts of contact denied”

“That does not explain the sheer amount of discarded paper. If she was being watched, only a single letter would be burned. No more likely she struggled with her next course of action, often vacillating between outcomes.”

“Who would know of the lady’s presence in my life and its importance to send her a letter on my behalf, knowing she would certainly act.”

He closed his eyes, eyebrows ruffling in agitation, his forehead wrinkling as he thought deeply. After a few moments, he got up making his way to the coat rack, pulling on his overcoat and securing his muffler around his long neck.

“Watson, if it pleases you, I shall be grateful of your company. ”

“Don’t you wish for me to read these prototypes first?”

“If our endeavours are successful, we shall some original documentations. Now come along Watson, the game is truly afoot.”

We made our way to Mrs crofts establishment, Holmes intently studying the times columns. He, as per his custom maintained silence.

We were let in by a small parlour maid with an alarmed expression over her thin countenance. Holmes nodded at her and silently made his way up the stairs into the third room to the left. His nimble fingers, handling a smallish hatpin worked away at the lock until it gave open.

No sooner were we in than he had once again turned into a creature of frenzy and unduplicable energy, his hands working on every crevice and his trained eye unable to miss even a slight detail. However, his search yielded nothing concrete.

Next, he tore open the closet, dresser drawers and every other surface was rendered open but to avail. He then, with visible displeasure conceded,

“Oh, Watson, I suppose everyone has their limits as I have been painfully made aware of mine. I wonder what I have missed…. I must have…. surely…. By Jove! There it is!”

He lurched at the morning dress placed on the settee and dug into its deep pockets and his whimsical smile returned once more.

“Not yet Watson not just yet.”

He procured a curious little piece of paper, a crisscrossed one, the columns filled with unusual numbers. 

“What is this then Holmes?”

“Beats me, another night in tobacco ash shall be needed. Come now, we must swiftly take leave before Mrs croft is made aware of our presence.

With immaculate detail, the room was left as found and two gentlemen slipped noiselessly out of the women chambers. 

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x y/n #henry sherlock #henry!holmes #henry!sherlock #henry!sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock fluff #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock fanfic #sherlock hound #sherlock x reader #sherlock imagine #acd sherlock #acd canon #holmes and watson #acd sherlock holmes #victorian sherlock #sherlock holmes 1954

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

I just ADORE your Malcolm/the doctor fics!!! You are truly an amazing writer!!! Could you write a story where the doctor is injured or sick and Malcolm tries to take care of him???

Thank you enjoying my work...!

Here we go, a little injury fic for you, anon!

Warning: blood, injury, alien time travelers should not be used to feed mysterious nature gods

On with the fic!

--

The Doctor knew better, oh, he knew he was not meant to be in here, but he had to see what had happened in the past few years.

The community was still growing, the little town outside of the woods, in the clearing where farms were being established and animals were kept. The Doctor had it hand it to Malcolm, he was doing decently with running a community, even if he was doing so as a false prophet to a goddess no one was really allowed to see.

Honestly, the Doctor had run into much worse groups like this, clearly. As long as Malcolm actually listened to his warnings, maybe things won't turn out as bad as what the Doctor had seen in the future. He had seen two terrible, disgusting outcomes in the far future, and frankly, he wished to spare Malcolm and the village the horrors of what could happen.

Luckily, this place is not home to a fix point, so anything could happen!

It was fairly easy to break into the barn, hidden deep in the forest, standing out like a sore thumb. The ol' sonic was also so handy with a lock. That, and a hatpin and a paper clip also does the trick if need be.

Opening the barn, the Doctor could smell the strong scent of soil and plant matter in the air, with just a hint of blood. It was fairly easy to find the goddess, sitting in a throne of branches and roots, though the sight was horrific, to say the least.

She was in a more ashen state than when the Doctor first met her nearly five years ago, and her body seemed to be fusing with the throne.

"Oh, I'm sorry," He said softly to her, "I'm so sorry."

He approached slowly, her strange eyes watching his every step. "Hello, do you remember me? I'm the Doctor, and I'd like to help you."

The Doctor placed his hands on the throne, feeling the dry wood against his skin, careful of the pointed bits of branches and debris stuck to it. "Maybe, if I can get you out, let you go back to your home here on the island, things will be alright, yes?"

She made a strange hissing, clicking sound, and started to speak, but the Doctor didn't understand a single word. And that was impressive, he understood nearly five billion languages, yet he had never heard this one before in his life.

"She said that releasing her won't change anything."

The Doctor yelped, turning to see that Malcolm was there, along with Quinn, but no Frank. Then the Doctor hissed sharply, feeling a pain in his hand. He looked, seeing that he had sliced his palm on one of the broken branches in his jump of surprise. Red blood pooled from the wound, dripping from his hand and onto the throne.

"Doctor, get away from Her..." Malcolm said, not in a threatening sense, but in caution.

"It's just a little blood." The Doctor reasoned. "If that's what she drinks, might as well let her have a sip, don't want perfectly good blood to go to wasssttAAA!"

A vice-like grip grabbed a hold of his arm and he was pulled onto the woman, who shrieked in some sort of strange, nearly-joyousness manner.

Then she bite hand, hard.

"Let go of me, let go of me!" The Doctor cried out, trying to shove her face away, but her bite was strong, more blood came out, coating mouth and his hand. He pulled out the sonic screwdriver, flashing the light in her eyes, but that had no effect at all.

Then he felt it, sharp, needle-like points of pain, in his arms and at his ankles. He watched in horror as roots came from the throne, the floor, trying to dig into his skin.

"She's trying to drain me..." He said in observant terror.

"That's enough!" Malcolm shouted, storming over. "You have had your fill, you do not need him! Release the Doctor, he is not yours!"

The goddess puller her bloody mouth away, hissing at Malcolm, who pulled a knife from his coat and slashed his hand, wincing at the pain. He pressed the palm of it to her face, letting her suckle at the wound, giving the Doctor the oppertunity to get away, pulling the roots from his skin.

He stumbled back, clutching his hand to him, it was still bleeding, and it burned greatly. The pain in his ankles and arms stung, but the hand was much worse. He looked up at Malcolm, who pulled his hand away, whispering words to the woman that the Doctor couldn't quite catch.

He panted from the shock of it all, his attention turning to Quinn as he approached the wooden throne. They locked eyes for a second, and he could see an anger, and a curiosity, in them. The Doctor didn't like that, he looked away.

Malcolm turned to his right-hand man, whispering something to him now, and it sounded threatening, before he moved towards the Doctor. "Come, let's get you patched up, my friend. It would be wise if you did not bleed out here, She doesn't need anymore of your blood."

"I wasn't planning on donating again anytime soon." The Doctor tried to smile, but he was feeling a bit woozy as he got to his feet. "I'm gonna fall over..."

"Come now, I'll take you to the village, get you patched up." Malcolm spoke as he put an arm around the Doctor. He looked over his shoulder, seeming to be looking either at the goddess or Quinn with a hard, darken stare, then he walked the Doctor from the barn.

--

It was dark in the village, minus small fires lit about for those on night patrol. Best that no one was out, they would ask questions about the bleeding man pressed against Malcolm's side, who seemed to be mumbling things to himself from the blood loss.

It sounded like he was saying mathematical calculations to himself, the Doctor continued to be a strange man in Malcolm's life.

He got to his home, and sat the Doctor down in a chair before looking for the medical supply kit his brother-in-law had given him. "I'll clean you up myself, Doctor. I'd rather the doctor here not ask questions about what happened to you. I can't say this was an animal, that bite looks too human."

The Doctor shakily lifted his still-bleeding hand. "She got me good..."

"She really took to your blood." Malcolm frowned as he pulled out what he needed, then got himself a small bowl of water, walking over to the chair and carefully lowering himself to the floor.

"Course she did..." The Doctor sighed, closing his eyes, then opened them quickly, trying to sit up. "You only feed her animal blood, which can get boring, I'm sure. She got a taste of me and she really liked that."

"Why is that?" The prophet asked as he cleaned the hand wound first, trying to wash away the blood. It didn't look like it needed to be stitched up, but he was going to tightly bandage it, like his brother-in-law showed him before.

"Mmmm... Time Lord blood is much different from animal or human."

Malcolm stopped, turning to look at the Doctor. "Time Lord?"

"You know I'm not human, yeah?"

"Yes, you told me before."

"There ya go, that's what I am, Time Lord. 's why I've got the two hearts."

Malcolm was very aware of the two heart beats he had heard before, the back of his neck felt a little warm, must be the fire from the fireplace. "What is a Time Lord?"

"An ancient being from beyond the stars and time." The Doctor gave him a manic grin. "Do you have somethin'... sugary? It helps with blood loss."

Malcolm dipped his hands in the bowl, cleaning off some of the blood, before getting up to look around his kitchen. There wasn't much, but he returned with a jar of preserved peaches. The Doctor gave his thanks and started to eat a few of them, then sipped at the sugary juice inside.

"You didn't have to do this." The Doctor spoke after a while, when Malcolm had silently returned to cleaning and tending to the wounds. "I know you didn't want to."

"I did. You are my friend, Doctor. And I feared She would kill you." Malcolm replied. "Why were you in there? I've warned you before to never go inside."

"And I've warned you to release her."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"It's not my choice."

"There's always a choice, for everyone." The Doctor said. "You gave her your blood, that was a choice."

Malcolm stopped and looked at his own hand, he had wrapped a strip of cloth from the barn around it before he had helped the Doctor. He hadn't thought, he needed to distract Her, and She seemed to have taken to it nearly as greedily as She had to the Doctor's.

