#the pattern says it’s 1840s I’m not saying that

[tj-crochets]

The first doll dress for my 18” doll! It still needs snaps but I’m going to wait to sew them on until the doll arrives, so that I can tweak the fit a little if needed

#sewing #handmade #doll clothes #1840s doll dress #tj makes doll clothes #(that’s my new tag for all the 18 inch tall doll stuff) #(1/12 scale doll stuff remains in the hypothetical dollhouse tag) #the pattern says it’s 1840s I’m not saying that #I absolutely cheated and used minky to make it way easier to make #I did not expect it to work up so quickly? #I mean it’ll take a lot longer when I make another one out of woven fabric #with all the ironing and finishing off edges and sewing a lining #(all things I did not do for this one) #but still! I was worried it’d be like a multi day project #not an afternoon project #this one only took and hour and a half to sew. that’s not counting the time for cutting out the fabric or sewing in the snaps #so it’ll probably be closer to two or two and a half hours total #but still! pretty quick!

[threadtalk]

I know, I know. I do go on quite a bit about patterns. But look at this dress! That pattern is everything.

This harlequin pattern is not just gorgeous on its own, but it’s got little vines bisecting the blue diamonds. And that’s not even to mention the tailoring on the bodice. I mean, that kind of skill is something I’d be impressed to see on the fashion runways of today, let alone the date of this dress (1840).

Once again we are also in transition. This gown has, obviously, an arresting pattern, but it still retains the volume in the sleeves of the previous decade while starting to get that fullness we see in the 1850s and coming to its pinnacle in the 1860s.

The listing only says it’s made of “wool, silk” so that doesn’t tell me if the material is a blend or if there are elements of silk in the fabric itself. A mystery. I can’t tell from the photographs, even close up. I’m guessing it’s a blend.

Either way, another marvelous example of the vivid prints and designs of a bygone era.

#historical costuming #costume history #silk dress #victorian fashion #textiles #costume #threadtalk #fashion history #history of fashion

[littlemousedroid]

It’s A Tradition (Chapter 8)

Pairing: Wrecker x female reader (Pantoran, no description, nicknamed Poppy)

Word Count: 1840

Summary: Hunter and Tech discuss Wrecker’s new relationship. Wrecker and Poppy enjoy some domestic life but the trauma and angst are a cloud trying to block out their sunshine (does that sound dramatic enough?).

Rating: T for now, references to canon typical violence and trauma. It’s mostly fluffy and fun, with some angst and anxiety thrown in for flavor. — This chapter continues the angst, dealing with big emotions that the show glosses over. Also kissing.

Chapter 1 >>> Chapter 7

—————————

It was just before dawn and the Marauder was still quiet. Hunter had awoken to find one of his squad missing. That was not a situation he liked to be in, used to the tight knit team sticking together. Omega was still sleeping in her room. Echo was resting in his rack. Tech was the only one awake, taking advantage of the quiet to work on whatever project he deemed more important than sleep. All of that was to be expected but Wrecker’s absence was unusual.

“Where is he?” Hunter asked as he entered the cockpit, knowing that Tech would know what he meant and would undoubtedly have a lock on Wrecker’s location already. He settled into the co-pilots seat, turning to Tech.

“Wrecker left a few hours ago, while we were all still sleeping. He seems to have gone to the residential neighborhood near the market. It must be the apartment of his new acquaintance.” Tech presented the information in his usual detached fashion but his tired expression gave away his concern.

“Poppy, they call her Poppy. But he didn’t leave a message? He just bolted?” Hunter asked, a frown spread across his face. “Wouldn’t have expected that.”

“His actions lately have been entirely unexpected. He takes every opportunity to visit the market and his new…friend. So running off tonight, it fits with this new pattern of behavior.” Tech explains.

Hunter leans back in his seat, taking a moment to process Tech’s thoughts but that moment is interrupted.

“I know he has been under a lot of pressure recently. His recent headaches were caused by the malfunctioning inhibitor chip, I do not know if they put any additional strain on his mind.” Tech paused, hesitating slightly, “And the loss of Crosshair weighs on him as well.”

“They were close.” Hunter admits. They all had moments of missing their old lives but Tech was right that the loss seemed especially difficult for Wrecker. And now the events of the last few days added to that pain.

“I suspect that Wrecker has found some form of solace in this new relationship, however it might be defined.” Tech continued. “But I’m uncertain if that comfort is worth the risk. Might I remind you that we are still in hiding from the Empire. We don’t know anything about this girl. Can she be trusted?”

“Tech,” Hunter sighed and rubbed his brow. “I doubt she is an Imperial spy.”

“That may be true but she is still a liability to our security. And…” before he could continue Hunter interjects.

“Tech, it may be hard to calculate, but sometimes the risk is worth the reward. If Wrecker has found some comfort in our present situation, why shouldn’t he be happy?” Hunter can’t deny that there is some risk but he also trusts Wrecker to make the right decision.

“Who decided you had any say at all?” Both men spin around to see Echo leaned in the doorway. “Wrecker can make his own decisions. Just let him be. Now keep it down or you’ll wake Omega too.”

——————————

You had been able to get a few more hours of sleep wrapped in Wrecker’s arms. It had been peaceful, a deeper sleep than you were getting before he had arrived at your apartment. Waking in the middle of the night to find him knocking at your front door had been a surprise, but it was not unwelcome. He had been gone much longer than you anticipated and it was a relief to have him back. Obviously something had happened while they were gone, Wrecker had been a mess when he arrived. Had he really been crying? What could have happened to bring him so low? Whatever it was you would be here to comfort him.

As you rolled over you were surprised to find the bed empty. The sheets were cool, he must have been gone for more than a few minutes. Had he left? No, he wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye, that wasn’t in his nature. Maybe he just went to the fresher? You got up and slipped your robe over your shoulders. As you padded down the hallway you heard grumbles coming from the kitchen. What was he doing in there?

As you reached the kitchen, you found Wrecker with his back to you fiddling with something on the counter. He didn’t acknowledge you right away so you were able to watch him. He was trying to use your caf machine but struggling; cursing under his breath, pushing buttons, and spilling grounds everywhere. You couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Are you going to rescue me or just let me break this machine?” Wrecker said before turning around, showcasing the most exasperated expression you had ever seen. You couldn’t help but laugh. “I was trying to bring you some caf, but this dumb machine is not cooperating.”

You came over to help him, pushing a few buttons and easily getting the caf brewing. He let out a frustrated huff.

“You make it look so easy. If it had been a proton bomb I could have disarmed it with my eyes closed but apparently making caf is beyond my skill set.”

“When we first met you reminded me that we each had our own skills, let’s put making caf on my list. And disarming dangerous bombs can stay on yours.” You smiled at him, “It’s the thought that counts, thank you for trying. The caf will be ready in a few minutes.”

You moved to retrieve some mugs from the cabinet behind Wrecker but as you approached him he stepped in front of you blocking you from your task.

“Wreck, I need to get the mugs…” He stepped closer to you, crowding your space.

“Pop, there is something I need to ask you first,” he reached up to cup your face, his hand covering your neck and jaw. He was watching you, looking for any hesitation.

“You can ask me anything Wreck,” it came out a breathless whisper as you turned your face up to meet his gaze.

“Can I kiss you?” He leaned down, so close you could feel his whisper ghost across your cheek.

All you could do was nod in response, his lips were on yours before you could finish shaking your head. It started gentle, just like every other moment with Wrecker. His hand wrapping around your neck to pull you closer to him, the little space that remained gone from between you as he pressed you against the counter.

Kissing Wrecker was all-consuming in the best way possible. His large hands seeming to cover your whole body, his body blocking out everything, even the smell of him flooding your senses. Your lips slotted perfectly against his, like two pieces of a puzzle. He may have asked for the kiss but you were the one to push your tongue against his lips asking for entrance. He welcomed you, a small groan escaping his lips. You continued kissing for what felt like forever, but the beeping of the caf machine pulled you back to reality.

“Wrecker, the caf,” you pulled back from him breathless but he didn’t want to stop, trailing kisses down your jaw to your neck. “Wrecker, love, I need to get the mugs. Let go and I’ll make breakfast.”

He finally detached his lips from your neck, but didn’t let you go. He placed his forehead against yours, making eye contact.

“I love you, Pop. But I’ll love you even more if you feed me!”

You laughed at that and finally pushed him away to get the mugs and make some breakfast.

“What do you like Wrecker? I’ve got a couple of options.” You opened the cabinets looking through your groceries.

“I’ll eat anything. I’m sure whatever ya got is better than the ration bars we usually eat.”

“I’ll take your word for it. How about jogan fruit bread? I’ve got some different jam options. And I can cut up a meiloorun.” You hoped that would be enough.

“That sounds perfect! Can I help?”

“No, you sit down and I’ll handle it.” You poured the caf and handed it over to him, placing your own mug at the seat across from him. It only took a few minutes to get the rest of breakfast on the table.

“This looks great, Pop, thank you!” He dug right in, putting tons of jam on the warm bread. He seemed to savor every bite, like he was tasting it for the first time.

“They didn’t serve jam in the GAR mess halls?”

“Huh?” He seemed confused, but caught on quickly to what you meant. “Oh, not really, we didn’t get much beyond nutrient filled goops and bars. Nothing as delicious as this jam. Did you make it?”

“No, I bought it in the market. I can show you where and you can take some back to Omega.” You just knew she would love it as much as Wrecker did.

The rest of breakfast passed quietly, a pleasant domesticity that you relished. As you finished eating, Wrecker insisted on cleaning up. So you took your second cup of caf to the couch. You couldn’t help but think about what every morning could be like waking up with Wrecker. A life with him would undoubtedly be full of joy; shared laughter and playful teasing was already the foundation of your relationship. But was it even worth dreaming about? Could you have a normal life with Wrecker? You had your own reasons to worry about life under the Empire but they paled in comparison to those of a fugitive clone.

As nice as this domestic scene was, you wanted to talk about what happened while he was away. What had caused him to come to you in the middle of the night. And what would happen now between you two.

Wrecker finished cleaning up and joined you on the couch, bringing his own caf and another piece of bread.

“Wrecker, I think we need to talk,” you said.

“Uh oh,” he mumbled through a mouthful of toast.

“No, it’s not bad, at least I hope not.” You paused to gather your thoughts. “If we were just two regular people in a galaxy at peace…”

“But we’re not,” Wrecker interrupted. “We’re in hiding from an evil empire. Pop, that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy. I wouldn’t have come here last night if I thought it was the wrong choice.”

“Why did you come here?” That was the question you really wanted answered. What had caused him to come to your door in the middle of the night, an emotional mess.

He didn’t answer you right away. He wasn��t even looking at you now. You reached out to where his hand was resting on the back of the couch and grabbed hold, intertwining your fingers with his. You squeezed his hand, willing his focus back to you. You had said your piece and now it was up to Wrecker to decide how to proceed.

——————————

A/N: This was just a peaceful scene to give them space. The next chapter will be Wrecker and his emotions, maybe something from his perspective? I know he’s got a lot going on in the scarred head of his and I want to spill it all on the page. Chapter 10 will be back to some adventuring.

Thank you for reading this far! I started this for myself and the idea that others would enjoy it too continues to blow my mind. I would love any comments and feedback. Reblogs are greatly appreciated.

#tbb wrecker #tbb wrecker x reader #wrecker x female reader #wrecker x you #wrecker wednesday #the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch wrecker #clone trooper wrecker #the bad batch #star wars fanfic #it’s a tradition

[dresshistorynerd]

So I saw this illustration recently floating around here and it’s so riddled with bullshit I decided to go through it with meticulous detail. Also it’s whole point is bullshit, but we’ll circle back to it. I have to note I’m not dress historian and don’t know all the nuances related to history of undergarments, and wouldn’t have even room for that in this post. And the illustration is completely devoid of them anyway.

So strap in and jump into the rabbit hole with me! Let’s start with the accuracy of the figures illustrating the undergarments. I don’t know why the 18th century stays (corsets come later) look like that? They are so wrong in so many ways. This is what 18th century stays looked like.

They did not flatten the bust at all. On the contrary, they pushed the bust up. It makes the stomach flat, but bust very much not. The boning was made from whale bone, reeds or slim wood bents most often, which are all very bendable and soft materials. Which means it was firm but not hard or restrictive. They mostly just smoothed the torso and supported bust. Also none of these illustrations have shift or chemise under their corset/stays, which was extremely important part of the undergarment (they protected the skin from corset/stays and it from oils of skin).

Now I’m questioning weather the makers of this info graph have seen Regency dresses. Firstly they claim that the ideal figure was “natural waist” when you can see that the waist can’t even be seen under the dress. There’s literally no waist. I would rather say the ideal figure was long tube body and boobs (emphasis on boobs). They also say the “corset” (still stays) stops bellow the bust line, but if you have seen a Regency dress, you know the bust is basically on the chin. (There were some stays that actually stopped under breasts, but the ones with cups where much more common as they were better at getting the fashionable silhouette.)

You don’t achieve this look without some heavy lifting done by the undergarments.

Here’s what they looked like. (Picture is from Abigail Polston’s blog.) They were basically push up bras. They didn’t have boning at all or sometimes a couple bones, but were usually made at least partly of stiffened fabrics. Between the breasts there’s a wooden slab that keeps the boobs separate and the stays from crinkling. They only smoothed out the rest of the torso and their only real purpose was support the bust and lift the hell out of it.

The next figure has so so many things wrong about it. In 1830s the stays were basically same as Regency stays. In 1840s the stays started to have a little more of the Victorian hourglass shape, but their construction was still similar. Though at the same time corsets started to live along side stays, till in the 1850s they took over the undergarment business. Here’s an example of 1890s corset.

Victorian corset is result of very complicated engineering. The shape is achieved with very ingenious patterning and strategically placed bones. Maximal shape with minimal boning. When you go back to look at the 18th century stays, which are covered in bones and then check out bow little there’s bones in the Victorian corset. The shape subtly changed thorough the rest of the century, but the basic construction and hourglass figure stayed the same.