"I had to help you. I look out for my friends, Doctor. I was not going to let the Goddess drain you, I've seen what She can do to an animal, it's not... it's not a pretty way to die."

It was terrifying, a nightmare, if She had full access instead of what was offered.

No one ever said a god was always merciful.

The Doctor popped another peach slice into his mouth before setting the jar down. "Malcolm..."

"Doctor?" He looked up from where he was finishing with wrapping one of his ankles.

"I want you to be careful. She's gotten a taste for new blood, she might try for more in the future."

"I know you are saying this as a possible warning, but your eyes..." He touched the Doctor's face, "they tell me it will happen."

The Doctor looked so serious, that was all the answer Malcolm needed. "I will do my best to keep her sated, unwanting of the blood of man and... Time Lord."

A tired, knowing smile came to the other man's lips. "I know you will, as best as you will."

Malcolm nodded and gathered the supplies. "You may rest here tonight, I will offer you my bed. Do keep quiet though, my daughter is sleeping in her room. I don't think she even knows I'm back."

The Doctor nodded and carefully stood up. "Thank you, Malcolm Howe. You didn't have to do this, I would have been fine when I got back to my TARDIS."

"It was the least I could do. I didn't want you to die, Doctor. You are of importance to me."

"I'm sure I am."

--

This ran away from me and got very, very long.

#john's drabbles #good omens extended universe #malcolm howe x tenth doctor #the prophet and the oncoming storm au

[jaskiersvalley]

Hi! Hope you're doing well, dear ♥️

Hi Nonnie! I am living my best life currently, so all is good in my corner of the world. Hope you’re keeping well too. To try and make your day a little better, have a very silly ficlet about witcher fashion senses.

Frankly, Jaskier was a little sick and tired of Geralt’s outfit choices. Always drab and black. They were easy enough to repair, lasted considerably longer than expected, given the use and abuse they suffered but they were so boring. The cheapest possible clothes that lasted the longest. Economically it made sense but Jaskier thrived on aesthetics. Which was why, more often than not, Jaskier stared at Geralt’s face before stripping him to enjoy his body.

“Would some colour really ruin your reputation this much?” Jaskier gestrues wide with his hands to show his lack of understanding. “I would have thought if it was a witcher thing, there’d be some tail about witchers only wearing black because they only wreak death and destruction, leaving grief in their wake.” Holding up a hand, he made the most important point. “Which would be utter bullshit by the way, don’t get mopey on me.”

The long and short of it was that, eventually Geralt had had enough of Jaskier’s nitpicking about his fashion choices. Which was how the invitation to go to Kaer Morhen came about and Jaskier got rather excited. He had plans, wanting to bring a bit of cheer into the School of Wolf along with a bit of style.

“I want to bring them all gifts, you tell me so little about your fellow witchers so you’re going to have to come to the market and help me. They need to be practical gifts but I don’t know what they already have and what would be considered offensive.” Jaskier shuddered at the memory of Geralt’s glare when he had been presented with a loofah, as well meaning as Jaskier had been, he never tried that again.

Thankfully, the gifts couldn’t be too large, they had to fit in a satchel and be carried up the mountain. In the end, Jaskier, with Geralt’s non-verbal guidance managed to pick out the most curious assortment of gifts. A large brooch, a hatpin and some quite delicate bangles. At a guess, Jaskier figured it was better than giving each witcher a pouch of coin to buy their favours, even if they only traded their gifts later on. Maybe the hatpin and the brooch could be used as a weapon in a pinch or the bangles enchanted. Jaskier didn’t want to guess, as long as everyone was happy, he was fine too.

They trekked up the mountain to Kaer Morhen. When they were still a little way out, the shouting started. Only, it wasn’t shouting more like cackling calls.

“Yoohoo! Plebs!”

Geralt shook his head. “Ignore Lambert, he’s insufferable.”

No matter how much Jaskier craned his neck, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the noisy witcher calling to them.

“This way, drab bastards!”

Muttering under his breath, Geralt rolled his eyes. Finally, they were at the doors of the keep and they were flung open. There were many things Jaskier was anticipating but not this.

A witcher in a wide brimmed, extravagant hat waltzed out to punch Geralt in the shoulder then pull him in for a gruff hug. There was a murmured “Lambert” from Geralt and then another witcher was appearing, this one in a fancy cape that trailed dramatically behind him.

“Vesemir!” Geralt nodded with a small smile. Behind them all was a final witcher, dressed much more sensibly. It was almost easy to miss that rather than clothes he seemed to prefer a few simple bracelets and a couple of rings. He hugged Geralt the tightest and longest, their foreheads resting together for a moment as they smiled.

One positive thing that came from the greeting was that Jaskier didn’t even have to second guess which gift was meant for who. The hatpin was crooned over by Lambert while Vesemir looked rather proud of a new brooch holding his cape in place and Eskel quietly slipped the bangles on, twisting them round and round as he fidgeted.

Late that night, once everyone had eaten, caught up and settled in their respective rooms, Jaskier spotted a wardrobe in Geralt’s room full of clothes that looked more like Yennefer would wear than Geralt.

“I have to ask. What the hell?”

Geralt smiled at the honest question.

“We can’t have anything nice on the Path. We’re already hated, anything we value would become a target. I don’t want to spend precious coin on a nice outfit, only to have it tear, get covered in gore or be pelted with rotten vegetables which will never wash out.”

Which made a distressing amount of sense. Jaskier always grumbled about his clothes getting dirtied and damaged. And he wasn’t even the one doing the fighting. So witchers kept things simple, attachment free on the path, keeping everything they valued in Kaer Morhen. Logical. Jaskier found himself agreeing with their ideas.

The next morning he didn’t just understand and agree, he was also deeply appreciative when Geralt pulled on colourful and soft clothes, preening shyly under Jaskier’s gaze. Winter, Jaskier decided, was definitely his favourite season.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #tldr: witchers do appreciate finery and good clothes

[quecksilvereyes]

my love

my love, can you look at me still?

I’ve not changed, see. These hands are still as they were before the world started spinning about itself and after, these eyes have not changed since you first looked at them. These lips are still the same as they were before you first kissed them, this hair has not lightened or darkened or grown grey and silver spun.

*

My mother married a man with death dripping from his lips, when she was barely twenty and her father’s blood was smeared on her wedding ring. She left her world and all that she knew with a vow and a smile – and a kiss.

She saw everything he’d killed and suffocated dripping from the walls and wailing in the basement long before she could ever recognise the rich soil for what it was; blood drunk and heavy with bones.

 *

I saw him die long before either of us knew he would leave. sometimes, in the mornings, when the sun had barely risen yet, when the world was still holding its breath – when he’d reach for you with a smile and a song and all the world’s tenderness cradled in his collarbones – I’d see him choke on his own blood. or maybe on all that we tucked into the cracks in the walls.

my love, I’m still wearing our rings.

They’re strung on a silver chain around my neck, as they have always been, since that rainy afternoon in July, when we were dancing in that kitchen, and he hadn’t left, yet. I’ve never taken them off, in all these years.

I still know the feeling of the tiles on my bare feet, can still smell the rain outside, still feel your laughter and his voice clinging to every part of me. Sometimes, even now, I wake up in the middle of the night and expect you, wrapped around me – or him, sprawled atop us. Sometimes, I expect to walk down the stairs and into a kitchen I’ve not entered in a hundred years.

 *

I never knew my father. My mother was still pregnant; heaving and screaming and bloodied, when she drove her hatpin through his chest. It was the only sharp thing left that he hadn’t taken from her.

He’d taken her teeth, see; ragged, pointed things; had taken her words too – with a smile or maybe his voice or maybe a wedding. And then he’d taken all the knives in the kitchen, and the keys from their ring, had filed her nails down and gulped down her voice, greedy as he was; blood drowned.

My mother says he was a coward, with a spine made of brittle, dried wood.

She never told me that I look just like him. She didn’t need to.

 *

my love, I wonder sometimes

Would it be different, now, had I told you what I saw when I looked at him and the light was just right? Would you have believed the blood dripping from him, and the way his knees buckled?

Could I have stayed?

Or would it be just the same; he leaves, and the letters stop. His last one is dripping with all that I have swallowed and kept so close to my chest that I might have drowned, and you don’t cry for days. I see him die on the fifth day after the letters stop and I cry so much that my cheeks are bloodied; raw.

I leave, too.

There is a ring on my finger and another on yours and they’re not a matched pair. Mine is still dripping with my grandfather’s blood, yours is scratched, and worn. I carry the little one on my shoulders and the whispers follow us like a trail of smoke, like – did you cheat on your husband with the foreigner who cradles your child so carefully? Maybe he hasn’t vanished, after all.

 *

My mother still loves my father. She still lives in that seeping, screaming house, with its walls woven in blood. She hasn’t changed her name. At night, I hear her speak to the afterimage of my father, in a soft voice, her hair undone.

When I was a child, I would hide in every nook, every cupboard, every room that was unlocked, and talk to the dead who built this house in blood and tears and unknowing blindness. Once, I was tucked into a lap, and a voice sang to me in a language I couldn’t understand.

You see, my father loved each and every one of his wives. He cradled all of them on his hands and swallowed them whole until they, too, dripped into the foundations of this home; wailing and screaming and tear-drowned, still.

“Sometimes”, said my mother when I was still a boy and folded into her arms, “loving someone is not enough. Sometimes what they need is not your love.” She kissed my forehead.

 *

my love, there is a painting of both of you leaning against the naked walls of this apartment. Do you remember? The two of you were lying in bed, under the setting sun, his legs entangled with yours, his lips on your neck, and you’d reached for me, with a smile so soft it blended all your edges into the evening sun.