Now the description says tight lacing became popular and it’s not entirely wrong. Tight lacing became a thing. In the previous centuries it wasn’t really even possible in same sense, because the materials used were too soft. Well some rich fashionable women still did it in 18th century (with regency stays it just wasn’t possible), but because of the materials, they couldn’t restrict bodily functions like breathing (looking at you PotC). Victorian corsets however usually had couple of iron bones, the rest being the soft whale bone, giving them more ability to shape the body. Tight lacing however was not common. Some rich, young and fashionable ladies would do that, but it was seen broadly negatively at the time. People talked about the health consequences and perhaps more than that, saw it as very vain. Tight lacing every day for a long time had negative health consequences, but vast majority of women didn’t do that and they were nothing nearly as dramatic ass people claim. Corset’s magic wasn’t it’s ability to reduce waist, but rather accentuate bust and hips. It was all about the illusion. Padding was added too on top of the corset. All women used corsets and it didn’t restrict them from doing all kinds of stuff, like working in a factory, or climbing a mountain.

I don’t really have anything to complain about the 1900s, 1910s and 1920s. They have at least the right shapes and don’t have weird claims. Now, I’m not very knowledgeable in any decade after 1920s, but I know at least that bullet bra were already a thing in the 40s? You can see it in 40s dress silhouettes too.

After all this wildly inaccurate info, the whole point of the info graph is that lingerie is going backwards and apparently it’s a bad thing. It gives the impression that undergarments were bad in the ye olden times, then they got good and apparently they are bad again. I think the funniest part is when it says in the 80s bit that “lingerie no longer a way to control the body but to empower women”. Empower how? How were 80s bras more empowering that previous or following bras? Also it says that the ideal figure was “any”. Now, I’m not that familiar with 80s, but if you look at the fashion then, you definitely notice a common silhouette: broad shoulders and natural waist.

After that apparently shaping bras are used to make the bust look bigger, which is bad I guess. Worse than padding on shoulders for some reason?

It is not outright said that the undergarments of earlier periods were used to control women’s bodies, but it’s implied. That’s a really common misconception, but not really true. In the 17th century women didn’t wear stays, but the bodice was heavily structured and boned. When mantua (loose robe draped on body, think of robe á la francaise) entered the western fashion (around 1680s), women jumped on it. Stays became very quickly very popular, to give the fashionable silhouette even without the rigid bodice. Stays and mantua combo was more comfortable and more adjustable to changes in body so it took completely over the fashion during the 18th century. And when corsets became a thing in the Victorian era, most corset makers were women. Women invented a lot of the engineering that went into patterning corsets.

Corsets and stays were not some torture devices. They were flexible, constructed with the right measurements and their purpose wasn’t to reduce the measurements of the body, but rather create optical illusions and support the bust and the back. Many people who have used recreations of historical corsets say they are in many ways more comfortable than modern bras, which shift all the weight of the bust on shoulders. Corsets and stays distributed it on hips instead. Perhaps the biggest actual health concern with a regular use of corset especially (excluding tight lacing and stays didn’t to my knowledge have this problem at least to the same extend) is it supporting the back too much, making the wearer’s deep muscles wither. So in a way, they were too comfortable. Victorians were aware of that, and upper class women, who didn’t do manual labour, were encouraged to excercise to keep their torso in good shape.

Now at some point when making this post, I started to wonder who made this illustration and why. It does seem, if not well researched, at least professional. After googling the label in the bottom left corner, I found this.

The poster is saying it’s terrible when fashion tries to shape your body with clothing and it has the solution for you. Shape your body literally with the serum they are selling. They even say in the 2000s section that big bust is the desired shape, which now looks a lot like marketing. Though it doesn’t seem like they are selling it anymore. Their website is down and I couldn’t find any info on them. The whole product seems a little suspicious. It’s apparently a cream containing estrogen you put on your breasts and it should make your breast grow. Now I’m no expert, but that’s not how estrogen works. Any cream that claims it has some hormones that will change your body or skin? They don’t work. Don’t buy them.

I think this illustrates very well why I disagree so much with the idea that shaping your silhouette with clothing was so terrible and it’s good that we moved away from it. Fashion always has a silhouette, it’s part of the overall look. When the silhouette was still achieved with undergarments, your body shape and size didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the size, it was about proportion and you could create that with corsets/stays, padding and illusions. Nowadays you see sometimes thin celebrities praised for being fashionable when they wear boring clothes which show their stomach, and people have started to question if they actually have style or are they just thin. And often bigger people are ridiculed for wearing the exact same thing. Now it’s the body which is fashionable, not the clothing. And it leads to companies like these trying to push people to change their bodies.

Now, I don’t think any strict fashion or beauty standard is ever good, even if it could be achieved with clothing alone. But I think there’s something to be learned from past, to maybe not reserve fashion and style only for a specific type of body. I don’t think it’s ever helpful or healthy for a body type to be trendy. There’s always all types of bodies and they all deserve to enjoy style, if they wish.

TL;DR: Add tried to sell their boob cream by spewing inaccuracies about historical undergarments.

#fashion history #fashion #historical clothing #historical fashion #history #dress history #historical undergarments #beauty ideals #body ideals #long post #dress history research

[vintagesimstress]

1843 AF day dress

03.10.2020 edit: updated with new CAS placement

02.09.2020 edit: It turned out the dress had some nasty problems with lower LODs (thanks for letting me know @theroyalthornoliachronicles​!), which should be fixed now. Please redownload! Hopefully now it'll look fine from any distance :)

***

Hi everyone,

It's been some time! I'm sorry for that long silence - first we got hit by a heatwave, then my PC stopped working, and then, when I finally could work on this dress, it turned out to be an absolute nightmare. I don't want to bore you with details, but let's just say that I learned a lot about rig slots and positioning sims' arms :/. Anyway, after almost a week of adjusting stuff and pulling out my hair - here it is! An 1840s (1843, to be precise) day dress for your sims.

Comes in 66 swatches. Yes, I went totally crazy this time. Are they all era appropriate? Probably not. Do they still look cool? I'd say yes. Here's a small preview of some of them (because I'm apparently not crazy enough to take screenshots of all 66 ^^):

All patterns come from colourlovers.com and belong to their respective creators - thank you all very much for sharing them!

polycount: ca. 8,5K

Base Game compatible

HQ mod compatible (…still hoping)

all LODs

custom thumbnail, bump and specular maps, some gentle shine

tagged as everyday, party and warm weather

found under long dresses subcategory

colour tagged

allowed for random

PDN for recolours included - you don’t need it for the mesh to work. Let me know if you’d rather have the PSD file!

I haven's spotted any problems (or rather: I have, but I think I managed to get rid of all of them), but if you see anything, please let me know! I swear I don't bite (well, at least as long as you're civil ;) ).

DOWNLOAD (free on Patreon, no ads)

PS. Bonnet used in the previews by @linzlu​, you can find it HERE.

***

Terms of Use

Don’t: claim it’s yours or monetise in any way

Do: convert, recolour, include the mesh, edit the mesh to create something amazing - just please tag me once you publish it, so that I could also see it!

#ts4cc #vintage #victorian #1840s #adultfemale #dress #outfit

[wri0thesley]

Semi-angsty scenario (however much hurt you feel willing to put in) of Prosciutto surviving the train fight, albeit quite injured, at home with his s/o when the new passione finds him and wants him (for like information or to recruit him again? idk)

recovering - prosciutto x reader (1.7k)

SFW. reader is gender neutral.

warnings for: hospitals, injury, self-hate, death idealation. 

Things do not change overnight; not really. 

Oh, for Prosciutto, they changed in the course of an hour, or maybe less. For your boyfriend, it had been a case of waking up that morning with two legs and two arms and two eyes, a heart that beat sound and fast, a charming smile and a teasing voice and the knowledge of his own finesse - and having almost none of those things by the time midnight struck. 

Prosciutto’s physicality changes overnight. The doctors do what they can for him (you, on pulled tight tenterhooks by his bedside, listening to the beep of monitors with your heart in your mouth in case of a flatline), but the battle and the train have taken much from him. His brain does not change at all. 

He spends two months in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and needles and monitors. You both count the tiles on the ceiling, over and over. You bring him grapes and magazines, but not flowers (and absolutely not cigarettes, though his hand fastens about your wrist and he begs - the doctors say his lungs may never function the same way again). The nurses speak to you;

“Oh, he must have been so handsome,” they say, pity lacing their tone, as they pat your shoulder. As they ask you about children, and the engagement ring on your finger, and you know that they’re thinking that you should get away now, before you’re railroaded into taking care of him (as if you wouldn’t, as if taking care of him is a punishment--). 

“He is,” you say, stubborn - but they give you those same smiles. “He is handsome.” 

He hates how they fluff his pillows, how they speak to him, how they simper. “Like I’m an invalid,” he says, frustrated. You do not remind him that he is an invalid right now; there’s no point in that. Prosciutto is still grappling with being in bed. 

He grapples with the prosthetic leg and arm. He grapples with the glass eye when he’s allowed to remove the adhesive pad (he gives up on that one, eventually; you source an expensive designer eyepatch instead, all embroidered with roses and thorns and glittering semi-precious stones). He grapples with himself, the first time he sees his body full-length in a mirror. 

“Look at me,” he says, lip twisting in disgust. “I should have died instead.”

“Don’t say that,” you say, softly, standing behind him. Your eyes travel the same path as his; the prosthetic leg, all plastics and metal (the shiny skin of where his leg finishes just visible beneath the hospital gown he hates wearing). The jointed arm that he’s still struggling to use. The scars all across his face, the place his hair had to be cut because of how blood was matting it together, the pinprick needle points of all the cannulas and wires he’s had sticking out of him for months. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You say that now,” Prosciutto replies. “But in a few months . . . in a few months, after you’ve had to take care of me, you’ll wish I’d died too.”

-

He tries to refuse help at first. He drops glasses and whiskey bottles and his cutlery and swears and kicks his one good foot into doorways, toppling over because his balance is still not quite right. He shrugs off your attempts to help dress him. He rolls away from you in bed and fiercely shakes off your kisses on scarred shoulderblades. 

“You should leave me,” he says, bitter and angry. “Find someone whole. I’m a fucking liability.”

“I won’t,” you tell him, patiently. “I would stay with you if you were a brain in a jar.”

“Better than this,” he grunts, but in the night his body curls around yours and you kiss away tears from his scarred face that neither of you mention in the early morning light. 

It does not change overnight. Six months after his discharge from the hospital, things have calmed slightly - Prosciutto still drops his silverware sometimes, but instead of swearing and blaming himself, he forces himself to laugh. The house has adapted, too; Prosciutto had tried to avoid them at first (“The period features!” He’d said to you. “I don’t want a fucking stairlift, these stairs haven’t been altered since 1840--), but he’d acquiesced in the end. 

Extra rails, things he can hold onto, antique wingback chairs with new handles he can help himself in and out of more easily. Gadgets to make his grip better, your bedroom relocated into what used to be his study - Prosciutto has always been the kind of man to resist change, but for you he pushes himself. 

And he still cries, of course. You hear him call out for Pesci. You hear him call out for Risotto. He wakes up panting and sweating and cursing Bruno Buccellati’s name (though both of you know what happened to him. Prosciutto has made his peace - he respects Buccellati’s devotion. He’s glad of Diavolo’s deposement. You feel rather less sanctimonious about it, and sometimes the voice in your head is glad that Bruno Buccellati came to a sticky end.). He tells you to leave him and that he’s not worth it and his working hand curls around your waist, pulling you into him, whispering he wishes he’d died instead. 

You live a slightly quieter life. Prosciutto likes luxury, but likes a bargain and hates spending money even more - you two have a nice little savings pot that keeps you in (if not the manner you were accustomed to before) modest fashion. Grateful Dead potters about the house - some of his tentacles are wizened and broken, but he reaches things for Prosciutto that your boyfriend cannot and lays his head on your knee, more desperate for affection now than he ever was before Prosciutto’s injuries. Prosciutto tenses when you lay your hand on Grateful Dead’s head, but shivers when your fingers trace soft patterns, his own head rolling back to enjoy the ghost of your hand on his stand. 

And you are happy. 

You are as happy as you can be. You and Prosciutto muddle along, but he is alive and you are by his side. You kiss him and his good arm goes around your waist, goading you into sitting on his knee. He whispers that he loves you, adores you, that you keep him going - and you whisper the same into his, sighing against his skin, happy that he is with you. 

Until the knock on the door, eight months after his accident. 

-

Giorno Giovanna, in real life, is tiny. He’s a boy - that much is clear. You’d heard he was fifteen (though perhaps he is sixteen now), but you hadn’t been expecting him to look . . . so young. Prosciutto is on edge in front of him, scowl on his handsome face so his overbite and slight buck teeth are more prominent, his knuckles white on the cane by his chair. 

“I don’t understand why you’ve come now,” you say to him, your voice pitching. You can see Prosciutto’s careful veneer falling apart in front of the new Don of Passione. “It’s been months.”

“We were waiting for Signore Prosciutto to recover from his injuries,” Giorno says, all benevolence. Your own heart beats treacherously fast in your chest. You do not trust this golden-haired angel, nor the dark-haired man he’s brought with him with one hand on the table and one hand in the gun in his pants. 

“I won’t be regrowing any of my limbs,” Prosciutto snaps, and you start as you see the gunman’s fingers flex on the handle. You put a hand on your boyfriend’s leg, high enough that it’s leg and not prosthetic, hoping to calm him. 

“We won’t be asking that of you,” Giorno continues, as if - in Diavolo’s reign - Prosciutto’s outburst wouldn’t be enough for him to find a bullet lodged in his brain. 

“I’m not exactly suited for field work in my condition,” Prosciutto says, and you want to shush him and talk for him. You hate this - hate that you can hear the barbed wire in Prosciutto’s voice, that it feels like you’re teetering on a tightrope. If Prosciutto says the wrong thing . . . you two have come so far! You’ve worked so hard! For Prosciutto’s life to come to an end, here, because of a wrong inflection or a rude word when he’s staring the man who killed his team-family-friends in the face and is expected to show deference to him . . .

You can’t bear it. 

“No,” Giorno says. Your throat is dry. You stare at the table in front of you (your old mahogany table was sent to an antiques shop; this one is perfectly sized for Prosciutto’s wheelchair on his worst days) and try and pretend that you aren’t on the edge of a breakdown and that your nerves aren’t fraying with every syllable that comes from Giorno’s mouth. “But . . . we have access to Diavolo’s files, signore, and we know you’d be well-suited for other things.”

“Prosciutto,” you say, aware your voice is small and whiny. You put a hundred things into the whisper of his name. The fear and anxiety and regret - the hope that you’d put the mafia behind you. You’re not stupid. A man like Prosciutto doesn’t get to leave his whole life behind. But you’d thought . . . after everything, you’d thought you were safe.

“Your family,” Giorno continues. “Your good name. Your knowledge of how the syndicate works. We could find a good use for you, signore, if you’ll agree to come work with us.”

(Giorno uses the word ‘agree’. You and Prosciutto both know that is not the case. There is no disagreement when it comes to these things. It is an agreement or an assassin in two weeks from now and a knife at his throat and you, with Prosciutto cradled in your arms as he bleeds out. Men like him do not get miracles twice.)

(He carefully says ‘with’, too. You both know it is ‘for’. ‘Under’. Prosciutto will be a pawn. Again.)

“Yes.” Prosciutto says. He shoots you a brief look that has a hundred apologies written all over it. “I understand, Don.”

They do not give Prosciutto much time to decide - both of them know, with you at his side, he isn’t going to say no. 

And when Prosciutto kisses Giorno’s ring and swears fealty again, he looks at you and you wonder how you were ever so foolish to believe you’d really escape. 

#writing #prosciutto #sfw #hospitals for ts #injury for ts #Anonymous

[dragonheadskilax]

What's your opinion on 1830's/1840's men's fashion?

I love looking at fashion slides and I know that artists have an art style but I enjoy how the fellers are pinched in the middle and in fitting trousers in a lot of illustrations. Patterns and spots of color should really be added more in period media, 1800s clothes always seem to end up being muddled to only using black n white. I get that black started being use all the time for menswear by the 1800s all the way to the 1910s but it could still be toned down just a lil. I say whilst being goth. And I vibe with dandyism. As far as picking up any fashion bits I’m a lil less having acquired anything that can match the style. Besides a poofy shirt and a floral patterned button vest, most I got fits more for early jazz age.

#ask #dragon talk

[vincentbriggs]

Hello Vince! I've been researching these questions for a while to no avail and was wondering if you had advice, as a fellow trans person into historical fashion. The first, is that as a nonbinary person I'd like to make clothes with an androgynous/genderfuck silhouette but am not sure how to achieve that, if you have any tips.(1/2)

The second, larger problem, is that as a nonbinary person, I have a “nonstandard” body. I’m dfab and have had top surgery but am not on T. I am quite short (5'2") with wide hips. My attempts at drafting patterns and making mockups from men’s patterns have gone atrociously (I was attempting some 1908 breeches.) How have you found success in making/drafting historical clothing with a trans body™? (2/2)

Hello! Ok. First thing you need to know is that there’s no such thing as a “standard body”. It’s not a thing, and it never has been. 

Clothing companies may try to pretend it is, but all they’re doing is making stuff that kind-of-sort-of fits a lot of people, but hardly fits well on anybody at all. (The same is true of commercial sewing patterns, although there is much more potential to change stuff with those.) Look around and you’ll see that people come in an infinite variety of shapes and sizes. Different heights, different weights, different proportions, and varying degrees of asymmetry.

Mass produced garments are going by statistical averages, and people just come in too many shapes to make that work. It’s why I have a job doing alterations for a suit store. It’s probably why unstructured, loosely fitted, and/or stretch knit garments are so common nowadays. (That, and it’s easier to wash them. And easier to make them cheaply in sweatshops. I want to punch the fast fashion industry in the face, but I digress.)

People have always come in a huge variety of shapes, all throughout history, but up until whenever mass production became the norm (late 19th and early 20th century I think? It happened gradually.) they had the advantage of having their clothes made specifically to fit them. Unless they could only afford secondhand clothes, but even then they’d probably alter them to fit.

And trans people existed back then too, and people cross dressed for various reasons. “Breeches roles” for actresses were hugely common in theatre, so I think it’s safe to say that breeches can be made to go over wide hips just fine.

I haven’t seen any of your pattern attempts and I don’t know how many you’ve done, but I can say with some degree of confidence that you’re having trouble because it’s your first attempt at a rather difficult thing that takes some time and practice to get good at. We all start out by sewing and drafting horrible stuff! Do not despair! Pattern drafting is a wonderful skill to have, and after enough bad patterns you will get to good ones! It’s a whole entire human you’re putting fabric around, and it takes some practice to develop an eye for what shapes work best on you, and how to correct various fit issues.

Here’s my pattern drafting method: 

I usually use pattern diagrams from The Cut of Men’s Clothes, Costume Close Up, or the LACMA pattern project. All 3 of these sources have nice little scaled down diagrams of pieces traced from extant historical garments, and I start by tracing those onto a small sheet of printer paper. I get a reference picture or several of a similar garment. Preferably a portrait of someone wearing it, or the garment displayed well on a mannequin. I then stand in front of the biggest mirror in the house (wearing everything I’d be wearing under that garment) and imagine that garment on me, and where all the edges and seams are. I get my measuring tape and I measure various bits of the imaginary pattern pieces, and mark these measurements down on my little diagram. Here’s what the one for my yellow striped waistcoat looks like.

Once I’ve got a satisfactory amount of measurements marked down, I go to my big roll of stiff brown butcher paper and I draw out the pattern pieces full size according to these measurements. It’s ok if the measurements don’t all line up perfectly, because it’s awkward to measure yourself in front of a mirror, so they aren’t all exact. 

The important thing is to get the lines nice and smooth, and approximately where they should be, and to get the overall shapes similar to the diagram pattern pieces in a way that fits your proportions. They won’t be exactly the same as the diagram in the book because nobody is shaped exactly the same as whoever wore the original garment. For the above waistcoat I had to flare the hips out waay more than on the inspiration pattern, but when it’s on me that’s not really noticeable because it fits. (Mostly. I still need to work on the shoulders..) I then mock it up in crappy thrift store fabric or old bedsheets, and the past few times I’ve done patterns this way I’ve found them to fit surprisingly well, needing only a few small alterations. I’m very visual, so this method works for me, but other people may prefer different methods.

In college we learned to draft modern patterns with math formulas, but I don’t like doing that, and the basic blocks we did then aren’t super helpful for historical cuts anyways. I know that for the 19th and 20th centuries there are lots and lots of tailoring books available that have drafting instructions, but as I have not yet dipped my toes into the 19th century I can’t really comment on them. 

However you’re drafting, be sure to look at lots and lots and lots of reference pictures from the era so that you get a good picture in your head of what the fit and cut is supposed to be like. Things fit differently in different eras. For example, 18th century coat sleeves are cut much tighter than modern ones, and with a considerably smaller armhole. (Which actually gives you a far better range of motion.) They don’t have any shoulder padding either. And 18th century breeches have wrinkles at the crotch, it’s just part of how they fit.

Alright, I think that’s all I’ve got to say on patterning for now. And now to address the question of androgynous silhouettes! I really don’t want to fall into the trap of equating “androgynous” with “masculine”, but most of the things that immediately come to mind are historical menswear because they’ve got drastically different silhouettes that don’t read as very masculine to the average modern onlooker. One of the things that made me start on a 1730′s project was the early 18th century silhouette. (That, and the lure of Huge Coat Cuffs) Just look at those adorably poofy coat skirts!

Antoine Hérisset, 1729, Rijksmuseum.

The early-to-mid 19th century is another great period for men’s silhouettes. Tiny waists and softly rounded chests (you see padding in a lot of the waistcoats) were in, and the men in the fashion plates are drawn with doll faces, dainty little feet, and pretty substantial hips. Behold:

(1834) I’d like to do an 1830′s outfit someday, and to make a pair of mens stays for it.

Here’s another one so you can see The Hips. The darn source link isn’t working, but this is from Costume Parisien, 1823.

Young man’s cotton summer jacket, c. late 1840′s.

Depending on how concerned you are about foolish comments from random strangers, there’s also the second half of the 17th century to consider. What could be more androgynous than a vaguely human shaped wad of fabric and frills?

I Cannot find the source for this but it’s a French engraving c. 1660.

Now, I am less educated on historical women’s fashion, but I know that those shapeless little 1920′s dresses were going for a more androgynous look. Flat chests and short hair for girls was fashionable, and you can see the beginnings of that boxier silhouette in the 1910′s. 

1910′s women’s suits are magnificent.

Walking suit, c. 1912, V&A.

And riding habits! From the 17th to the 19th century (and maybe beyond, I don’t know) women’s riding habits had the same style lines as mens suits, but were made with the silhouette of a dress, and it looks very sharp. (Especially the 18th century ones, but I’m biased.) They usually consist of a jacket and matching skirt.

Wow that is a much longer answer than I expected to write. I must make an FAQ page so people can find these more easily.

I hope this was helpful, and I wish you all possible success in future pattern drafting endeavours!

#echojar #ask #sewing #transgender #pattern drafting #long post

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Of Poetry and Valentines

I’ve decided that even though I may not participate in every day of @ineffablehusbandsweek I might as well at least write a story for prompt #1.

1. Valentine’s Day -- (3,400 words)

Chocolate Love-A Cake.

Million Heart Cheesecake.

Mint-To-Be Chocolate Candies.

Some sort of cupcake simply titled Heart of the Batter.

Crowley had been standing in Aziraphale’s favorite bakery for over forty-five minutes. He’d stopped even trying to hold up the queue, which now simply flowed around him

Even the pastries without disgustingly twee names were covered in little frosting hearts and other nonsense. Not to mention all that pink.

“Are you ready to order yet?” asked the girl behind the till, handing yet another customer an absurdly elaborate confection that represented exactly six pounds and thirteen pence worth of I love you.

“Nh,” Crowley said, glancing at the coffee list. The flavors of the month started with Cupid Cappuccino and it went downhill fast from there. “Euh.”

“I’ll give you five more minutes,” she said, with far more chirpy good cheer than was strictly necessary.

--

The streets of Soho had been transformed. Paper hearts and cupids in every window; massive displays of roses, orchids, tulips and lilies spilled out in front of every shop, regardless of what they sold; even the nearest pub was covered in bright pink garlands and little red fairy lights.

Did no one in this district have even an ounce of self-respect?

Crowley stepped up to the Bentley and groaned. Someone had tied a red heart balloon to the wing mirror of every car on the street. Someone else had stuck little pink animal and flower shapes all over the windscreens.

The Bentley now sported a paper rabbit with Some bunny loves you! scrawled across it, as well as a large paper flower reading:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Here’s a Valentine

Just for you!

He pulled them both off and shredded them to confetti, yet all the tiny pieces still managed to look like little hearts. The balloon he transformed into a pink-and-red football and kicked it as far down the street as he could.

Crowley slammed the door of the Bentley as he climbed in, and angrily shoved one of his favorite Wagner CDs into the player. Of course, what emerged was not the prelude to Das Rheingold but Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

He slapped the radio off and glared at the dashboard. “Cut that out. I swear to Someone, if you even try and pull that on me today…”

Leaving the threat to hang in the air, he turned the radio back on and skipped to the second song, which was now “March of the Black Queen.”

“Better,” he muttered, and pulled away from the kerb.

--

Aziraphale had never taken to Valentine’s Day, no more than any other saint’s feast day, in any case. He hadn’t commented at all when, almost six centuries ago, it had been co-opted by certain European courts as a day of romance.

Crowley, on the other hand, dove right into it, reveled in it: the poetry, the elaborate tournaments, the sighing tales of courtly love. He was in his element.

After all, a celebration of love might be considered Heavenly, but a day devoted to pageantry and dramatic empty gestures? With an undercurrent of lust masked by a noble myth of pure adoration? That sounded downright demonic.

At least, that’s what he told Head Office. Humans, as always, did ninety percent of the work. Crowley simply observed and dropped a few well-placed suggestions. The poetry got worse, the eloquent love declarations more empty.

By 1800, the exchange of awful verse and sappy greetings in mid-February had become so entrenched in English society that printers had begun to mass-produce cards for the holiday. By 1835, thousands of Valentines – store bought or handmade – were sent through the post every year.

A few more whispered words into the right ears. In 1840, postal rates across the kingdom dropped, and the first postage stamp was introduced. The next February, four hundred thousand Valentines Day cards were mailed all around the country – and, thanks to the changes in the postal system, they could now be sent anonymously.

--

On the thirteenth of February, 1841, an envelope was delivered to A.Z. Fell & Co. Bookshop – there was no sender’s address, no salutation, just a number and street name, hastily scribbled. Inside was a simple piece of white card, covered enthusiastically but inexpertly with white lace; pasted in the center, framed by a heart, was a printed image, a bouquet of red roses and blue forget-me-nots. Below, a bit of gold ribbon surrounded a single word: Devotion.

“I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley grumbled when Aziraphale showed it to him. “Could be anyone. Could be one of your customers. Maybe one of them has a thing for rude shopkeepers.”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, turning the card over to study the pattern of the lace. “There’s something very familiar about it…”

“Familiar?” Crowley demanded sharply.

“I mean, the sender is being very familiar with the recipient. As if they’d known each other a long time.” He ran his finger across the single word. “Perhaps it was misdirected?”

“Nrg.” Crowley shrugged.

In 1842, another envelope arrived. This one held a pre-printed card, a single flower on a pink-and-gold background. A bright red heart, tucked behind a pink ribbon, carried the message:

Paeonia, symbol of happiness sublime

Wilt thou be my Valentine?

More pre-printed cards followed.

In 1843, two birds built a nest, filled with hearts instead of eggs.

In 1846, a couple strolling through a watercolor landscape under the words Valentine Greetings.

In 1849, a little girl in a white dress with a basket of roses, and the words With True Love.

In 1852, the angels started appearing. The first was surrounded by morning glories and gold filigree. Loving Greeting.