It is the only one of my paintings I haven’t lost, and the only one of them I can still touch. The others don’t belong to me, anymore. A dead man can’t own his art, after all these years.

 my love, can you look at me still?

I’m still as I was; unchanged and unmoving, with the dead on my walls.

#original work #writers of tumblr #banshee #ish #a love letter from an immortal to the loves he never forgot #on family trauma and living with the dead woven into you #blood tw #murder tw #toxic relationship tw #his mother has. issues #angst #with a little side of #fluff #larissa makes things #*

[alliseaisfandom]

The day they went shopping

(A small slice of life from a day during the 11 years that Crowley and Aziraphale spent raising who they believed was the Antichrist, a.k.a the reason I stayed up way too late yesterday) 

Crowley adjusted her hatpin. Nanny Ashtoreth had standards, after all: she couldn’t walk around with a crooked hat, it would ruin her Aesthetic.

It was her day off. That meant lunch with Aziraphale, or maybe a walk in the park. Sometimes it meant reporting to Head Office. But today was not one of those times. So, she was happy.

Thin rose-tinted lips curled up in a smile in front of the small mirror and she opened the door

to find Harriet Dowling, hand raised, about to knock.

“Mrs. Dowling, good morning.”

“Good morning, Nanny Ashtoreth. I- I’m sorry but I need a favour.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, sure. Well, no, not really. I know it’s your day off, but- can you watch Warlock?”

Crowley tried to not raise an eyebrow, she really, really tried, but some things were stronger than her.

“I know I’m pushing, but,” she looked furtively to the end of the hall, “I need you to.”

She was fidgety. Crowley lowered her voice:

“Mrs. Dowling, what happened?”

“Nothing. It’s just, I got Tad to agree to go to marriage council, today’s the only day he’s home for the next few weeks, so we’re starting today. I just– gossip.”

“I see. Of course I can stay with the boy.” She smiled.

Harriet looked her up and down and suddenly realized:

“You were going out.”

“Yes.” Crowley realized she was expecting her to continue, “shopping.” Rather less fun than her actual plans, but there was enough gossip on her end too.

“Well, maybe you could still go. In fact, maybe you can pick something up for Warlock too. Here. Go nuts, it’s on me.” She pulled a card from her purse. Black, shiny plastic. The mark of guilt. “You know the code, right?”

“Yes, I do. But you don’t have to, I can stay here with-”

“Don’t make me feel any more guilty. Please. Just take it. And have fun, as much as you can, that is. “

“Young Warlock has never been a grievence to my ‘fun’, Mrs. Dowling, I doubt he’ll start today.”

“ Thank you.”

A male voice called from downstairs, and Harriet’s barely contained eye-roll turned to a kind smile in Crowley’s direction.

Oh, no therapist could fix that. Still:

“It’s admirable, that you’re trying. For Warlock.”

“What?” She blinked.

“Like you said, gossip.” It had quickly flown around, the news of an argument on a day where Warlock was out in the park. A secretary, or an attaché, possibly and an attaché. Broken scotch glasses, screams, and an office couch that was slept in for some time. “But it’s very noble of you to try.”

She smiled sadly and left without another word. For all the respect Crowley had for Harriet, she faded around her husband.

Because Crowley did respect Harriet, against all her best efforts. After all, how could she not? Harriet Dowling’s role was good wife and corporate eye candy, and she’d turn it around to regain some power of her own, get a say on how things were done, be listened to, for once.

She tried her best as a mother, too, in the beginning, even if she wasn’t a natural at it. She’d read all the books, taken all the classes and seen every documentary, and in the end she’d caved in and hired a nanny. For some time, she’d bordered on negligence, Crowley had to stop herself from gritting her teeth every time they met. But a few years later, she’d come back around. Toddlers are rough but they beat newborns any day. So, Harriet had gotten closer to her son, watching the way Nanny Ashtoreth did some things, slowly giving her more time off so she could spend time with Warlock herself.

Hell was very fond of the idea of a neglected child. Crowley found it rather wonderful that Harriet tried her best.

Honestly, the woman deserved an award just for putting up with that husband of hers.

Crowley knocked on Warlock’s bedroom door and found him playing with his toy cars on the mat.

He’d gotten an awfully expensive race car track for Christmas. He’d asked for a space shuttle Lego set after he heard Nanny’s tales about the stars.

He insisted on not using the track.

Aziraphale had given him ‘just an old book I found in me shed, master Warlock, not much’. It was an early edition of an astronomy manual used at Oxford. Aziraphale had miracled it to never be ruined, even in the hands of a six-year-old. Crowley had thanked for her glasses that day and had put Warlock to bed over funny pictures of meticulously drawn on stars.

“Good morning, little Hellspawn, how are we today?”

Read the rest on AO3

(thought about posting the whole thing here, turns out it is wayy too long )

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #crowley #aziraphale #nanny ashtoreth #brother francis #warlock dowling #fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #mine #im proud of this. as it turns out my sleep deprived brain isn't that different from regular me #although i dont think thats a good thing #on second thought #oh crap the warnings #tw violence #tw emotional trauma

[ms-maj]

Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me

It only took three weeks to get six songs in, it’s cool. This one ended up being way harder than it needed to be. Song(s) that make you want to dance- Time Warp (or really any song from Rocky Horror). 

This is also the part where I heap copious amounts of gratitude at the feet of @theheavycrown​ for making this cohesive and also for the PERFECT graphic. She is best. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Jughead tried to get comfortable in his white boxer shorts and undershirt— he’d drawn the line at tighty whities—but without his beanie, he felt exceptionally exposed. 

Betty looked at him, wearing nothing but a thin satin slip and a bra that looked equal parts uncomfortable and sexy as hell. “I did no such thing. You were a willing participant when we discussed…”

“It’s hard to say no to you when your mouth—” her finger came up to silence him. 

“We’re here for Kevin, remember? It’s his first performance outside of Riverdale High and we promised we’d support him,” her finger lingered on his lip until he nods, smirking she slowly dragged it down until his eyes narrowed and he nipped at the tip.

Jughead could say, without question, that The Rocky Horror Picture Show was not his scene. He’d seen the movie, or parts of it, just once and decided pretty quickly that there was a reason it was a cult classic. He’d heard that it wasn’t the film, or the show, per se, but the event. The spectacle was what made it so special. Sitting in an auditorium full of half-naked people who ran the gamut of ages did not assuage his initial fears. Nor did the prop bag in his lap. (Why exactly did one need a rubber glove AND playing cards?)

But, Betty’s easy smile made being there just a skosh more palatable. The theater was dark, intentionally, he was sure. It was atmospheric, the din; the fraying curtains, the worn seats, the broken lights lining the aisles and running across the spanse of the stage. It had the faint underlying smell of decay he associated with places people refused to let go of. It lingered in every corner bar or old department store. It was the dirt and the dust embedded so deeply into the fabric of a place that removing it was practically sacrilege to the patrons. 

He could understand the appeal, wanting to preserve a piece of history as it was remembered. Just looking around at the crowd with their many costumes, some presumably older than himself, would attest to that. 

And being the cinephile he considered himself to be, he thought that being part and parcel for one of the biggest cult events in history would be more…

(Finish below the cut or on AO3)

“You made it!!” Kevin sashayed up the aisle to where they were seated. Betty, in all her scantily clad glory, leaned over him to stand and greet their friend. She did not return to her seat, just perched herself prettily on Jughead’s lap.

Kevin looked every bit in his element. Of course, if you were playing Dr. Frank-n-furter, you’d have to be damn good, and completely confident in yourself. He was assuredly both of those things, with his stocking-clad legs and red pumps. His black-gloved hands rested against his corseted waist as he apprised the group.

“I love that Archie looks the most uncomfortable even though he and Veronica are the only two in your group that are wearing actual clothes,” Kevin laughed as Archie flipped him the bird from their end of the row.

It had somehow been decided, if he remembered correctly between Betty and Cheryl, that the couples would be dressing as Brad and Janet, through the various stages of the film. Veronica and Archie got wedding Brad and Janet, Toni and Cheryl were dressed like the mannequins from the end, and he and Betty, underwear. 

“Who’d have thought Jughead Jones would come to Rocky Horror as anything but Eddie?” Betty threw her head back as his arms tightened around her midsection.

“Those Veronica’s pearls, Kevin?” 

“Of course,” he winked back. “I hope you’re ready for this, especially you virgins!” Before Jughead could question him, Kevin was headed back toward the stage and Betty was sliding off his lap and back into her seat, an indecipherable look settling onto her face. 

“Hey,” Jughead started leaning closer to Betty, “what does he mean virgins?”

She shrugged innocently. “Guess we’ll find out.” She pointed to the center of the stage where Kevin was now standing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, non-binary and gender-fluid friends, and my sweet, sweet transvestites, welcome, to Rocky Horror!” Kevin transformed on the stage, he owned it, he was Frank. 

The crowd whooped and hollered.

“It’s been brought to my attention that there are several very special virgins in our midst tonight,” he said, stalking across the stage toward the side of the theater they were seated at. 

“What are you gonna do to ‘em, Frank?” Jughead heard yelled back, a smattering of voices throughout but most surprising, three from right next to him. 

“We’re gonna pop your cherries real good tonight, virgins!” Jughead could feel the blood drain from his face, stark white aside from the crimson lipstick V that adorned his cheek.

“Betty,” he said lowly. “Please tell me this scarlet letter isn’t going to lead to my very public humiliation?” 

“C’mon Jug,” she cajoled from beneath the thick veil of her eyelashes. “You like a little humiliation.”