1853 brought back the lace and forget-me-nots, surrounding a winged figure wrapped in lace and gauze and little else. With Love and Devotion.

In 1854, a chubby cupid crossed a serene lake in a white-and-gold boat filled with pink roses; a line of white swans bridled with more roses pulled it along. Love’s Message to my Valentine.

“They’re just pre-printed messages,” Crowley pointed out in 1856. “They don’t mean anything. Whoever sent it probably just picked one that looked nice.”

“Oh, no, there’s real feeling behind it, I’m sure. Look at this.” It was the most elaborate yet: white lace, roses, hearts, a dove delivering a heart-covered envelope to a little angel, white ribbon framing a poem, tied in a perfect bow.

Crowley rolled his whole head in an exaggerated gesture. “Trying way too hard,” was all he said.

“Are you jealous?” Aziraphale asked with a grin.

“Jealous? What, that you get sappy misdirected mail? No, I’m fine without.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, studying first Crowley, then the card. “Sixteen years? Without missing one? Surely it must be intentional.”

“Angel, a million of those are sent every year. There has to be some mistakes in all that.”

“Perhaps you’re right…” His eyes ran across the poem one more time.

May this bow of white

Which gives delight

And which I send to you

A token be

Of love divine

Oh, will’t thou be

My Valentine?

“Truly horrible verse,” Crowley muttered. “Does that even scan?”

1857 saw the return of the hand-made cards. Skillfully cut paper, lace, ribbons, flowers – sometimes painted, sometimes embroidered onto linen. Pre-made pieces, painstakingly glued together with endearing imperfection. The messages were short, but hand-written: To My Star. Valentine Greeting. Love Always.

“They have different handwriting,” Crowley pointed out. “Different senders.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale conceded. “Unless the sender is disguising their handwriting.”

“Wh-what? Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know. But look – all the ribbons are pasted on exactly the same way.”

Crowley squinted at three different cards. “I don’t see it,” he said flatly. “I think it’s your imagination. Do you want a secret admirer?”

“No,” Aziraphale started slowly, glancing at Crowley from the corner of his eyes. “No, on the whole I’d rather have an admirer I knew.”

“Mh. Why do you keep those, anyway?”

“Oh, I love a mystery.” Aziraphale felt the grin slide across his face. “Anonymous cards, mailed to my shop every Valentines Day for almost twenty years? Simply irresistible, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley, apparently, had nothing at all to say.

In 1862, the poetry returned, pre-printed again but at least somewhat better verse. Around a watercolor that was possibly meant to depict Romeo and Juliet:

I may wander over land and sea

Pass many days away from thee

Yet my heart can never rove

From thee, my own, my love.

Aziraphale professed it was his favorite yet, but Crowley only scowled.

--

The greatest shock was the card that arrived in 1864.

Aziraphale had not expected anything that year. The envelope sat in his hands, as simple and anonymous as all the others. Inside, a heart-shaped card framing an almost embarrassingly cute cat.

This little kitten,

Valentine,

Has come to ask you

To be mine.

He suddenly realized he had made a grave miscalculation. If these cards were still arriving after…after certain recent developments…that could only mean…

Well. At least Crowley was no longer around to realize what a foolish conclusion he’d jumped to.

Another print arrived in 1865, a young lady holding a tulip to her nose.

Oh! Would I were the flower that sips

The honied kisses from your lips.

My Darling Valentine.

The card tumbled from his trembling fingers.

Why? Why did he even bother opening it? Why did he keep them even now?

Aziraphale grabbed all twenty-five Valentine’s Day cards and thrust them into a box. He found a spot on the highest shelf of the bookcase furthest from the door, tucked the box into a corner so gloomy even he could barely spot it. He was absolutely determined to forget any cards had ever arrived.

The envelope that arrived in 1866 was tucked, unopened, into a thick volume of Greek philosophy and pushed back onto a dusty shelf. Aziraphale swore no matter how many more arrived, he would never look.

But, as if a spell were broken, no more Valentines were delivered after that. And the last one remained unopened for over seventy-five years.

Until, two nights after a certain incident in a church, he found it again, hands shaking from the exertion of the search, from the unnamed emotions racing through him.

The card inside was gold and silver lace, simple yet elegant in a way he hadn’t remembered the others being. There was an earnest charm to the way the edges didn’t quite line up to the white paper underneath. In the center, a printed poem, surrounded by hand-painted flowers in more varieties than Aziraphale could name.

Valentine –

Fain would I guard thee through life’s desert drear

And fling around thee love to soothe and cheer

For thee I live might I but call thee mine

I’d be forever thy own Valentine.

He didn’t know how it was possible, but only one being in all Creation would send such a poem.

Aziraphale sat down on the floor of his shop. The tears he’d been holding in for two days finally began to fall.

--

After Crowley woke from his extended nap, he was disgusted to find how the holiday had spiraled out of control, how it only grew worse with every passing decade. Chocolates. Jewelry. Mass-market commercialization. It became a million-pound industry, and eventually a billion-pound one. Where once hopeful lovers could send a chintzy greeting card for a few pennies, the fools now spent a week’s pay – or more – on useless trinkets, somehow convinced it would ensure a return of affection.

And the engagements! The diamond rings, the elaborate proposals.

It was an absolute mockery of the cheap, empty exchange of sentiments he had spent so long cultivating. Was nothing sacred?

He was sure the Americans were to blame.

And yet now, when the holiday was devoid even of the anti-meaning Crowley had worked so hard to endow it with, now Aziraphale took notice? Now he began decorating his shop with angels even more absurd than the ones he usually collected? Now he put vases full of dried flowers on every table – roses and carnations and tulips in pink and red and white?

Every year, the traditions grew worse, yet Aziraphale only embraced the holiday more.

--

The Apocalypse had come and gone. The world had changed. For eight months they’d stood on the cusp of…something.

It was absurd. They each knew how the other felt – there was no denying it at this point – but somehow, after six thousand years, Crowley suddenly couldn’t find a way to say the words. Now it was Aziraphale waiting patiently on him, and if that wasn’t embarrassing, he didn’t know what was.

He just needed the right time. He’d hoped Valentine’s Day could be it.

But here it was, the fourteenth of February, and all Crowley felt was fed up. He couldn’t bring himself to buy the overpriced flowers, the punfully-named treats, even a racy gag gift (of which there was never any shortage in Soho). It just felt…empty.

He walked into the bookshop and prepared to disappoint his angel.

--

Aziraphale had set up a garland of sorts, too, but not paper flowers or bright red crepe paper. Across the two pillars nearest the door – where no one entering the shop could miss them, let alone Crowley – hanging from a string, were twenty-six Victorian Valentine’s Day cards.

Some were handmade – clumsy and uneven. Some were pre-printed – cheap, mass-produced. All were just a little tacky, but in the light of the shop, they seemed to glow with love.

“Ah! You’re here.” Aziraphale emerged with a pile of 19th-century romance novels, which he proceeded to arrange on the front table, to more easily chase customers away from them. “How do you like my decorating?”

“Oh. Uh. You. You kept those.”

“Naturally.” He didn’t even turn away from his task. “They were sent by someone very important to me.”

Crowley gulped. “You worked that out, then?”

“Yes, dear, in 1843.” Aziraphale chuckled, standing a copy of Wuthering Heights on the top of his display.

“Uh…Nh…” Crowley felt his face getting very warm. “You could have said –”

“I assumed, at the time, this was the beginning of some very elaborate prank on your part, and I was curious to see where it might go.”

“You – you said it was a mystery!”

“Yes, that was me playing along.” Satisfied with his display, Aziraphale turned back. “Now, if we’re finally going to talk about this, I do have a question.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. No avoiding this, it seemed. “Fine. Right. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but it was…it was too much. Too big.” He looked at the ceiling as he talked, the walls, anywhere but at the angel who was now watching him with rapt attention. “You’d just reject it, and I didn’t want that kind of…y’know. So I just – I devalued what it means to say…that…on Valentine’s Day. Made it cheap and easy and meaningless so that when I told you, maybe it wouldn’t seem so big. Maybe you’d be able to accept it. Or at least maybe the rejection wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Soft footsteps across the floorboards, and Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek, drawing his face back down to meet that blue gaze.

“I know. I worked that out, oh, seventy years ago.”

“You what?”

“Once I understood how you felt, well, it seemed rather obvious. I also know why it never worked.”

Crowley hadn’t felt this completely lost since the night the world had almost ended. He reached up and grasped Aziraphale’s hand for balance. “Please…enlighten me.”

“Crowley, dear. A meaningless bit of frippery bought for a few pennies? A quiet I love you disguised as a joke? That’s not who you are. You need a big, grand show of affection, a blazing banner across the sky, or it won’t ever feel real to you. So even when I told you I liked the cards, you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. The holiday was all wrong.”

“Thanks,” Crowley grumbled.

“Well, I was going to say something when you next sent me a card, only you never did. And so I, well, I decided to encourage the humans to, as you say, ‘go bigger.’ I thought you wouldn’t be able to resist a culture of grand romantic gestures. Only I’m not very subtle and it got rather out of hand.”

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinked.

“So…all – all that,” Crowley waved a hand at the window. “All that was you?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled apologetically, though the bastard had probably never been sorry a day in his life. “The holiday generally, and also more specifically the state of Soho just now. I’ve been rather giddy lately and it seems to have gone contagious.”

Crowley thought of everything the day had come to mean – the heart-shaped sweets, the over-the-top dinners, flowers that cost as much as an outfit, jewelry that cost as much as a car. Piles of gifts of every description, sky-diving marriage proposals, holiday getaways to Paris or Florence or tiny cottages in snow-filled forests.

“Aziraphale,” he laughed, found he couldn’t stop laughing. “Angel! You…you made a whole holiday of big, stupid, over-the-top romantic gestures for me?”

“Only because you started it.” He slipped his arms around Crowley’s neck, pulling them together, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s hips, pressing their bodies close. The words he wanted to say danced on the edge of his tongue, waiting for the right moment.  Not yet, not yet. Instead he asked, “Didn’t you have a question?”

“Ah, yes. How did you do it?” Aziraphale pulled back enough to look up at his eyes. “The last three cards arrived while you were asleep.”

“Oh! That’s easy enough.” His hands found their way into Aziraphale’s and, without anyone needing to suggest it out loud, they walked together to the back room and the well-worn sofa, where a bottle of wine waited for them. “I didn’t want to lose my nerve, so I would buy and send the cards five at a time. I gave the post office instructions to mail them one per year. I told myself each time, ‘After the last card, I’ll say it out loud.’ But, well, I always wound up buying more cards.”

Aziaphale froze two steps away from the sofa. “Are you saying you haven’t bought me a Valentine since 1861? This is outrageous.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, flinging himself down and pulling Aziraphale after him. “Have you seen what passes for romantic verse these days? Pathetic. I’m not going to pay…five pounds or whatever it is for that nonsense.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale shifted to lean against him, flashing another bastard smile. “I suppose the card selection has been disappointing lately. Still, an angel likes a little poetry now and again.”

“Poetry, is it?” Crowley pulled off his glasses and tossed them aside so he could meet that breathtaking blue gaze straight on. Caught one of Aziraphale’s hands and held it to his chest.

Women have loved before as I love now;

At least, in lively chronicles of the past –

Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow

Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast

Much to their cost invaded – here and there,

Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest,

I find some woman bearing as I bear

Love like a burning city in the breast.

I think however that of all alive

I only in such utter, ancient way

Do suffer love; in me alone survive

The unregenerate passions of a day

When treacherous queens, with death upon the tread,

Heedless and willful, took their knights to bed.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured. “Well, that’s hardly appropriate for a card.”

Crowley tried to raise Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, but discovered he was shaking too much. “It’s – You’re probably right. But it’s how I’ve felt. For a very long time.”

Aziraphale pulled his hand back, then leaned in to softly brush his lips against Crowley’s. Hesitant. Shy. But when he finished, he didn’t pull back. Crowley could feel the trembling of Aziraphale’s breath, mirroring his own.

“I love you, too,” his angel whispered. “I hope you know that.”

-- end --

Inspired by the pastries at my local bakery, and by a conversation with @angel-and-serpent 

All the Victorian Valentines described are actual cards (I tried to do all vintage, but some may have been replicas/modern cards in “Victorian” style), slightly altered to be easier to describe. I also changed a word or two where the poetry was especially bad.

The final poem is by Edna St. Vincent Millay. I’ve said many times I default write the Husbands as asexual, but then Crowley goes and picks one of the sexy sonnets, so I guess interpret where things go from there as you see fit. (I’m ace myself and not going to try and deny the power of Millay’s sexy sonnets. Look at that thing. I become 5% more allo and 8% gayer every time I read it.)

#ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #Aziraphale #crowley #love confessions #valentines day #ineffable husbands week 2020 #poetry #valentines #Edna St. Vincent Millay #oblivious aziraphale #or is he

[rigmarolling]

Five Things Abe Lincoln Did That Prove He Was A BAMF

I love Lincoln. You probably know this if you’ve listened to me talk for more than two seconds. I have a literal entire bookshelf filled with Lincoln stuff. I teared up in Great Moments With Mr. Lincoln at Disneyland. I cried so hard when I watched Lincoln (2012), that I almost started dry-heaving. I was Lincoln (sort of) for Halloween.

Is it a problem? No. It isn’t a problem, Mom. Because Lincoln was a 100% USDA-certified badass.

Don’t believe me? Here are ten things Abe did to prove he was absolutely a BAMF.

1. That time he jumped out a window to prevent a vote.

In 1840, the Illinois legislature was voting on whether or not to fund the state bank. Lincoln was a member of the Whig party, which did not require members to wear wigs, contrary to what the name suggests, but which did support saving the state bank. The opposing party, the Democrats (different political beliefs from modern-day democrats, do NOT come at me, Reddit dudebros) wanted to shut the State bank down.

It all came down to a vote...and it looked like the anti-state bank democrats were going to win. Abraham Lincoln, then a 31-year-old legislator who looked like the pioneer version of a Tim Burton character, was getting nervous. 

Above: Jack Skellington, 1840.