He growled without meaning to. “I like to be the one doling it out, Elizabeth, you should know that by now.”

Her soft hand landed on his thigh. “Maybe you’ll just have to make me pay for it then.”

Eyes narrowed on the half-naked marvel next to him, he ran his tongue ran across sharp teeth before his mouth settled into a ravenous smirk. The words in his throat died as the house lights went down and the spotlights hit the crowd. 

“All virgins—those of you who were marked upon coming in—please make your way to the stage!” Kevin’s voice cut through the haze, snapping Jughead back to the present and making him painfully aware of the torturous glint Betty’s eyes had taken. He noticed more than a few people making their way to the stage. Veronica had stood pulling Archie up behind her, inching their way toward him; the aisle.

“We’ll see if you’re smiling later, poppet,” Jughead didn’t miss the way Betty shivered when the words hit her. He let Veronica and Archie pass before standing, raising a warning brow to his girl and stalking toward the stage. 

He could hear them: Betty, Toni, Cheryl, cheering for them as they hit center stage, but with the spots firmly affixed back to the production, he could barely make them out in the audience. 

“Look at this collection of delightful little V’s. Aren’t they just the cutest?” Kevin was wedged between an ever-increasingly anxious Jughead and Archie who, fully clothed, was enjoying being in the lights. When Jughead scowled in response to Kevin pinching his cheek, Kevin moved down to Veronica who preened under his attention, much to the delight of the crowd. “Don’t they just look good enough to eat?”

A chorus of delighted cheers ran through the audience.

As the lights followed Kevin down the line, the crowd became a little easier to discern. He could feel Betty’s eyes on him, even before he could fix her location. From the stage she looked absolutely in her element, shouting out random things along with Cheryl and Toni, looking way too comfortable in her underwear. He hadn’t been too happy about that if he was being honest. No one else was supposed to see her that bare, and yet, the possessive pride that swelled in him when she caught every passerby’s eye was enough to let him overlook punishing her for that particular offense.

Her smart mouth was another story. And so was this. Whatever this was.

And then he felt it. Something awkwardly large, not firm exactly but not soft either, something that prickled at his skin and pulled at the hair was thrust between his knees.

What he saw when he looked down is red. A balloon. A glance down the line assured him that he wasn’t the only one in this particular predicament.  With the quirk of an eyebrow and an impressive flourish, Kevin produced a giant hatpin; his eyes took on a wicked glint and he was standing at Jughead’s side. 

“Time to get rid of those pesky ol’ cherries!” Kevin paused and faced the audience. “One! Last! Time!” They all shouted in unison.

The ‘pop’ of the balloon Jughead was prepared for, even if he did jump a little. The moans from Kevin as he went down the line and took care of the rest of the balloons were also anticipated. What came most unbidden was that Jughead seemed to actually be enjoying himself.

It was probably because the whole process wasn’t half as humiliating as he’d imagined it would be. Or maybe he was just realizing he was one minute closer to being back in his seat. One scene closer to excusing themselves from their friends. Just a few more hours before he and Betty were back in their quiet little apartment (quiet until he had her screaming that is).

The newly devirginized were released to the raucous crowd, Jughead walking back with much more fervor than he’d gone up with. Maybe it was the ritualistic nature of the whole thing. The cherry popping or the dressing up or the audience participation lines that so many of the patrons knew. He only knew that the energy was palpable, it flowed through the space like electricity, crackling and sparking all around him as he finally sat back down. 

Betty was watching him from the corner of her eye, he could see her jaw clenching from biting her cheek, presumably to keep from smiling. “Something amusing, Elizabeth?” 

Their eyes finally met the moment the opening number began. She shook her head. “Nope,” the pop of her ‘p’ struck him like lightning.

“That’s good to hear because we’re already at ten when we get home, poppet. Five for knowing what was going to happen here and not telling me, and five for how much you enjoyed it,” Jughead sat transfixed, watching the graceful curve of her neck stretch as she sucked in a ragged breath. “Now watch the show.”

Her pretty, pink tongue slipped between plump, pastel lips as she turned her attention back to the stage. Before long, she and Cheryl and Toni were tossing lines out with the best of them, helping their virgin friends with their prop bags and truly embracing the spirit of Rocky Horror.

“So! What did you think?” Betty asked as soon as their feet hit the pavement. Archie and Veronica were doing the Time Warp as they walked out the door with several other revelers, Cheryl and Toni, now wrapped in heavy robes, were singing their best Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me’s, all-in-all he’d have to say the night was a success.

He stopped, wrapping his arm around her midsection and pressing his large, flat palm against her stomach. “It was something.”

Leaning back into his embrace, she turned to their friends and asked them the same.

“Well,” Cheryl started, tossing her crimson locks back behind her shoulder. “It’s Rocky so, I can understand how the production value could look like it costs less than a Jan Terri music video—”

“Get Down Goblin is a classic!” Archie interjected from behind, dancing his way into the circle. 

Cheryl turned to Archie, crimson-tipped fingers menacingly pointed in his direction. 

“Be that as it may, Ginger Rogers, I was simply stating a fact.” 

They kept at their squabbling for a while, the four of them sniping back and forth with no real venom until they grew bored of it. Jughead was just happy that the attention was finally off of him and his girlfriend. His hand crept higher, pressing her tighter to him as it came to rest fully on her ribcage, the other played with the band of her slip, fingers fluttering against the soft skin there.

Leaning up, Betty’s mouth landed at the juncture of his neck and ear. “You ready?”

The heat of Betty’s breath juxtaposed with the cool October air left trails of goosebumps down his already exposed skin. “Yes,” his voice had taken on a gravel-like lilt as the hand at her hip squeezed tightly. 

“Then let’s split, my creature of the night. I wanna be dirty.”

“Hot patootie, bless my soul,” he loved how it felt when she laughed pressed up against him. “Now tell our friends goodbye so I can take you home and remind you how good girls behave.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before he had turned them down the sidewalk and toward the subway station. It wouldn’t be long now before they got a taste of just how much pelvic thrusts could drive you insane. However, if that was insanity, Jughead Jones wanted no part of being sane. 

#songfic writing challenge 2019 #Bughead #bughead fanfiction #rocky horror #it was a night out #they would remember #for a very long time

[hanewsieshcs]

What Katherine vs Sarah Should Be Wearing. (pt 2)

Hello! So I promised a second part and look at that I’m actually following through in a timely manner! So Katherine’s post yesterday was Really Long, today’s about Sarah will be shorter. 

The first garment again will be a chemise, hers will probably be much plainer, worn and patched from many repeated washings. 

Next will once again be stockings and shoes, her stockings would most likely be black and once again, mended many times. Also, they most likely would be made out of wool or cotton, not silk like Katherine’s. Some might have some decoration around the ankles called “clocking” but Sarah's would probably not have this. 

Sarah’s shoes would be second hand, they’re one of the most expensive parts of the average person’s wardrobe. She would need sturdy comfortable shoes for standing and working long days.  (I know what the date says on the label, but from images, these are closer to what she would wear) 

As for a corset, she may not actually wear one. (This is the only time I will approve of a female character not wearing a corset.) But this is dependent on her financial status and also how recently the Jacobs immigrated. If they had been in the States for a while already, Sarah would most likely want to assimilate and get a corset but Mrs. Jacobs most likely is not wearing one. Feel free to figure that all out. For my purposes, I am saying she isn’t wearing one.  In winter, She would probably layer some flannel underwear. It would be made out of wool and it’s a very very warm garment. If she wore this, it would be under her chemise or she may have a separate pair of drawers/ shirt she could wear over her chemise. 

For her final layers, a shirt waist would be worn. These were made very cheaply in mass production so here is where a bit of extra money might be spent for some decoration. 

And then A skirt, made out of a lightweight wool in a dark blue, black or brown.  She may wear a petticoat underneath but if so, only one, maybe two in the winter and they would be very simple. The skirt length would be at least above the top of the foot, most likely at the ankle especially if she is not doing factory work as if you are carrying items in your arms,  you won’t have a hand free to lift your skirt as you walk up the stairs. Certain kinds of factory work allowed women to dress slightly more fashionably due to higher wages, a static position and less danger of the equipment. Someone in a Mill for example would want their skirts higher to not risk getting them caught in the machines or to be sweeping up all the gross crap that had fallen on the floor. 

The final layer would be an apron. If Sarah is doing factory work like spinning, weaving or the like, she will most likely be wearing an apron like the lady on the left where it has a blouse part. For work around the home or if she were doing factory work like sewing, the apron on the right is more commonly seen. Personally, I believe that this would be a personal preference as to what would rather be worn. For example, working in a mill, it is much messier work than say sewing shirt waists where you will just get thread and such in your lap rather than risk oil or a substance getting on your blouse. 

Hats were seen much more rarely on very poor women. Instead, they may tie handkerchiefs around their hair when going out. Once Sarah had been working for a while and saved up some pocket money, her first spend would probably be on a hat to be a bit more fashionable. Hats were the easiest accessory to have because you could keep the base (or blank in technical terms) from year to year and then only need to buy new trim or decorations every couple of seasons.  By the end of the century, hats were getting very very large and were secured with hatpins. 

I hope that this helped in writing and seeing the differences in Katherine vs. Sarah! As always, any questions, feel free to send in an ask!  Hugs and Love,  Mod Syd

#mod syd #sarah jacobs #Newsies #newsboys #Newsies The Musical #sarah newsies #newsies 1992 #92sies #newsies the movie #history #actual history #working girls

[vinceaddams]

I went to an antiques fair yesterday and a lot of the stuff was uninteresting and/or Way Too Expensive (which I’m assuming is normal for antiques fairs but I hadn’t been to one before so I’m not sure) but I did get a couple of watch keys and some weapons grade hatpins!