“Shit,” he thought, probably, “We Whigs are screwed if we lose this vote. And we don’t even get to wear wigs.”

The bank-hating democrats scheduled a vote to adjourn the session, which would effectively be the nail in the state bank’s coffin. Abe was panicking. He was the de facto leader of the Whigs; he had to do something. 

“Prove your mettle, boy,” he probably thought to himself in a folksy, backwoods kinda way. “Show ‘em you ain’t gonna give up.”

So Abe did what any self-respecting legislator would do when stuck between a rock and a hard place:

He jumped out the window of the legislature to stop the vote.

To be fair, Lincoln wasn’t the only one to opt for a morning act of defenestration: a bunch of the other Whigs joined in, too. The rationale was, essentially, this:

Which is peak Internet comedy, but unfortunately, it was 1840 and the Internet didn’t exist yet, so nobody appreciated the gesture and the democrats eventually wound up closing the bank, anyway. 

But at least Abe showed the entire state that he appreciated Looney Tunes-esque escape tactics.

2. That time he roasted a guy during a debate with good-old self-deprecating humor.

You ever rely on self-deprecating humor to beat people to the “yes, I KNOW I am offensive” punch?

So did our 16th president, Abraham Nicole Lincoln.

(Not his real middle name.)

When Lincoln was campaigning, his biggest rival was Stephen Douglas, the Democratic contender who was nicknamed “the little giant” because he was short but a heavy hitter in politics, and also because he looks like the kind of guy that just wouldn’t shut up at parties:

Above: “Actually, I’m not racist, BUT--”

In 1858, Lincoln and Douglas held a series of seven famous political debates called, brilliantly, The Lincoln-Douglas Debates, coming to you LIVE at Rockefeller Center, with performances by the Rockettes, Anna and Elsa on Ice, AND with special guest, Seal!

These debates were THE go-to political show of the season. If you were super into who would be elected to the Illinois Senate in the mid-19th century, then holy shit, you have got to watch these two men go at each other, man, it’s like watching a tree and an angry little dog slap each other across the stage.

During the debates, Lincoln quickly became famous for his one-liners, and also because no one had ever seen a talking tree in a suit before.

In one of the debates, Douglas accused Lincoln of being two-faced. Without missing a beat, Lincoln, who had been mocked his entire life for his ungainly, scarecrow-like appearance in the same way that I just mocked him a few sentences ago, whoops...

ANYWAY.

Lincoln turned to Douglas and went, “Honestly, if I were two-faced, would I be showing you this one?” 

And then the audience did this:

And then Lincoln was like:

Check. Mate. 

3. That time he was so strong and such a good wrestler that nobody messed with him.

When I say “wrestler,” what do you think of?

Is it this?

Maybe this?

What about this?

Huh? What’s that you say? “What the hell is...is that Lincoln? What...what the hell is Lincoln doing in a list of wrestlers?

“Um,” I answer, “Being a wrestler.”

Because Abraham Lincoln, 6′ 4″ and all of 150-something pounds, was, in fact, an incredibly talented wrestler.

So talented, in fact, that when it came to wrestling matches, he went undefeated for most of his life.

See, Lincoln grew up in the middle of butt crack-nowhere, out in the sticks of the American frontier. Ain’t no room for sissies out on the frontier. This here’s hard-scrabble country, see, rough-livin’; you gotta spit to live; you gotta live to spit; Neosporin? I think you mean weak-ass bitch cream.

So how did rootin’ tootin’ frontier folk blow off steam? Well, when they weren’t dying of dysentery or tuberculosis or minor infections that could today be cured by steady application of Neosporin, they were wrasslin’. And when it came to the act of picking someone up and throwing them back down, nobody wrestled like 21-year-old Abraham Justine Lincoln.

(Not his real middle name.)

One look at the guy and people were like, “The hell? What’s this ancient Egyptian mummy doing in the ring?”

But the second he got going, everyone shut up. Because this guy was nuts. He was a berserker. He could defeat a guy three times his size in seconds. He could bench the Rock, probably, and not even break a sweat.

He was the nicest guy in town. But nobody--and I mean nobody--messed with Abraham Ashley Lincoln.

(Not his real middle name).

One time, Jack Armstrong, the local heavyweight champion who was the Big Bad in town and undefeated in the wrestling and “I’m a giant asshole who smashes my way through problems” arena, challenged Lincoln to a match. 

“Uh oh,” everyone in the little town of New Salem, Illinois thought, “That’s it for ol’ Twig Legs Abe. He might be good, but there’s no way he can defeat Jack Armstrong. Nice knowing you, kid; it’s a shame, because you might have made a solid president.”

But Lincoln, who knew no fear and ate chains forged in the heart of a dwarven cavern for breakfast, was like, “Bring it on, bitch.”

Above: Playin’ with the boys.

Jack and Abe started sparring and Jack threw insult after insult Abe’s way. I don’t know exactly what Jack said, but it was probably the 19th century equivalent of, “You may have 2,300 Facebook friends but nobody cares about the pictures of your homemade Shake ‘N Bake chicken that you post, eggwad.”

Abe didn’t relent. 

See, he was getting angry.

Really angry.

So angry, in fact, that in one fell swoop, he suddenly slammed big Jack Armstrong to the ground so hard that Armstrong passed out, cold.

Abe had won. Everyone stared at the panting, growling, 6′4″ pine tree man in reverent awe. 

A fun epilogue to this story: after Jack Armstrong recovered from getting his ass handed to him by a guy who looked like an extra in a movie about the Amish, he and Abe remained steadfast buddies for the rest of their lives. 

Jack just never ever insulted Abraham Jessica Lincoln again.

(Not his real middle name.)

4. The (many) times he went off into long, rambling stories during Cabinet meetings to illustrate a point.

You know how grandma and grandpa sometimes go off on tangents and you’re like, “okay, okay, get to the point.”

But grandma and grandpa don’t even respond and just keep talking about that one time in 1953 that Anne-Marie told George that no, she hadn’t gone to the corner store, why do you keep asking, George? And then I said to George, I said, George, you need to listen to Anne-Marie because she knows that the corner store is the only one in town that sells fresh-laid eggs and Butterick circle skirt patterns, but did he listen? Did he listen to me? No, he didn’t, so I went to---

You get it.

So did every single member of Lincoln’s cabinet. Because Lincoln was a consummate storyteller, for better or for worse. 

(Sometimes for worse, depending on who you asked.)

Above: “One time, at band camp...”

Lincoln would interrupt important meetings about, you know, saving the Union and the soul of the country itself with anecdotes that started something like this:

Lincoln: You know, Sec. Stanton, that reminds me of a fur-trapper I knew back in Illinois--

Stanton: Great, except, Mr. President, everyone is dying--

Lincoln: Now this here fur trapper was the best fur trapper in the entire state. Not the entire country, mind you, on account of we didn’t really have a way of measuring fur-trapping skills nationwide--

Stanton: *neck turning purple* Mr. President--

Lincoln:--but definitely the best fur trapper in Illinois. Now one day, this fur trapper set out to do what he did best: shoot some raccoons, or maybe a bear, or a wolf if he was lucky, or a deer, or some moose, or a beaver, or a mongoose, or maybe a possum--

Stanton: OH MY GOD--

Lincoln:--or a cat, if times were desperate, but not a dog, never a dog, because this here fur trapper loved dogs; had six of ‘em himself, all hound dogs, loyal to a fault, see, because this here fur trapper--

Stanton: JUST STOP--

Lincoln: --this here fur trapper could be short-sighted. See, he set his sights one day on shooting the biggest bear in the mountains--and this bear, why, this here bear was a Goliath of a bear, the biggest bear anyone ever did see, the biggest bear in the state; not the biggest bear in the country, mind you, on account of we didn’t have a way of comparing bear sizes nationwide, but--

You get the gist.

Above: “So I’m sitting there, barbecue sauce on my tiddies--”

Eventually, Lincoln would get to the point of his story; in this example, for...um, example...maybe the moral was, “Don’t get so focused on one goal (shooting that big bear) that you loose sight of other objectives in the war (getting rid of the wolf pack killing all the sheep or whatever).”

I would like to explain to you why telling long, rambling grandpa stories was such a power move:

Abe Lincoln was the president. 

So his whole Cabinet had to listen.

And Abe Lincoln knew it.

They had to listen to this backwoods guy go on and on about how that one time the local long boatsman fell into the river actually serves as a metaphor for Gen. McClellan’s inability to take control of the troops; or how the rabid raccoon that lived in the local blacksmith’s shop can serve as a metaphor for acting too hastily when trying to take down the South. 

Or, like, whatever.

Above: “All here in favor of me performing the entirety of Les Mis starring me as everyone, raise your hands.”

Apparently, Lincoln was also the kind of storyteller who, if there was a funny punchline at the end, took forever to get to the punch line because he’d start laughing hysterically at his own joke, and while many people thought it was incredibly endearing, others were like, “Boy, I wonder what it would be like if I dumped this entire fucking bottle of ink over the president’s head to get him to shut the fuck up.”

Spoiler alert: Lincoln did not, in fact, shut the fuck up. He was determined to teach folks a lesson through the the power of storytelling and also to help break the tension of a legitimately horrible war with the power of laughter.

Monopolizing the conversation to prove a point with anecdotes about frontier living that no one can escape?

Power. Move.

5. Those times he let his kids run amok in the White House and thought it was hilarious.

Lincoln had a four kids, all boys, who moved into the White House after he was elected president.

And these boys were little terrors.

To be fair, a vast majority of boys are terrors. Kids are terrors. They are small harbingers of chaos and discord with little regard for their fellow humans, which means they fit right in in the White House EYYYY POLITICAL COMMENTARY.

But Lincoln’s kids, apparently, were especially out of control.

Above: “Alright, enough pussy-footin’ around, Pops, fork over the dough and no one gets a kick in the nuts.”

Lincoln adored his boys, partly because he was a good dad and partly because he’d already had one child die tragically, so understandably, he was like, “Life is short and antibiotics haven’t been invented yet so we’re all going to die from getting paper cuts, probably; I’m just gonna let my boys do whatever the hell they want.”

And he kind of...did.

Willie and Tad Lincoln, his two youngest, brought tons of pets into the White House. Dogs, cats, birds...when people objected, Lincoln just sort of shrugged. He, too, was a huge animal lover and didn’t really care if ponies were clomping around the Oval Office. “My White House, my rules, my indoor ponies.”

The two Lincoln boys would dress up in military uniforms and have fake military drills and stage fake (LOUD) battles all over the White House, including when Dad was in a Cabinet meeting.

What did Dad do, you ask?

Laugh his head off.

While his kids would burst into Cabinet meetings, crawl under the table and kick important Senators’ legs and feet, generally causing a grade-A ruckus, Abe would try and fail to stifle his laughter.

Which, you know. Objectively isn’t the best parenting, but for Pete’s sake, they were at war, can’t they have a little fun? Jesus, lighten up, folks, they’re kids.

The Lincoln boys particularly irritated Sec. of War Edwin Stanton, but to be fair, almost everything irritated Sec. of War Edwin Stanton.

Above: “I have never had fun once, ever, in my life.”

Once again, Lincoln’s rationale was, “Life is fragile, one of my children already died, the country is at war, and kids make me laugh, so if they want to punch Sec. Stanton in the balls under the table, who am I to stop them?”

Also, Lincoln was the president, so nobody thought it was appropriate to go, “Um, hey? Mr.--Mr. President? Maybe you could tell your sons to, you know...not crawl under the table and interrupt, um...important...war strategy meetings?”

ALSO, Lincoln once wrestled a man twice his size to the ground without batting an eyelash, so you go tell him to make his kids behave. I dare you.

#abraham lincoln #listory #american history #us history #u.s. history

[tj-crochets]

Miss Beatrice Bear!

#sewing #handmade #plushie #teddy bear #1840s doll dress #I need to come up with a group name for all the animals in dresses #like…say hello to the latest member of the forest friends! the country cotillion? the pretty plushie pals #this would probably be easier if I knew more about 1800s fashion lol #I will come up with a name eventually #fancy forest friends? maybe? #my dad says I should name her Bunny. Bunny Bear #but I think I’ll just say Bunny is a nickname for Beatrice #she’s so soft and fluffy and adorable I’m so happy with how this pattern turned out

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 14 of 26

Title: The Count of Monte Cristo (1840s)

Author: Alexandre Dumas (English translation by Robin Buss)

Genre/Tags: Fiction, Historical Fiction, Revenge, Adventure, Classic, Re-Read, Slow Burn, Third-Person.

Rating: 10/10

Date Began: 5/07/2020

Date Finished: 6/13/2020

Young Edmond Dantès is about to get everything he’s ever wanted-- he’s set to marry the woman of his dreams and become captain of a distinguished trade ship. However, everything goes wrong when several jealous rivals frame him for a crime he did not commit, landing him in a horrific prison with no hope of trial or escape. After years of solitary confinement and despair, Dantès by chance meets a wise old abbé imprisoned in the neighboring cell. The two become close friends, and the abbé teaches Dantès everything he knows. On his deathbed,  Dantès’ mentor reveals the location of a fabulous treasure hidden on the abandoned island of Monte Cristo.

Dantès escapes prison after fourteen harrowing years and discovers that the treasure is real. Not only that, the men who ruined his life have obtained wealth and success. He reinvents himself as The Count of Monte Cristo, a mysterious and fabulously wealthy aristocrat. Utilizing this and a multitude of other personas, Dantès enacts a manipulative and intricate revenge on the men who wronged him long ago.

Click the readmore for the full review!

“Dantès cannot stay in prison for ever; one day, he will come out, and on that day, woe betide the one who put him there!”

The Count of Monte Cristo is, obviously, a famous classic. It’s also one of two books I had to read for a class in high school that I actually liked. Considering 15-year-old me was a “gifted” burnout who had stopped reading for pleasure at that point, it says something that an assigned 1200-something page classic novel not only captured my interest, but kept it to the bitter end. Reading this was genuinely one of the few good things that came out of my high school experience. While I didn’t understand everything about it (least of all French pronunciation when I tried to read it out loud-- good God), the adventure, political intrigue, and revenge were all very exciting. It was shocking to actually read a book for school that was so entertaining.