I assume the watch keys are 19th or early 20th century, but I will put them on my late 18th century watch strings, which I still need to make more of. The Met has a lot of late 18th c. watch strings that have jeweled keys on them, but one of them does have a key identical to these ones! The seller had many more of them so I’m guessing it was just a basic watch key design that stayed the same for a long time. Or maybe someone changed the key on the Met’s one later in the century, who knows?

The hatpins were sold all together in that bunch of corks for a surprisingly affordable price, and now I’m well prepared to attach large hats to my head if I ever decide to do turn of the century drag!

#hatpins #antiques #fun fact: if you stare at a table full of tools willing certain antique sewing items to appear it will not happen at all #which is not surprising but still... it's not inconceivable that a pinking tool could get mixed in with old woodworking chisels right? #ah well. I am pleased with my huge huge stabby hatpins #ALSO holy shit one lady had probably the most ridiculously overpriced card of buttons in the entire world #yeah sure it was a nice card of 24 glass buttons from probably the late 19th century #but JAYSUS HECKING POOP she wanted 98 dollars for it???????????? #RIDICULOUS! I don't expect she will ever sell it ever! I just looked on etsy and multiple comparable cards are listed for less than a third #of that price so #what would you even do with a card of buttons that expensive?? #put it in a glass case? It's not really that fancy #hell I have a partial set of old buttons on a much prettier card #mine's got a fancy swirly border #hers was a plain white card with a simple boring outline #anyways! 30 Canadian moneys for all those hatpins!!! That's only a bit more than a dollar a pin! #and some are very smol but the big stabby ones absolutely make up for it

[permian-tropos]

I don't have anything sensible to offer but pls consider a 19th century au in which Rax is convinced that he is an opera genius albeit an amateur, and spends his time composing increasingly ludicrous operas that he gets to stage bc of his ludicrously wealthy mysterious guardian whomst no one has seen and Rae is a pseudonymous critic who absolutely savages their technical qualities and then romance!!!

There’s no need to be sensible!!!!! Also the “and then romance!!!” ending to your ask seems to be inviting me to fill in the gaps so I will do that. Without paragraph breaks!!!

Sloane is obsessed with tearing down this unrefined, masturbatory tripe that fills up Rax’s operas, she writes scathing reviews, pseudonymously as you said, that people start flocking to as they realize the real fun is in this critical rivalry going on. Rax, because he’s got no chill button, is compelled to write operas that respond to the critiques in increasingly bizarre and unhinged ways. Meanwhile Sloane has started trying to dig into the secrets of Rax’s mysterious benefactor and finds out that these operas have actually in part been schemes by his benefactor to launder money through the expensive props and costumes, and so the content has never needed to be good. She is so fucking ready to expose this but while sneaking around she is tipped off to the existence of a rough draft of one of Rax’s operas that is actually kind of decent and has incorporated her criticisms, even if it cheekily plays up some of the things she’s always torn into him about. It’s all handwritten though, and clearly the only existing copy. Rax is distraught to have lost it. Sloane decides that this isn’t fair play and she doesn’t have any reason to twist Rax’s arm over it so she tries to return it clandestinely, maybe arranges a meetup in an empty opera house at night, hides herself in shadows -- for practical reasons, but Rax is already impressed by the theatricality, and the fact that she’s being so honorable. But after Sloane gives Rax his draft back, she gets cornered by Palptatine’s goons who know she’s on to the scheme and want to get rid of her. She fights them off with fisticuffs and like, a hatpin, probably, but Rax does see this going on and tries to step in as she’s finishing things off. He covers for her, saying that actually he’s been paying her to write critiques because it gets everyone talking about the quality of the art and not thinking about the circumstances of the production. The goons aren’t entirely under Rax’s control though, and they escort him and Sloane back to Rax’s fancy but discreet townhouse where he and Sloane get to have agitated insomniac conversations through until morning about the role of art in society and the psyche, and both of them hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night either (Rax searching for his lost draft, Sloane sourcing the draft to see if it’s legit) so they pass right the fuck out against each other with all the manuscript papers scattered on top and it’s so scandalous the next morning... and then romance!!!

#asks #gallirae #i just let this all flow out

[2hrs2nevada]

a lil short story i wrote uwu

i am proud of this hh pls give it a read!!

Clara

Clara was going to be late.

The ball was set to start in five minutes. The fact that it was taking place in her own manor was a blessing and a curse-- she would not have to take a wagon (she was terrified of the things anyway), but the pressure to look nice was multiplied tenfold. She sighed as she scrutinized her reflection in the mirror. Bustle dresses made everyone who wore them look stupid, but even so, she still felt like an idiot wearing one in public. Smoothing the powder-blue frills with her gloved hands, Clara racked her brains for anything else she could fix to make herself look presentable. She could hear Lucille puttering about in the other room, undoubtedly facing a similar challenge.

Deciding nothing more could be done, she picked up her hat and pin. She wouldn’t wear it the whole time, of course-- she found hats of such magnitude to be dreadfully uncomfortable, and besides, wearing one during a ball was strictly forbidden.

A blue stone on the pin glinted in the candlelight. Clara stopped to admire the long, sharp shaft and the elegant arrangement of gems on the end. She traced the sharp end over the palm of her hand. It hurt-- not terribly, but if she pressed down much harder, it would surely draw blood. It was long enough to do some real damage, and sturdy, like a spear. She rolled it over in her hands, and wondered what would happen if, say, she tripped while holding it, and someone made to catch her and met the sharp end of the pin instead…

“Clara.”

She jumped, not having heard Lucille come in. She dropped the hatpin onto the mahogany surface of her dresser and met her sister’s eyes in the mirror.

Lucille approached the younger woman and began to tighten her dress, probably without even realizing what she was doing. It was an old habit, one that Clara had learned to live with.

“Are you having the thoughts again?” Lucille said, as if asking for the time.

Clara nodded slowly, staring into her own eyes in the mirror.

Lucille let go of Clara’s dress and moved on to her hair. “There’s a man coming to the ball tonight-- Jasper Thomas. I heard he’s done some bad things.”

Clara made a half-hearted attempt at an acknowledging noise, barely listening.

“Very bad things,” Lucille continued. “The mutton shunters won’t take him away because they’re scared of his father, but frankly, I’m concerned about his presence in this house.”

Clara snorted. “Please, Luce, they’re called policemen. Show some class.”

Lucille exhaled stiffly through her nose. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”

“That is true.”

“He’s a bad man. Probably has no friends.”

“Okay.”

“Wouldn’t be missed.”

Clara froze. Lucille raised an impatient eyebrow at her in the mirror.

“No,” Clara whispered. “Luce, stop it. You know I can’t do that.”

“It might help the urges, and you’d be doing the police a favor--”

“No!” Clara shouted, slamming her fist on the dresser. Lucille went silent. “I won’t.”

“But why? Why not indulge for once in your life?”

“Because I think I’d like it,” Clara whispered shakily. “I think I’d want to do it again, and again.”

Lucille sighed and nodded. But as they made to leave the room, Clara slipped her spare hatpin into the folds of her dress.

***

The ball was not a grand one, and not crowded, although Clara almost wished it was. The air was heavy and dreadfully hot. Deciding that the weather was the reason for the mediocre turnout, Clara seated herself on a chaise longue outside the reception room, where the other women waited regally for an invitation to dance.

Chipper music could be heard playing on the other side of the wall-- a minuet, or something of the sort, although Clara hardly considered herself an expert. She tapped her foot sparratically on the hardwood floor. A hot breeze was wafting in through the open window across from her, and she could feel beads of sweat trickling down her pale face.

To her relief, a man walked in at that very moment, and turned towards the women. Clara stifled a laugh as the girls seated next to her sat up stick-straight in perfect unison.

She fiddled with her dress. The pin resting on her thigh under her petticoat felt hot and heavy. The room was still horribly warm, so she pulled out her fan and snapped it open.

Too loudly, apparently, because the man’s eyes immediately fell on her. She took a moment to survey his appearance, as she was in no mood to dance.

He was tall and thin, with a face that might have been delicately handsome if not for the heavy scarring that reached his neck and ears-- he had the pox as a child, Clara decided. His hands were behind his back. She couldn’t help but worry about what they held, even though she knew he was simply in position to bow.

And bow he did, but not the kind of deep, obnoxious bow Clara was expecting. He asked her to dance, and his voice was deep and clear. She touched the slight lump in her dress where the pin lay before standing up to accept.

“May I ask your name, miss?” he said softly.

Clara made a face of absolute insult. “Why, the queen herself, of course. Did you really not recognize me?” She wasn’t quite sure where this sudden sarcasm came from, as she was not, in fact, the queen, but she wasn’t the least bit sorry.

A flicker of bafflement crossed his face, but he obliged. “Pleasure to meet you, your highness,” he smirked. “My name is Jasper Thomas.”

There was a terrible pause.

“A pleasure,” Clara smiled. She rested her hand on his arm.

In the reception room, pairs were standing ready to dance. The smell of sweat and humid hardwood made it hard to breathe. The music began again, and they danced as stiffly and maturely as anyone could dance. At one particularly boring bit of a song, Clara held her free arm out in imitation of a windmill-fan, which was of the highest offense at a ball such as this one. Jasper smacked it down, so swiftly and nonchalant that no one turned their heads. She let it hang loose at her side for the rest of the evening.

The last dance was coming to an end. Clara’s sweaty hand barely touched her partner’s as they waltzed rigidly, the floor squeaking beneath their tired feet.