But it’s been about a decade since I’ve read The Count of Monte Cristo. A lot has changed about me as a person since then-- I’m older, maybe a little wiser, and an entirely different gender than I thought I was. So, is it the same novel to me now as it was back then? Yes and no.

On a reread, I found I understood the novel more than I did as a teenager; I was able to follow the multitude of characters, subplots, and events much better. While many people discuss and praise the revenge plot, myself included, Monte Cristo doesn’t fully embrace that narrative until the last quarter or so. Most of the book instead establishes characters, relationships, and events that pay off big time when the Count finally pulls off his various schemes. It’s satisfying to see how everything comes together, especially in the last leg of the story. Each time Dantès reveals his identity is a treat, and it’s always fresh, with different philosophical implications. It’s impressive how Dumas ties so many threads into a coherent and entertaining whole. 

Revenge itself is very psychological in this book. The Count’s revenge plots are premeditated and usually immaculate in execution. He doesn’t just get revenge on the men who wronged him -- he actively fucks with, manipulates, and ruins them in the eyes of society. Even when the unexpected happens, he’s usually quick-witted enough to figure things out and still accomplish his goals. Dantès sees himself as an agent of God, reasoning that it’s the only explanation for how he went from the utter despair of eternal imprisonment to wealthy and powerful. He believes his revenge is ordained by heaven to punish the wicked-- and he likewise shows paternal compassion and care towards those he deems to be worthy. It’s only when innocents begin to suffer for his actions that Dantès questions his pursuit of revenge, and whether his utter devotion to it was divine at all or even the right thing to do. Does a life dedicated to revenge truly make one happy? Does revenge actually improve the world? These are almost universal ideas in modern revenge stories, but there’s no doubt that The Count of Monte Cristo popularized them.

The Count of Monte Cristo is also surprisingly modern for a story written in the 1840s. Many elements would be considered unusual for the time. There’s honest-to-God, non-fetishized lesbians in the story, which was something I definitely didn’t catch on my first read (you can even interpret one of them as a trans dude, which is bonkers). One of my favorite characters is Noirtier, a disabled old man whose entire body is paralyzed except for his eyes. Despite this, he communicates via different blinking patterns to enact multiple complex schemes to protect his granddaughter. He’s a total badass, and the only character that gives the Count a run for his money re: ulterior motives. There’s also some pretty risqué elements-- Dumas really liked hashish, which features quite a bit in the story. Add in the graphic violence and an actual plot-critical serial killer, and you’ve got an adventure thriller that often feels like it was written for modern audiences.

Do I recommend reading Monte Cristo? Yes, absolutely-- but there are definitely some caveats. The length is an obvious consideration. If you want to read this, be prepared for a commitment-- I read pretty fast, and it still took me over a month to get through it. While it’s long, it is entertaining (and often humorous) throughout, even to a modern reader. You also want to avoid the multitude of abridged versions, as they tend to cut out most of the interesting subtleties of the story and focus on the action sequences. The translation I read clocks in at a cozy 1276 pages, and they definitely aren’t short. While I haven’t read other translations, this one (the Penguin Classics translation by Robin Buss) seems to be considered the best English version.

While I mentioned the modern aspects of the story, and Dumas was considered liberal, The Count of Monte Cristo is still a product of its time. Dumas has some very interesting female characters, for example, but their roles are generally still true to the sociopolitical climate of the 1840s. Slavery is just a thing in the story, and while there’s some nuance there considering Dumas’ own heritage, it’s worth mentioning. The Count’s relationship with Haydée is pretty yikes, even though I like her as a character and her role in one of the revenge schemes. Generally speaking, this book also has more pop culture references than a Shrek film, and while the footnotes help, there’s still a lot that isn’t annotated and totally went over my head.

In my opinion, though, The Count of Monte Cristo is definitely one of the most captivating classic novels out there. It’s had an immense impact on modern storytelling, and I can’t understate how genuinely fun it is to read. Definitely give it a try if you’re in the market for a classic and the sheer length doesn’t scare you away.

#taylor reads #10/10 #sorry for the shit picture -- i literally couldn't find one for this edition without horrible jpeg artifacts lmao #2020 reading challenge

[iredreamer]

Thank you so much for your insights on Anne's life and the details of social norms back then! I really enjoyed reading your posts, and it's absolutely fascinating! I have seen some controversy around her relationship with Ann. Aside from the show of course, what is your perspective on their relationship?(I have read in a couple of places that Anne kind of just "settled" for Ann and her heart really lied with Mariana) So I was wondering, as someone who read about both the Ann(e)s what you think?

hey :) I’m finally answering you! Thank you so much, I’m happy you’re enjoying the history facts haha.

Okay, this turned out to be waaaay longer than I thought, so grab a cup of coffee (or tea I guess) and sit comfortably!

First of all, I think this is a difficult answer because I do feel like everyone could elaborate their own opinion on the matter, and at the end we would never know were the truth really lies. To have some kind of unbiased opinion one should read every single entry of Anne’s diary about Miss Walker and Mariana and compare how she acts with both of them and how she writes about them, and of course that can’t be done (at least for now) so…this is my opinion and it’s of course based on what I have read (my sources: Gentleman Jack: The Real Anne Lister; Presenting the past: Anne Lister of Halifax, 1791-1840; Nature’s Domain: Anne Lister and the Landscape of Desire and Female Fortune: Land, Gender and Authority: The Anne Lister Diaries and Other writings). We should also consider that these two women [Walker and M] were really different from each other and Anne meets them in two very different moments of her life, when she meets Mariana she’s in her 20s and when she meets Ann she’s 41, in twenty years a person changes, their priorities change and even the way of showing love and affection changes.

Okay, now, about the Mariana-Anne-Ann thing…I already wrote something about the matter and you can find it here, it summarizes a little what I think about Anne & Ann’s relationship and also has some facts about how things went between them and with Mariana.

I also posted some extracts from Anne’s 1832 diary in which she says more than once that she feels like she’s falling in love with Miss Walker and that: “I really am getting much more in love than I expected to be again”. So let’s debunk the myth that she didn’t give a flying fuck about Ann Walker.

Now, let’s dive in, I have many thoughts about all of this and I tried to organize them as best as I could but I probably failed, so this might be a bit of a rant and all over the place, I hope you enjoy reading it anyway! And, one more thing, most of this long rant focuses on the Ann(e)s relationship and what are (some of) the things and facts that make me think that they did love each other and that Anne Lister did care about Miss Walker. Here we go…

Anne Lister wanted a wife. She says it many many times. She’s always writing how she wants someone to spend her life with, and when she comes back to Shibden at 41 she wants to settle down. She’s tired of all those women who used her for sex, company and sometimes even money without seriously committing to her (and yes, Mariana is one of those women). I love when at the beginning of Nature’s Domain Liddington writes that Anne Lister could have adapted the opening of Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in need of a good fortune must be in want of a wife”. So, she was in search of a wife…

In 19th century marriage was a “legal agreement”, you didn’t marry for love but for money, so, yes, that’s what Anne was looking for in a woman: money and status, but also the desire of a happy life together. When she meets Ann and decides to court her she writes many times how she likes her company and how she wants to make her happy and how happy that would make her in return: “I really think I can make her happy & myself too”. And: “She [Miss Walker] falls into my views of things admirably. I believe I shall succeed with her - if I do, I will really try to make her happy - & I shall be thankful to heaven for the mercy of bringing me home, having first saved me from Vere, rid me of M-, & set me at liberty.” I think the fact that she was looking for happiness and thought she could really achieve it with Miss Walker is often overlooked and it shouldn’t be, it’s an important fact.

One of the things that struck me while reading Anne’s diary is that, when things don’t go as she planned, she writes again and again how she doesn’t care about Miss Walker, how she doesn’t care how things will turn out in the end, how she doesn’t care if Ann decides to commit to her or not, but her actions and her behavior conflict with all that. It seems as if she’s trying to convince herself that she doesn’t care, to protect herself from going through another heartbreak. This is an example, Ann had to give Anne a final answer about their commitment, Anne writes:

November 2, 1832 / We fretted ourselves to sleep last night - she lay on me as usual to warm her stomach & then lay in my arms – but I was perfectly quiet & never touched her queer – the tears silently trickling from my cheeks down hers. Somehow I was shockingly attendri [softened] tho’ perpetually saying to myself ‘Well, I care not how she decides…’. On awaking found myself as tearful as ever (…) We wept (& kissed) – I thanked her & she left me. (…) Both of us attendries & the tears starting perpetually I said my mind was made up for the worst – she said ‘Well, but she had not given her answer yet’…. She would (& did) mend my gloves – begged me to promise to let her have a night-chemise for a pattern – but she saw I declined promising. She hoped she should do many more things for me – never knew till now how much she was attached to me. I made no reply… she hung upon me & cried & sobbed aloud at parting… ‘Well’, said I to myself as I walked off, ‘a pretty scene we have had, but surely I care not much & shall take my time of suspense very quietly & be easily reconciled either way’.

The most important fact (I think) that gives us some insight on how Anne felt about Miss Walker, is that Anne was the only one who genuinely cared about Ann’s health. Anne Walker’s mental health was really bad but Anne stayed close to Miss Walker and helped her for months, trying to make her feel better, trying to restore her health. At that time the engagement was off, so it’s not like she [Anne Lister] was acting like that because she hoped her kindness would convince Ann Walker to marry her, it’s not like she was doing it for the money, she was doing it because Ann needed her. In her diary she says how the situation is unbearable for her, but still, she doesn’t leave Ann’s side. Why do this? It was all off, she didn’t have any obligation to look after Ann. Why take such responsibility? Why stay in a situation that threatened her happiness and mood if she didn’t care?

Anne Lister writes, again, how she doesn’t care about Miss Walker but then ends up crying when the thought of her crosses her mind: “Seeing her always unhinges me…I was low and in tears at dinner and could not get her out of my head and why? For if I had her what could I do with her?” Come on…it’s hard for me to think that the sadness she felt was only because things didn’t go as she planned, it’s hard for me to think that she cries only for the money. Do we really have to think her that cold? I think Anne couldn’t stay away from her really: “This girl, without really having my esteem or affection, somehow or other unhinges me whenever I see her…“.

When they see each other again, after being away from each other for 10 months (during that time they kept a correspondence even if it wasn’t a direct one), they are very happy to reunite and they end up together again: “Much talk last night till 4 this morning and then not asleep for a long while. She [Miss Wlaker] repented having left me”. Anne Walker starts talking about wanting to commit again and at the end they marry each other. Was their journey an easy one? No. Was it an happy one? Not always. But I do believe they cared for each other.

And I just wanna say, in those 10 months they spent apart, Anne Lister never tried to find a serious partner, she was always flirting and shit because that’s who she was, but she always wrote how she didn’t want to go too far with anyone and she just kept thinking about Ann Walker, even if she didn’t want to think about her, even if it was all off. She worried when letters about Ann Walker stopped coming. I mean, come on…

So, fast forward to their marriage and what happened after it. Mariana tried to tempt Anne but with no luck. Anne went to visit her for Christmas and this is what happened, from Anne Lister’s diary:

December 23, 1834 / I led the conversation to A- [Ann Walker]; said I liked [her], was more than comfortable and whatever might be said, money had nothing to do with it. M- [Mariana] asked if it was true that she has three thousand a year - I said no, but our fortunes would be about equal and that we should have five thousand a year… I was thankful things were as they were, for I was determined to have [some]one and certainly could not have done better.

December 25, 1834 / M- [Mariana] came to me a little before eight and staid till nine in bed with me - rather in the pathetics - she cannot get over her love for me - but I behaved with perfect propriety

Anne comes back home to Ann Walker (they were already living together, Ann Walker moved in at Shibden Hall after their marriage, going against her family) I think they’re cute:

December 26, 1834 / A- [Anne Walker] jumped up & came to me in her dressing gown & clock, delighted to see me back again - had given up in despair. Had tea - the 1st thing we did was to laugh aloud at her droll figure & the bustle I had made - explained, sat talking - told her I myself was astonished how little I had thought of M-, either of going or returning - very glad to be back again - mentioned how I had offered her the use of Shibden in the event of Charles’s death. 

Reading her diary entries (from 1833 till 1836) it’s clear that she and Ann talked a lot, their sex life was great, Anne introduced Ann to her social circle, they had fun playing backgammon (fun fact: Ann Walker was really better at it than Anne Lister ahaha), and yeah, they were just like any other married couple. There were also bad things in their marriage: Anne Lister had to be the one introducing Ann Walker to new people, Anne Lister read all Ann Walker’s letters and always suggested how to answer, and more…

So, what’s the point of all this? I do think that Anne Lister cared and loved Ann Walker. For sure the relationship with Ann Walker was not the most romantic one she had, but it was the most serious one, they found each other. Both of them wanted a “traditional marriage” and by traditional marriage I mean a marriage in which the roles were very clear. Ann Walker wanted someone who could take care of the business estate, manage social relationships and basically “play the husband” and Anne Lister was more than happy to take on that role. They were polar opposites but they wanted the same things in life.

For sure their marriage wasn’t perfect, but Anne behaved as she did because she saw their union as a serious one, “she saw absolutely no reason why property should not be as important a consideration for Ann and herself as it would be in any heterosexual alliance.” [J. Liddington, Female Fortune] at the same time we shouldn’t forget that “she did often demonstrate a warm affection and care for Ann” [J. Liddington, Female Fortune].

About her relationship with Mariana, I haven’t read much of Anne’s entries about her, but from the little I’ve read and from various commentaries, I can say that she for sure loved her (and yes Mariana was her first real love and their relationship went on for something like 20 years). Mariana manipulated her and led her on for years. The two always talked about how when M’s husband died they would live together, but from 1830 Anne Lister kinda stops caring about it, she’s tired of the situation and hates to be second to anyone. Their relationship deteriorates with time. She even wrote about Mariana that their passion turned into friendship or something along those lines. If you wanna know more about Anne & Mariana’s relationship I really suggest watching this video of Helena Whitbread talking about it, it really sheds some light on their relationship, their dynamic and how badly Mariana hurt Anne.