“Jasper,” she whispered through the side of her mouth.

“Shh.”

She ignored this. “This is my house, you know.”

His mouth formed a tight line. “I believe it is your father’s. A shame he’s on holiday.”

The train of her dress swished around her ankles as she twirled in unison with the other women. “After supper,” she hummed, almost inaudibly, “I invite you to escort me to my room.”

His nostrils flared. “Enough, church-bell.”

Clara gaped, without breaking her stride. The use of slang was utterly forbidden during a dance. “Excuse me?”

The couple next to them glared. Clara glared back, breaking eye contact only for a scheduled spin.

“It’s not allowed,” he pressed. “I cannot accept.”

“Oh, come off it,” Clara murmured as the music began to reach its final crescendo. “It won’t hurt you to get out of those gas-pipes. And I’m clearly not actually the queen.”

She was surprised to hear him snigger. He said nothing, which she took as a yes.

***

The ball was over. The guests had left in wagons, rubbing their feet and swatting away the bugs that the nighttime brings. The moon was half-full and casting a blue-white glow across the house and the lawn, making everything appear faintly monochrome.

Jasper was waiting in the drawing room. Clara imagined he was standing in front of the window, looking out across the green with his hands clasped behind his back. Or maybe he was pacing.

They were alone in the great house, aside from the maids, and Lucille, who could be heard in the front hall, locking the door and closing the windows to protect the house from insects. Clara waited to hear her ascend to her room.

When she did, she met Clara’s eyes briefly, but did not stop to inquire. Clara said nothing, but could see her sister’s hand trembling slightly as it traced the railing. But then she was gone, and Clara hurried to the parlor to retrieve Jasper, who was seated in an armchair and gazing mildly out the opposite window. He looked up and smiled, genuinely, so that Clara felt a pang in her stomach that she ignored altogether.

“Shall we?” she said softly, fiddling with her skirt.

He nodded, and they made their way up the stairs, down the creaking hallway, and into her room.

There was a moment of stillness, and Clara stared deep into Jasper’s eyes, as if searching for something less pure and unadulterated than he himself had unfortunately turned out to be. Upon finding nothing, she turned around and made her way to the dresser, where she began to remove the many layers of her dress.

She watched Jasper in the mirror as she removed her excessive garments and jewelry. He trailed his fingers over the bedrail, and peered at the hip bath as though he had never seen one in his life. Clara smiled.

He hit your arm down, remember? He’s not a good man. You don’t even know him.

And even still, she felt a quiet excitement as she let the last layer of her dress drop to the floor. She was fine. Everything was fine. Maybe she didn’t have to kill him at all. The thought was strangely calming.

Some other time, maybe, she decided. But not tonight. She smiled to herself.

She turned to face Jasper, and his eyes travelled up and down her body with wonder. She crossed her arms over her chest automatically, gazing shyly at the floor.

Their embrace was quiet, rapid and careful and beautiful. Clara had never been to the beach, but she thought of one now. She thought of crashing waves, and being lulled peacefully to sleep.

But she wanted to stay awake, and so did he, so they got to talking about Jasper’s infractions. He shared with ease, as though there was no possibility at all of consequences, which may well have been true.

“My father is very rich, so I never had any need to steal,” he murmured, as Clara stared, intrigued, into his eyes, stroking his arm absentmindedly. The sheets were bunched up at the foot of the bed, thrown off due to the heat.

“I got involved with some rough crowds, thought, which no one even believed existed where I lived, but they did, and their main market was cannabis. I was stupid and young, and sick of my pretentious lifestyle, so I joined the business. But, half-rats, I ended up shaking a flannin with a group of my competition, and things didn’t end as they should’ve. I managed to get out only having copped a mouse, but the others didn’t fare quite so well. Meaters, all of them, good as dead before they were, but I had to run from the mutton shunters anyhow.” He stopped to take a breath. Clara’s eyes were wide, and she leaned in closer. Surely that was the most slang she had ever heard anyone use at once.

He continued to tell her about his past, his voice sounding completely different from the way it did during the ball. Clara’s insides were bubbling with fresh infatuation.

When Jasper finally caved to the irresistible call of sleep, Clara got up quietly and tiptoed to her dresser to blow out the candle, only a dripping stub after the long evening.

The most trivial of injuries! How prosaic a trouble, but it hurt nonetheless, for Clara had stubbed her toe on the leg of her dresser, handicapped by the darkness. She knew the urges would come, even before the shock of agony could reach her brain.

And they did. She keeled over, leaning on the dresser and breathing hard. Tears started to stream down her face. She wanted to scream, or sob, or stab someone, or stab herself.

In the moonlight, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror-- red-eyed and ghostly white, beads of cold sweat rolling down loose strands of hair. She let out a choked sob and picked up her hatpin. The pain in her toe was gone. Her whole body was shaking.

Everything inside her was screaming at her to stop, but it was as if she were possessed, or being controlled like a marionette by some malicious external puppeteer. She stumbled to the bed, hovering over Jasper’s peacefully sleeping figure, hatpin clutched tightly in her hand, poised high above his chest.

Maybe it was her dim shadow over his face, or the sound of her labored breathing, but something caused Jasper to stir and open his eyes, blinking sleepily. Clara froze.

He saw the hatpin and recoiled, suddenly fully awake. His eyes jumped from the pin to Clara’s face and back again, scared and confused.

“Clara?” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing?”

“You’re a bad man, Jasper Thomas.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “You deserve this.”

“I don’t understand.”

Clara sniffled pathetically. The hand holding the pin was shaking madly.

“Please,” he breathed. “Put that down.”

“I can’t,” Clara choked.

He stared up at her, and even in the dark Clara could see he was crying.

“Is this why you brought me here?” he inquired. “To your room? Was nothing we did out of your own passion?”

Clara rapidly shook her head. “I didn’t want to do this,” she whispered. “I don’t want to.”

“So don’t,” he pleaded. Clara heard a tear fall onto his pillow.

She let out a choked sob. “I--”

He lowered his head and slowly lay back down. “All right, church-bell,” he sighed shakily, and Clara could tell without seeing that his face was full of pain as he looked up at her like a sad dog. There was another emotion, too, and it startled her-- a sudden acceptance, or even indifference. “Do your wor--”

And before he could finish, the silver, jewel-encrusted pin was through his throat.

Clara sank to her knees as blood began to pepper her face. Her lungs convulsed, and she clutched the edge of the bed for support, recoiling at the feel of Jasper’s hand, still warm to the touch. She stumbled to the window and yanked it open, then fell to the floor… she didn’t remember being sick, but the carpet was slick with vomit, and the stench mixed with the hot blood on her face made her gag. Tears cascaded down her temples as she lay, naked and sobbing and cold on the floor, but the warm night air flowing in through the open window began to calm her riled nerves, and she sighed heavily, inhaling the smell of summer trees and smoke and the sweet aroma of the ever-shadowing nighttime.

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #short story #writers of tumblr #i am not a writer that tag is a lie #i wrote this freshman year of high school #i was in a victorian times phase

[notapaladin]

votgs replied to your post “real talk here one of my fave mental images re. The OT3 is picturing...”

I have been converted to your OT3. Hadn't gotten around to reading this series; now I'm on Kindred of Darkness. Where do I get my membership card? :-D

JOIN THE CLUB WE HAVE T-SHIRTS.

fave OT3 moments from the first five books:

Those Who Hunt The Night: james snarking/standing up to simon and simon like We Respect One Mortal.

also that intro? like damn that’s Good.

THEY HAVE SO MANY SIMILARITIES it’s excellent

lydia being generally a Research Genius & how james loves and trusts his wife so much they are so married

“if lydia met you she’d be pestering you for a sample of your blood within five minutes”

also, unrelated to OT3, I love Grippen and Simon’s interactions

THE PART WHERE LYDIA'S IMMEDIATE REACTION TO AN INTRUDER IS ATTEMPTED DEATH BY HATPIN 

imagine james helping simon brush up on modern languages, okay. imagine!!!

LYDIA YOU HAVE KNOWN HIM FIVE MINUTES

Traveling With The Dead: can I say the whole book or is that cheating? but if I have to pick out SPECIFIC PARTS it’s uh

okay it’s most of simon/lydia’s interactions but esp the contrast between their meeting and parting.

AND THEN HE IS WRITING HER SONNETS. SONNETS. S I M O N. vampires are known for their selfishness and caution and here he is traveling across europe and risking his Actual Life for her and james!! (every time any later book mentions how he got those scars i die)

“a lady worthy to her bones”

simon: i will lie to her and let her think I killed Miss Potton because that way she will hate me, there can be nothing good between the living and the dead. it will be a Clean Break

Blood Maidens: simon, the second he sees lydia again: Failed Step One. read that scene while listening to this for Even More Feelings.

 JAMES/LYDIA IS SO GOOD IM LOVE

also, this. look at these FUCKING NERDS. imagine them poring over medical journals together! (with cats)

james and simon also have a ton of excellent interactions in this one

also: “he was not with you?” was def simon Internally Screaming

LYDIA THINKING OF SIMON WHEN SHE THINKS SHE’S DYING. simon: o no. o fuck.

james! making the decision not to kill simon even when he Totally Could but.....it would make lydia sad and maybe he also likes One Vampire

Magistrates of Hell: THEY’RE SO MARRIED

James realizing that his first thought if anyone hurt Miranda or Lydia would be to go to Simon = A+

"He'd do it. And he wouldn't care."

James

Jamie

Jim boy

simon would care very much and make their deaths as painful as possible

james: "not the point"

honestly you probably wouldn't even need to ask! when miranda first gets her heart broken simon will be like "there there, do you want me to kill him?"