What I believe: Anne’s love for Mariana was disinterested and wholeheartedly felt, there’s no doubt about that (I mean, she saw her when she was 19 and fell in love with her right in that moment), if Mariana hadn’t been the bitch she was, Ann Walker would have never came in the picture. But the truth is that Mariana was always ashamed of Anne, used her and kept her close, taking advantage of her love but never committing to her, always and only concerned about her status. So, in conclusion, I’m happy Anne found someone like Ann who was brave enough to be with her and make her as happy as she could, and I think that must have meant something in the end.

I hope this long thing I wrote gives you an idea of the dynamic between Anne and these two women. There’s for sure a lot more to say and to analyze and there are still many Anne Lister’s words that haven’t seen the light of day so, who knows what else is there to know about how she truly felt about these two.

And one more thing, I think we shouldn’t expect Anne Lister to be the romantic heroine we would like her to be, because she wasn’t. She was a flawed, not “very nice” woman who lived in the 19th century and tried to do all she could to be happy.

#ask #anon #gentleman jack #anne lister #ann walker #mariana lawton #me screaming about gentleman jack #this is long af #sorry #real people: anne lister #real people: ann walker #real people: mariana lawton #AL and AW: courtship #AL and AW: married life

[saiilorstars]

Next Stop, Everywhere

Chapter 15: The Losses and the Gains

Fandom: Doctor Who

Pairing: Female OC x 10th Doctor

(Minerva’s face claim: Victoria Camacho)

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Chapter summary: To help Minerva finally open up about her past, the Doctor takes her to a Guinguette where the trio can relax and give Minerva their full support.

// Story Masterlist //

I couldn't maintain my sobs under a low volume as I stood in front of my big sister's gravestone. I think my eyes were literally water-wells because the amount of water that streamed down from them were ridiculous, but then again...this was Olivia. Liv. My sister...and she was dead.

"Go ahead," the Doctor urged me, gesturing for me to do what we had come to do.

He had brought me to the one place that could potentially pave the way for my 'recuperation': Olivia's burial site. He and Martha stood behind me while I stared endlessly at Liv's tombstone. I don't know how, but I managed to tell Martha the same story I told the Doctor. And to my luck, she didn't reject me either. She was with the Doctor on this one; I had been wronged, not the other way around. But more importantly, forgetting who was right and wrong, they both comforted me and helped me stand where I am now, the one place I had never been to despite all the traveling I did.

When my mother prevented me from attending Olivia's burial, I thought I'd never gather my courage to come on my own later on. Because as time went by, I was sure that it was my fault Liv was in a coffin and buried. I felt like I'd be a hypocrite for coming to mourn her. I felt like she would judge me from above, and if she could, she'd order me to leave her alone. So when the Doctor told me where we were going, I was initially very resistant to it. But he told me that I was wrong, that everything I thought about Liv was just wrong. He said, if I wanted to be okay, I had to come here. I had to start by finally mourning her.

But the question that burned in my head was...would I ever be okay? Would I ever be fine?

I stepped up and knelt down, placing an orange tulip on Liv's tombstone, her favorite flower, "Olivia, it's me...Joyce, like you used to call me, huh? I forgot about that nickname. I seem to have a thousand, honestly. I know I never came here before, but I hope you're not too angry with me. You know how Mom can be. But honestly, I was afraid to come here. I think you're judging me, calling me a hypocrite because it's my fault you're here...buried..." I paused, swallowing very hard, "...but I just want to say, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything I said to you. I was just a jealous kid. Mom and dad always prioritized their time for you and work, and I was so jealous..." I shook my head, looking back and realizing just how bad I was to her at times, "...but it wasn't your fault. You were a good sister, even if we weren't very close, you were different from Mom and Dad. You tried to help me when I needed it, even when I was that annoying little sister that bugged you," I smiled a little, wiping some tears off my face, "But just know that...I'm so sorry, please forgive me." That was the last I could say before I burst into sobs.

"C'mon," the Doctor helped me up, keeping me right beside him and holding my hand, "She knows it's not your fault."

"But what if she doesn't? What if she thinks I killed her too?"

"She can't," Martha said, taking my other hand, "She doesn't."

The Doctor agreed, nodding his head, "Olivia Souza is much smarter than that. She would never think her little sister killed her."

"I miss her so much, Doctor, so much," I covered my mouth and muffled more sobs.

"It's okay," he turned and hugged me, "Just mourn her, let go of your guilt."

I felt like an utter child the way I sobbed, but neither he nor Martha reprimanded me for it. Instead, Martha moved over and joined the hug, both gripping me tightly, like one small family.

~0~

"Minerva, you can't keep this up," the Doctor warned as I was brought to the console room by Martha, practically by the hair.

"I want to go back to my room. I need to finish my school work that I still haven't returned," I cried, releasing myself from Martha's grip.

"I doubt the little work you brought with us from the hospital takes you a full week to finish," the Doctor said, getting a sharp look from me, "You've locked yourself in your room doing school work with no breaks. You can't do that!"

"It's not healthy," Martha said softly, "You've got to talk to us."

"What I need to do is get back to work," I snapped, "I need to be forgiven."

"Olivia has-"

"She's not the one I'm talking about," I cut the Doctor off, "I should've told you this but then again I thought you would've realized it too. I bury myself in work so that I can forget. Liv will never forgive me as well as my mother, but maybe, maybe my grandmother will. But I just need to work hard," I swallowed hard, another round of tears making its way to my eyes, "I need to work."

"Minerva that's not healthy," Martha repeated, much more concerned, "Self blame, withdrawing, anger is part of psychological tr-"

"It's MY FAULT!" I shouted at her, making her jump, "It's my fault, and I have to make up for it," I turned and hurried off for my room.

"Minerva!" the Doctor called, following after me, "Minerva!"

"Leave me alone! I don't want to do it anymore!"

"Do what?" he caught up in one, two and turned me around.

I looked up with glossy eyes, taking everything I had not to cry anything, not in front of him, "This," I gestured to us, "I can't..."

"I'm not following," he eyed me with confusion.

"I don't want to cry in front of you anymore," I confessed, "I feel like I could re-fill the river Thames we drained up with Donna after all the crying I've done. It embarrasses me that you've seen me like this. You weren't supposed to. I was just supposed to tell you what happened to Liv and then move on like I did with Jackie and Mickey. But you make me go in depth and tel you everything and I makes me cry," I quickly rubbed off said tears, "I wanna talk to you but I don't want to cry anymore."

"We can work with that," he declared, looking like an idea had just sparked in his head, "We'll talk, and I know just the place. A lively place where the only thing you can do is smile, laugh, eat, or dance. Or all of the above!"

"I'm not up for any of that, Doctor," I shook my head.

"Go to the wardrobe and dress for 1848."

" I don't-"

"I know you love playing dress up in that room so go and pick out a dress or I will go in myself and take out the first thing I see and I guarantee you will not like it so go," he pointed ahead, acting so authoritative it was actually kind of amusing I just had to smile a little, "Heeey, you're smiling!'

"I don't know how you do that," I shook my head.

"It's a gift," he shrugged and turned me for the wardrobe room, "Now go."

"But I don't want to-"

"Yes, you do, now go!"

"But what about Martha?"

"Oh yes! Go get her too! 1848, remember that."

"Where are we going?"

He grinned deviously, "My secret."

"But-"

"Just go or I'll choose the dress, and trust me-"

"I don't want that to happen, yeah," I rolled my eyes and started for Martha, "I got it.

Whatever this Martian had in mind, I was so not in the mood for it.

~0~

"There, you look pretty," Martha complemented, pushing part of my hair over my shoulder and moving aside to allow me to see myself in the mirror.

As much as I hated the idea of going somewhere, the Doctor was right, I did love playing dress up with the wardrobe room. The fact there were clothes from all types of historical periods fascinated me! At times, the Doctor would often be searching for me only to find me lounging around, picking out clothes I would wear on our next trips. Though because this was a sudden trip, an unexpected one, I wasn't entirely sure what to wear - that the fact that my head couldn't deal with such petty things. But Martha stepped in, and she took care of it, as usual.

Right now, I wore an ankle-length, midnight blue dress of organza silk. Its long-sleeves were laced up and reached to my wrists. The dress was in a v-neckline manner and the bodice area was black and laced up as well; the same type of black lace outlined the the dress' hemline. The skirt was in a tulle style with many flounce layers to expand and make the dress wider as it would belong to the 1840s. My hair cascaded down with only two twists on either side of my hair, held up with black pins.

"Do you think it needs earrings?" Martha asked, now checking herself in the mirror.

She wore an elegant, deep red dress. It was another long-sleeve, with a red and black pattern adorning her arms and, bodice area, and skirt. It was a straight across neckline style with a small, black necklace falling above it. Along the hemlines was a shiny, black silk laced pattern. Her hair was picked up and even curled at the end. She looked stunning!

"Whatever you do, Martha, you'll look great," I shrugged, watching her choosing between two pairs of black earrings, "But I think the people in that time didn't really care about them."

"Yeah, or didn't know what they were," she chuckled and set the boxes down, "Change my mind, I don't want any."

"Then I suppose it's time to go," I sighed and walked for the doors.

"You're not so happy with this mysterious trip, are you?" she crossed her arms.

"I'm afraid," I opened the doors.

"You shouldn't be. Your sister forgave you, I mean, she probably knows it really wasn't your fault, but-"

"I'm afraid I'll let the Doctor down," I corrected, cutting her off midway.

"Of what?"

"He's gonna expect some big, miraculous recovery of a pain that's lasted for over three years, plus the pain before Olivia's death. He's going to want to see me get over it by the time we return and...and I can't do that, Martha," I shook my head, shutting my eyes as I felt a bit of water rushing up to them, "I can't."

"Hey, hey," she walked over, putting a hand on my shoulder, "He doesn't expect that from you. Neither of us expect that from you. Don't feel pressurized, please. What he expects, what we both expect, is for you to confide in one of us, both of us if you like, so that you can finally breathe a little. I'm no psychologist, barely a Doctor," she paused and we both smiled, "But I know it can't be good for someone to keep such a trauma bottled up, especially if that kid already had problems with her family to begin with."

"I'm no kid," I argued weakly, smiling.

"No, you're not," she smiled back and opened the door for us and we started walking towards the console room, "You're pretty grown up."

"Yeah..."

"I mean, you take care of yourself on your own, that includes education and personal needs without bothering anyone else. You're really mature and grown up," she shrugged, "Never seen anyone like you."

"Thanks."

"And sometimes, you're even more grown up than the Doctor," she whispered, though our laughter was loud.

"Is that a laughter I heard?" the Doctor called, working on the console; more like breaking things as usual, "From Minerva?"

"It's not out of this world," I mock-glared.

"After a week, I think it is," he walked over, stopping to study us both.

"Oh here we go," Martha rolled her eyes, "Fashion criticism time. Alright, give us your worst."

He rolled his eyes at her and shook his head, "You look like red wine."

"I can't tell if that's an insult or not, can you?" she glanced at me.

"Red wine is usually elegant," I offered, shrugging.

"Oh, I'm elegant," she considered it for a while more, "Okay, I'll take it. And what you got for her?" she nodded to me, "Smurf?"

"Oi," I frowned for a second and made her laugh, "You picked this one out. Were you trying to make me look bad?" she playfully rolled her eyes while shaking her head.

"You look...beautiful," the Doctor remarked, looking me over.

"Mmm, I get red wine and she gets 'beautiful', I got you alien," she narrowed her eyes as if warning him, "I got you."

"Martha stop," he ordered lightly, "You really do look beautiful though," he smiled at me and suddenly I had an actual blush warming up my face, "How are you feeling?"

"Um..." I cleared my throat, hoping his oblivion would actually work to my favor at the moment while my blush disappeared, "...just..." I shrugged, no answer for that question, and I wondered when exactly I would be able to answer it.

"Well, I was hoping this place could kind of cheer you up," he sighed, looking at me for another moment, only enforcing the dang blush, "Hopefully I'll manage to do that."

~0~

We stepped out all together, my eyes covered by the Doctor's hands yet Martha freely looking around. It only made me squirm even more when I heard her gasp and 'awe'. As bad as I felt, my curiosity always won over.

"Can I please see, now?" I asked for the third time in the one minute we'd been here.

"Oh, seems like I'm doing well so far," I could almost hear the Doctor's cocky grin with that remark.

"It's only because you're covering my eyes and therefore my curiosity will obviously rise," I clarified, "Now can I please see?"

"You're gonna love it, Minerva," Martha assured, though sounding distracted as she probably was still looking around.

"One...two...three," the Doctor took his hands off my eyes and allowed me to see what was so 'great' that made my friend gasp and awe.

I blinked, looking around as the sun partially covered up my vision. It was very beautiful, I'll admit first. There were bright, green vines covering buildings and trees, and...tree-houses? There were people inside those 'tree houses'! Others were inside the main building where the laughter and clattering of dishes alerted us it was another restaurant building. But there were tables set down on the ground, adults chattering while children scurried around. There were small games set around, different pairs playing them while others opted for horse rides around the establishment. I think I even saw an elegant swing set behind the several trees and besides the building.

"Where are we?" was all I could say at the sight, eyes quickly scanning one thing and another.

"Le Plessis-Robinson," the Doctor answered, "A guinguette, mind you. Opened in 1848 and was a hit for several years."

"Those are tree houses," I pointed up.

Wrong," he moved beside me, hands behind his back, "Those are private places to have a nice meal with friends and family."

"But that's incredible," Martha gawked, "Oh I am so riding a horse," she quickly glanced at me, "After we talk of course, you first."

"Don't let me hold you back, Martha," I said, "Go on if you'd like that."

"No, I mean it. Look, I get why you told the Doctor about your sister, but you had no obligation to tell me. And yet, you did. It makes me think I'm becoming a part of your friendship, and I'm so thankful."

"Well, before we cry for unnecessary reasons," the Doctor began and took each of our hands into his. "Why don't we begin on this trip's purpose?" he glanced at me and moved aside, leaving me in between them. "The whole point is for you to talk."