THIS PART

simon keeps his casket next to the ashers’ hotel which i really like

THE HUG AT THE END. THE HUG.

i need a million fanarts of that hug. also with simon and james respectfully doing the arm clasp thing

HAVE I ALSO MENTIONED I LOVE LYDIA TODAY with the “no there’s nothing I wouldn’t do if miranda was in danger”

also please imagine ysidro recovering from the events of Magistrates of Hell and one of the chinese vampires being like "you don't meet a girl like that every dynasty"

Kindred of Darkness: once again, pretty much all of the book is Peak OT3 Chest-Clutching Territory but special shoutout to the following:

lydia telling simon that miranda’s been kidnapped and simon fucking yeeting himself into her dreams and back into london at Mach Fuck

"He took my child,’ she whispered at last. ‘Grippen took my child.’ Just being able to say it was like a steel band breaking from around her chest. She didn’t have to keep silent any longer, or be strong, or explain.

Don Simon Christian Morado de la Cadeña-Ysidro understood.

He said one word, in Spanish, that Lydia guessed would have taken paint off a gate.

“you want me to eat him bc I will totally eat him”

this part:

"‘What …?’

‘She thought you another of the maids.’ He was smiling slightly, a far-off twinkle of brightness in his yellow eyes that she had never seen there before.

He’s enjoying this.

He was almost laughing as they slipped out into the garden. ‘Think you not, that if we can trick the eyes of the living so that they do not see us as we are, we can also – with a little practice – trick them into believing that we are someone else they know? Someone who has every right to be in the upstairs hall? Ere she reaches the parlor with her mistress’s shawl, she’ll forget that she even saw us.’

 ‘Wretch!’ Lydia poked him again. ‘No wonder Jamie’s worried about one of you hiring on with the Kaiser! And no wonder there are all those legends about vampires making respectable married ladies think they’re their husbands—’

‘So they said,’ retorted Simon. ‘I never had call for such a trick.’

‘You are dreadful!’

no, simon, you ALREADY have a respectable married lady in love with you!!

james is the best dad we love him

at one point simon gives lydia a FANTASTICALLY expensive necklace and she is Shocked at the impropriety and i love it

i don’t want to spoil it because I dunno if you’ve finished it BUT IT’S SO GOOD.

#votgs #those who hunt the night #the kindred of darkness #magistrates of hell #blood maidens #traveling with the dead #The Vampire OT3

[jackcowboyhero]

Blink, I need some flirting tips. What should a girl do to let a guy know she's interested in him?

BLINK: Well, for starters, you could tell him.

Seriously, whenever a girl comes out an’ tells me she likes me, I feel like a million bucks!  It ain’t always easy to know when a girl’s interested, ya know.  I thought it was, but then Shiv Hermann said different.  (That’s another tip: if you’re into a fella, don’t stab him with a hatpin!)  So, havin’ you lovely ladies speak first means I ain’t riskin’ life and limb just to declare my undyin’ love.

But maybe you don’t wanna be that up-front about it–maybe you’re worried old-fashioned folks might call ya fast.  (Don’t worry ‘bout old-fashioned folks, is what I say.  It’s the 1900s now!)

But if that’s what you’re afraid of, here’s a list o’ some great ways to flirt, tried an’ tested by yours truly.

- Smilin’ roguishly

- Winkin’ (with one eye only, if ya got more than one)

- “Casually” touchin’ ‘em (”your hand is here?” you say, “MY MISTAKE” (but it ain’t a mistake))

- Leanin’ close

- Listenin’ like they’re the most fascinatin’ thing on the planet

- Playin’ with your hair (I don’t do this, but when a girl does it it’s a sure sign she likes me)

- Mentionin’ how they’d be a good addition to your pirate crew

I got more tips, too, but if you’re worried about just lettin’ him know you like him, I doubt you wanna hear all my pirate-themed pickup lines.

But, what I think is, you can’t go wrong kissin’ a fella.  I sure as heck wouldn’t complain.

#Kid Blink #asked and answered

[pandolfo-malatesta]

Once or twice on her walk Pauline wondered if maybe she ought to have asked Calvin to accompany her.  But each time she bucked up her courage, squared her shoulders, and quickened her stride.  Besides the pin in her hat, she’d tucked one in the folds of her skirt, just to be on the safe side.

Below the sign her footsteps wavered, just for a moment.  Before she’d been with Calvin, not to mention Roman and Hana and Andy.  But entering the Newsboys’ Lodging House alone, in the evening, seemed to skirt impropriety.  She looked down at the steps, and, in doing so, noted the box in her hands, and her hesitation fled.  She was carrying a package; clearly she was delivering something.  Not a bit of harm in that.  With a resolute nod she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

This time there was an older gentleman behind the counter in the lobby, a ledger splayed open before him.  He glanced up over his glasses when she entered, then raised his head.  “Good evenin’, young lady.”  There was a note of surprise in his rusty voice.  “Can I help you?”

Pauline nodded.  “Yes, sir.  Is Mush Meyers in?  I have something to give him.”

He peered at her and the package in her hands, nodding.  “So you do,” he muttered.  Then he squinted past her, searching the lobby; she turned her head and saw that the room was empty save for the two of them.  He sighed.  “Never around when ya need ’em.  I’ll see if he’s upstairs.”  With a nod at the bench behind her suggesting that she stay put, he shuffled out from behind the counter and moved toward the stairs. No sooner had he disappeared from view did the door open to admit a pair of young men.  The first was younger, with warm brown skin, but the next was a familiar blond.  What was unfamiliar was the serious slant of his brow, the tightness in his jaw—until he noticed her.  Blink cowered behind the other newsie, thrusting him forward with hands on his shoulders and ducking his head.  “Hide me, Boots!” he hollered, volume contrary to his words.  “I’m too young to die!”

The aforementioned Boots kept walking, tipping her a polite nod as he passed.  “Evenin’, miss.”  Pauline responded in kind.  Unhurried, he signed his name in the ledger, dropped a coin in a box next to it, and crossed the lobby to the stairs. 

Kid Blink, on the other hand, leaned against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle.  “Shiv,” he greeted, grinning. Of course he knew about that.  Letting him rile her would accomplish nothing, though, so she refused the impulse.  “Blink.”

“Snoddy ain’t here,” he offered.  Though a statement there was a question in it, a subtle search for information; she wasn’t willing to give away the reason for her visit just yet.

“I know.”

“Aha.”  His grin grew smug and his thumbs hooked in his belt.  “So ya came to see me.”

“Such confidence!” she laughed.  If the truth were told, she rather admired him for it.  “While spending time with you is always a delight, it’s not the reason I’m here.  I came to drop something off for Mush.”

Not unpredictably, he pouted.  “So Mush gets presents an’ not me?  That ain’t fair.  Not after all you’ve put me through.”  One hand landed on his rear, as if he could still feel the sting of her hatpin there.

It was with some difficulty that she refrained from rolling her eyes.  Instead she tipped the box toward him, displaying the seal with the shop’s name on it.  Looking from the box to Blink with wide eyes, she said, “If I’d known you wanted something from the shop, I would have brought it.  And I don’t even know your size!”  She feigned dismay for a moment before stepping back to study him, a fingertip to her lips.  “We just got a lovely lightweight Portuguese flannel, printed in rose and linen stripes with a pattern of tiny bouquets.  It would suit you beautifully.”

Rather than retreat he played along, framing his jawline with his hands and fluttering his eyelashes.  “Ya don’t think the rose’d make me look too pale?”

She stifled a laugh.  “Quite the opposite!  It would bring out the healthy glow in your cheeks.  And it would make the most fetching top.”  Maybe she’d have a shirtwaist made from it...

Her sartorial distraction was interrupted by footsteps flying down the stairs.  Blink craned his neck and Pauline peered past him to see Mush, his face creased in a curious frown.  It dissolved when he saw them.  “Hi, Pauline!”  He thumped Blink on the shoulder, beaming from his friend to her.  Blink tensed briefly before patting Mush’s stomach.  “When Kloppman said a young lady was here to see me I didn’t know who he was talkin’ about.  What’re you doin’ here?”

The worry that she’d offend them returned.  Not wanting to be seen as seeking praise for doing something decent she hadn’t consulted either Calvin or Hana about the idea; now she wished she had.  From the tales Calvin told, life among the newsboys was governed by an unspoken code of honor.  She gulped and offered the box, hoping that she was not about to breach that code.  “I brought some things for Daisy.  The new season’s stock is arriving, so we haven’t any room for the winter accessories, and since you said she liked looking at our things, I thought they’d find a good home with her,” she rambled. 

Mush took the box only after wiping his hands on his pants.  He didn’t look upset, she thought, and with his earnest face it ought to be easy enough to tell.  “It’s just a few small things—scarves, ribbons, a pair of gloves.”  Mostly things that anyone could use, regardless of size.  There was also a handkerchief, butter yellow and scallop-edged; for it she’d paid full price, and then wheedled Henriette into adding a D and a few small white flowers.

“Really?” he said, a smile blossoming on his lips.  She nodded, relieved. “Thanks, Pauline!  It’s awful nice o’ ya.”

As she demurred, Mush’s eyes flew to the clock.  “Still got time to get there before supper,” he said, before turning back to her.  His face was aglow with eager goodwill.  “Wanna come with me?  That way you can give it to her in person.”

“Oh, no.”  If she hadn’t already felt awkward about it, trying to explain to a stranger that she was just trying to do something nice would do the trick.  “I need to be on my way.  But I do hope Daisy likes them.”

Mush laughed, bright with excitement.  “You kiddin’?  This’ll make her day!  Thanks,” he said again, tucking the box under one arm to shake her hand.

“It was my pleasure,” she said honestly.  Then, grinning, he thumped Blink once more and rushed out the door, calling goodnight as he went.  Blink’s expression was pensive in the ensuing vacuum left by Mush’s departure.

“I suppose I’ll be off now,” she said.  It wasn’t late at all, but dinner was waiting at home.

Blink’s attention returned to her.  “Do me a favor an’ let me walk ya home.”

She bit her lip, caught between not wanting to put him out and not wanting to make the trip alone in the swiftly descending twilight.  “If you don’t mind...”

“Nah.”  He shook his head.  “An’ no funny business.”

“You mean you learned your lesson last time?” she teased.

“I was talkin’ about from you.”  He smirked and she finally did roll her eyes.  Together they walked out into Duane Street.  The streets were busy as ever, noisy with New Yorkers and chilled by a wind up from the harbor.  Blink slipped through the crowds with ease, but Pauline had been born and raised in this city, and kept close to him just as easily. 

“Was that all true, about that stuff you brought?”

That uncomfortable feeling crept up between her shoulder blades again.  “More or less,” she hedged.

He laughed softly.  “More or less,” he repeated, glancing upward.  “Guess it’s a good thing you’re a sweet kid, or else we’d all be in trouble.”

Ignoring the part where he called her a kid, she said, “I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”  Then, after a moment’s consideration, she added, “Maybe more than one.”

“But who’s countin’, right?”  She needn’t look to know he was smiling; it was evident in his voice.  They walked along in companionable silence for a moment.  Then, casually, he offered, “Say, Shiv, that shop o’ yours is filled with girls, ain’t it?”

It did not take a prodigious intellect to see where this line of questioning was headed.  Again the idea of introducing him to Letty crossed her mind, and again she shooed it away.  “Not your kind of girls, I’m afraid.”

He grinned cheekily.  “Every girl’s my kind once or twice.”  The way he tipped his head at her indicated that she should not consider herself absent from that sentiment.  

“These girls,” and here she herself included, “want something that’ll last longer than that.  Don’t you want to find a nice girl and settle down?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead kicking at a lingering, rubbish-studded heap of snow.  After a moment he said, “You got lots o’ nice dresses, right?  Ones that ya like?”

Caught off guard by the non sequitur she replied, “Yes, I suppose, but...”

“What if ya had to pick one an’ only wear that one for the rest of your life?  How would ya feel about that?”

The idea nearly caused her physical pain, and she couldn’t keep from wincing.  Eventually she managed to stammer, “It isn’t the same at all.”

He shrugged.  “So it ain’t a perfect comparison.  I saw your face; ya know what I mean.”  Before she could argue the point he went on.  “As far as settlin’ down...  Do you ever want to get out o’ here?”

“Out of New York?”  He nodded.  “Certainly.  I’d love to see Venice, and Bath, and Paris.  Places I’ve read about that just seem so different from here.”  The streets they were strolling lacked the elegance and mystery and romance of those far-off cities.  For a moment she imagined exploring Europe with Calvin, taking the Grand Tour of the Continent the way heroines in novels did, wandering arm in arm with her beau through stately homes and stealing kisses in formal gardens.  She tore her thoughts from such pleasurable possibilities to ask Blink, “What about you?”

“Yeah.  Anywhere the tide takes me.”  Such a romantic phrase sounded strange aloud, in his voice; it must have come from a dime novel.  “Doesn’t matter, long as it’s away from here.  All o’ this.”  He swept a hand out, his lip curled in disgust.

“Including your friends?”

His whole body went taut at that, and his voice was just as tight.  “They’d be alright,” he said, jerking his shoulders up and down once.  “People leave.  It happens.  Nobody’d mind much.”

From the way all of the young men acted around each other, she didn’t believe he was telling the truth.  “You don’t think Mush—what is his real name?”  A ghost of a smirk lifted Blink's solemnity.  “He, and Andy, and Calvin and Roman and Boots, would mind if you weren’t around.  I bet there are even some pretty girls who’d miss you.”

“Some?” he repeated, his outrage, either feigned or genuine, weak.  “Try hundreds.”

“I do beg your pardon.”  She bobbed a little faux curtsy.  “But my point is that people would notice if you left, and they’d miss you.”

They’d reached the building now, the place where she’d lived nearly all her life.  The idea of leaving it without a second glance, of turning her back on Mother and Father and Hana, all of their neighbors, made her blood run cold.  And the thought that no one would care if she did was simply unimaginable.

She mounted the first step up to the building and paused.  Up there her mother would be ladling out their dinner, and her father would be washing up from work; she could only imagine what it would be like in the dining room at the lodging house.  She turned.  “Won’t you join us for dinner?”

His eyebrows shot up to disappear beneath the fringe of hair at his forehead.  “Are you kiddin’?”

“Absolutely not.  It would be a pleasure to have you as our guest.”  And she meant every word, even though her mother’s curiosity afterward would be nigh well unbearable. 

He gaped a moment longer before his jaw shut with an audible click.  “What’sa matter, you ain’t done enough good deeds for the day?” he snapped.  There it was: the censure she’d been afraid of, the anger she’d been waiting for all along.  Her head dropped.  She imagined he was thinking that she was no better than he and his friends were; how dare she act so condescending, doling out castoffs and inviting beggars to the table?  In the corner of her vision she saw Blink jam his hands in his pockets, scowling at the ground.

At the sight of that expression, so fierce and undeserved, her fear turned to fury.  “Heaven forbid anyone want to be nice to you,” she retorted.  “Not everyone has ulterior motives to their every action, and I feel sorry for you if that’s all you can see.”

“Just one more reason to feel sorry for me, right?”

“The only reason!  Oh, it’s so terrible being you, isn’t it, being handsome and charming and witty and hardworking, having all of those friends looking out for you?”  She stabbed a finger back the way they came.  “You could do so much with what you’ve been given, and what you’ve worked for, but you want to run away instead.”

He stepped forward until they were nearly nose-to-nose, his eyes blazing. “When’s the last time you had to decide between eatin’ and havin’ a bed for the night?” he demanded, voice still raised despite their proximity.  “When’s the last time somebody crossed the street so they wouldn’t have to look at ya?  I got plenty to run away from.  I’m gettin’ too old for this, Pauline.”  His fists flexed at his sides, and his breath came in quick pants.  “What if it’s easier—better,” he corrected, “somewhere else?  Then ya’d call me stupid for stayin’ here.  How’m I s’posed to know if I don’t ever try?

“I can’t win either way.  If I stay I’m too scared to try, an’ if I go I’m runnin’ away.  So if you got all the answers, you tell me what to do.”  

He was still angry and tense; if she were a boy, she thought, he would have hit her by now.  But she didn’t think she was imagining the pleading in his eye as she met his stare in silence.  

At length she said, “You’re right,” shaking her head.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know what it’s like for you.  And if your heart is telling you to go, then it isn’t my place to tell you not to.”  Any heroine in a novel would be rewarded for following her heart; maybe he would, too.

“I wasn’t trying to offend you—any of you,” she went on, “so please forgive me if I did.”

Blink stared at her for a long minute, one in which she could only conjecture at what was going through his head.  “I shouldn’t’ve talked to ya like that,” he said at last, his voice gruff.  “Guess I forgot you weren’t one of the fellas.”

It was so unexpected that it startled a laugh from her.  “I’ll take that as a compliment.  But you really must stop doing that, or my head will be so big I won’t be able to get inside.”  She smiled, and was relieved to see his lips twitch upward, too.  “I really would like it if you stayed to dinner,” she said a touch wistfully.  “It would be fun.”

“Nah.”  He shook his head.  “The boys’ll be waitin’.  But thanks.”  Without seeming to think about it he spat in his hand and extended it to her. 

Her jaw dropped as she shuddered.  “Louis Ballatt,” she said firmly, “that is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

Despite his smirk there was a hard edge to his voice.  “Lucky you.” 

Between his remark and his challenging stare she had little choice.  Pauline glanced over her shoulder, hoping that her mother’s call would save her from a slimy fate, but it was for naught.  Drawing a deep breath she raised her hand just below her chin and spat gingerly in it; past her fingers she could see Blink looking delighted.  Surely the whole lodging house would know about this before the day was done.  Revolted now at herself as well as him, she stuck out her hand and tried her best not to wince as their palms met.  She failed, of course, but squeezed his hand all the same.  

The spark of triumph in his expression faded quickly, leaving a quieter satisfaction.  Their hands were still pressed together but she missed him already.  “See ya later, Shiv,” he said, warmer than she’d expected, than she deserved. 

“You better,” she warned, “or I’ll hunt you down and turn you into a pincushion.”

He dropped her hand and gave her half a smile; then he adjusted his cap, stuck his hands in his pockets, and sauntered off into the night with a rolling shipboard gait.

#v New Yorku #The Adventures of Shiv Hermann #Pauline Hermann

[prettynobodyco]

Been wearing my newest pin babes so much lately! 🎃 I'm just obsessed with them! 👀 I'm thinking maybe I need to make more of this color combo so they can all be interchangeable 🤔 whatchu think?? // Pretty Pumpkin Pin available now ✨ • • • • • • • • • #accessories #pin #pingame #pinstagram #enamelpin #lapelpin #pnco #prettynobody #fashion #pinsofig #art #design #illustration #pastel #cute #hatpin #flair #sadcute #tumblr #patchgame #pastelgoth #graphicdesign #instagood #instadaily #pincommunity #pinoftheday #pinning #pinaddict #halloween #pumpkin (at Denver, Colorado)

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