"But I don't want to cry-"

"And that's the beauty of this place," he gestured ahead of us, "It's one big distraction! Anytime you feel like you're going to cry and you don't want to, just stop talking and we'll do something else, anything you want. Then, when you feel confident to continue, start talking again and we'll listen."

I looked at him oddly, "So this is like a hit-play-and-pause-button thing?"

"Yup!" he grinned excitedly, "And I'm with Martha on the horse riding. I had a horse once, his name was Arthur, remember I told you about him?" I nodded, recalling he had left said horse with Madame de Pompadour, "Maybe we can hit that pause button and go horse riding."

"I've never ridden a horse in my life," I informed then smiled at my friend's excitement with the horses, "But I suppose I could watch you."

"Excellent!"

"But it could take hours for me to finish," I admitted, "I've never really unleashed everything and I since don't want to cry it'll take even more to finish."

"Then it'll take more to finish and that's that," he gripped my hand, "We're here for you and anytime you want to start then start. Don't mind us."

I looked between them, their encouraging faces willing me to begin as soon as possible. They had such faith that I'd start telling and feel better about it, and truthfully, I wanted to feel better...and I wanted to tell them everything. So I would.

~0~

We walked around the guinguette, just taking a look at what was around and what we'd be doing when I 'paused'.

"I was born on October 31st, 1990," I began, "To Sophia Souza Lozano and Nicolas Souza Lane. I'm the youngest of two, my sister being...seven years older than me. We were a small family, well," I shook my head, "If you can really call us a family. Ever since I could remember, I've been below my sister in everything. My parents love me, at least I hope they do, but it was always clear they had a preference for Liv."

"Why do you say that?" Martha asked, eyeing the Doctor as if they were both agreeing to be cautious in case I had a mini-episode.

"My parents are amazing lawyers, they're just brilliant at what they do and they love it. They built this law-firm that they run and they wanted Liv and I to follow in their footsteps. Liv always had a knack for it and so she was on board the moment she knew of my parents plans for us. But me...not so much. And I suppose that's the first error I committed that got me cast off as the inferior daughter. But even before that, I was never given a proper chance to be a good daughter. It's made me think why would they bring in a child into the world if they were gonna hate it."

"Don't say that," the Doctor frowned, "Beneath all the cruelty there has to be some love from your parents."

"Yeah well let me know if you find it," I sighed, "You know, there are tons of photo albums from Liv's childhood, starting with her first ultrasound picture. I don't even have that. There are no pictures of me until I was about one, one and a half maybe. I was never even given a chance," I stopped walking, feeling the wave of tears begin to rise, "I can't..."

"And it's okay, hit pause," the Doctor said softly, "C'mon, let's go play a game or something."

I nodded and let them lead me off to play some game, hoping I would calm soon enough.

~0~

"I'll get it," Martha exclaimed, throwing a ring at the columns of bottles. The ring went over and fell on the ground, "Aw, never mind. I quit."

"Martha, you do it like this," the Doctor took one of her rings and threw it...only for it to hit a bottle and drop to the ground.

Martha scoffed, "Yeah, I think I'll try that...never."

He rolled his eyes and took another ring from her then handed it to me, "Why don't you try, Minerva?"

"I don't know, I feel like I should just watch you two instead," I shrugged.

"Oh you just like seeing us lose," Martha shook her head, "Try one."

I sighed and took the ring, well this was the point of a 'pause', "Okay."

"I'll go get some more," Martha quickly jumped on the opportunity to enhance the distraction and ran off.

I aimed for a certain bottle and suddenly stopped, silently contemplating, "You know, my mother kept her pregnancy a secret from my family," came out instead.

"Excuse me?" the poor Doctor questioned, having to stop and see the pause button had lifted.

"When my Mom was pregnant with me, she didn't tell anyone. My grandmother said one day she just stopped by with a one year old toddler in her arms, Olivia just eight years old. She didn't tell anyone she was pregnant, except my father. Why did she do that?" For once, I had left the Martian speechless. I sighed and set down the ring, walking away from the stand.

"Minerva, hold on," the Doctor called, quickly catching up.

"Was she thinking of abortion?" I turned to him, "What mother does that?"

"We may never know what ran through her head but the point is, she didn't. She kept you and because of her there's a beautiful, intelligent, young woman traveling with me."

"No thanks to her, she only birthed me. The person I am today, personality-wise, is because of my grandparents. I practically raised myself with the help of them."

"Thank god, no offense," he quickly retracted from any bad ways it could've been taken, "I don't want you to be like your mother. You're definitely not."

"Do you think my mom ever regretted not aborting?"

Next thing I knew, his finger was over my lips, "That question will never be asked again, understand?" he raised a serious eyebrow, "If there's one good thing she's done is give birth to you."

"Birth? What birth?" Martha returned to us, new rings on her wrists, "What happened to the game?"

"I hit the play button," I replied.

"Apparently, good old Sophia hid her pregnancy from her family, not revealing Minerva until she was one," the Doctor explained, gritting his teeth.

Martha looked horrified, "Oh my god," she looked at me, "Your mom has serious issues."

"Funny, that's what she told me," I shrugged, "She always said there was something different about me, something she didn't like."

"And what could that be?"

"She didn't ever tell me...but she said I could cause lots of pain. And that she wouldn't allow me to hurt anyone."

"That sounds ridiculous," Martha shook her head.

"No, that sounds like a paranoid human," the Doctor corrected, looking like he was thinking of something.

"As ridiculous or paranoid it may sound, she was right. I did hurt someone, Liv."

"No you didn't," they both said, stepping closer to me.

"Look, Olivia was old enough to make her own decisions," Martha began.

"And she chose to drive in a state she shouldn't have," the Doctor continued, "Lots of people tend to do that and it's no one's fault but theirs."

"She could've walked," Martha reminded.

"Or better yet, she could've stayed and worked things out with you," the Doctor reached for my hand, Martha doing the same.

"But she didn't," she sighed.

"And what happened after that was not your fault."

"And we're sure she knows that."

"But that's not what my Mom thinks, what most of my family thinks," I reminded, "Tell me, how do you get rid of an idea that's been implanted in your head for four years?"

"Because it's not, and deep down you know it," the Doctor answered, "But also, deep down, you think of your blame and accept that it because you think, if you accept that fault then your mother would forgive you. But it doesn't work like that, Minerva. Primarily because it's not your fault."

"That's not the only guilt I carry," I admitted, "Olivia's death was just the beginning of the guilt, then when I left home..." I shook my head, blinking rapidly the tears away, "Let's go play some more," I quickly walked off, hearing them right behind.

The dead couldn't forgive me, but could a sweet, old lady?

~0~

"Oh, look at that," Martha walked ahead of us, gesturing to the one swing set we'd seen earlier, "Isn't it pretty?"

There was one swing, with a wooden seat that I'm sure wasn't comfortable unless you worse a dress with layers like Martha and I wore. Beautiful vines covered the chains and poles, a few pink roses sprouting as well.

Martha plopped down, giving a few small pushes with her feet, "Eh, it's more for show," she crinkled her face as the chains creaked, "Oh! Why don't we do the horse rides? In sure that'll put you in a good mood," she stood up.

"I'm not sure," I said, "The idea scares me."

"We could always eat first," the Doctor suggested.

"How about I just sit on that swing for a while?" I pointed, the beautiful swing just taunting me to come over.

"Okay," she moved aside and I walked over, sitting down and putting my hands around the chains, "I feel like a princess," I admitted sheepishly.

"And I bet the horses would make you feel even more like a princess," Martha edged on for the horse rides, "Cinderella?"

"First of all, not blonde," I reminded, gesturing to my brunette hair over my shoulder, "And no blue eyes."

"Can't we just try to ride?" she looked between the Doctor and I, looking so hopeful we would say yes.

"Go see how it works," I sighed, "And we'll ride them."

"Oh thank you!" she rushed over and hugged me, running off towards the horses.

"Way to stick to the subject!" the Doctor called after her, shaking his head.

"Oh leave her," I smiled after our friends, "She came to time travel not to hear some girl's life story."

"It's a story we want to hear," he assured.

I sighed and gently pushed myself, "My grandparents used to take me to this park and I always had to go on the swings."

"Yeah?" he leaned against the pole.

"But I wanted to be a 'big girl' and push myself," I smiled, recalling the taunts my grandfather used to do to get me to push myself when I got lazy.

"I bet you were a sassy and argumentative five year old," he smirked.

"You'd be shocked to know I wasn't. When you grow up isolated, it's sort of impossible to be sassy on your own."

"How lonely was your childhood?" he asked, now serious.

"I felt like my real parents were my grandparents. I had a big, big house, with all the toys a kid could want and yet I was the loneliest. My grandma taught me how to cook, how to sew, how to read, how to be kind, be respectful, be caring...my grandpa taught me how to ride a bike, skates, how to sing songs with him. He loved to have little duets with me. They taught me basically everything I know. They were my parents. Mine wouldn't even greet me in the mornings. I was lucky to eat dinner with them, their work consumed most of their day and Olivia was too old to play with me. I had two or three friends out there but a kid wants their parents with them, you know. I wanted my mom and dad, but they were never there."

"When you said your parents wanted you to be a lawyer..." he trailed off, cautiously pausing to see how I'd react.

"Clearly, I was never close to my family, and when I told my mom I didn't want to be a lawyer, things got worse. She yelled so much that day I wondered how she didn't lose her voice. This was before I was thirteen, but it didn't matter. I suppose I let her down."

"Hey, if you didn't want to follow in their footsteps then it's okay. No one can tell to what you're working in. No one gets to choose your profession."

"After that day, my isolation increased," I sighed, looking down, the lonely night when I was afraid of the monsters in the closet, "And then Olivia died...that was the last straw for my parents and me. I...emancipated myself."

"What?" he stood away from the pole, shocked.

I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes focused on the ground, I didn't want to cry yet, "The reason my school work didn't have any mention of my parents is because they're not legally responsible for me. I filed for emancipation two months after my 14th birthday."

"Minerva," he whispered, his footsteps following after wards, appearing in front of me, bent down to my seating level, "You what?"

"I couldn't take it anymore, Doctor," I shut my eyes, "I was just done. I wanted to get the hell out of the house."

"But you could've gone to live with your grandparents-"

"My grandfather had died and I wouldn't become my grandmother's burden." A tear started strolling down my face, but I still wanted to continue, "Such a sweet woman didn't deserve it. Oh god, she was so upset when she heard of the emancipation. She begged me to stay with her but I couldn't. And I didn't...and I disappointed her. To this day, I don't think she forgave me either. That's why I work hard on everything I do, so hard so that one day I can go and visit her and make her proud of me. Olivia's dead and I'll never forgive myself for it but my grandmother is still alive and I can still earn hers. I could still have a chance. I want to make her proud of me...but maybe it's too late."

"It's never too late," he smiled softly, taking out a cloth from his pocket and pressing it to my cheek, drying it clean from tears, "I don't think she cares about forgiveness. I think she just wants to see her granddaughter."

"Do you think?" I sniffled, slowly able to look at him.

"From the little I've talked to her, I know that's what she wants. She just wants her granddaughter to come back, to answer her calls. And when you do go back, I know she'll be so proud of you. You've done the impossible. You saved the world, what other granddaughter has done that?"

"That was you."

"I didn't do it alone so don't sell yourself short. You've made her proud countless times now. You've done good, Minerva, and it's about time you realize it."

I exhaled in a shaky manner, dropping from my swing to him for a hug, "Pause!" And I started to cry nonetheless.

~0~

" So you...emancipated yourself?" Martha blinked, her eyes so wide I thought they'd just pop out her head.

We had caught her up as soon as she returned, wanting all of us to be on the same page. We had moved to go eat lunch, up on a tree. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It was like a tree-house, but very sturdy and large, and not at all wobbling or creaking. The same, beautiful vines were wrapped around the wooden poles and roof. There was a wooden table, where Martha, the Doctor and I sat, a whole course meal set in front of us. Everything was just...amazing, too bad we had visited under these circumstances.

"Martha, she hasn't hit play," the Doctor reminded her, taking a sip of his drink.

"Oops, sorry!" she exclaimed, alarmed she'd pushed me too far.

"Play," I said calmly, feeling like this was becoming oddly easy as the day went by.

"Are you sure?" the Doctor asked.

"Yeah," I nodded, taking a deep breath, "I'm ready."

"So, um, emancipation..." Martha fiddled with her food, trying to act like her curiosity wasn't getting the best of her, "...how did you do it?" Her eyes widened again at the thought.

"With a lot of evidence," I replied, "I was fourteen, legal age to file, and my parents didn't care very much. They thought I was only joking but by the time things were too far it was too late."

"But don't your parents have to, like, authorize?"

"I presented everything that showed what a life I lived and the judge was even surprised. I proved I could handle myself, I was intelligent back then too," I caused both to smile, "And I'd have a steady job for a while. I'd work with my uncle, he's a photographer and traveled around the worlds."

"Is that where you got your adventurous spirit?" the Doctor asked.

"In a sense, yeah," I nodded, "He's my mother's brother, and completely opposites. Along with my grandparents, he believed in me. He understood me. My mom and him had the same argument over what he should be when they were young. He was just like me."

"What do you wanna become?" he asked.

I thought about it and resulted with an unknown answer, and I was embarrassed to admit it so I moved on like it was never even asked, "My uncle, Aaron, was the first to know about my plans for emancipation and...he helped me."

"He helped you?" both friends repeated with surprise, but I understood very well; it wasn't common for a mother's brother to help their niece file for emancipation against his sister and brother-in-law.''

"He's the one that helped me find a lawyer; apparently Greyson owed him a favor, good lawyer," I leaned back on my chair, "Together, we worked for my freedom. And Uncle Aaron even helped me the first couple of months after I was emancipated by bringing me along on his trips as an assistant. We both loved to travel so much, I suppose it's what bonded us."

"And where's your uncle now?" the Doctor questioned, "Do you speak to him?"

"Not really," I shook my head, "I don't have his number anymore. But if I could, I would speak to him."

"So we got a good uncle, grandmother, grandfather," Martha counted on her fingers, "So why don't you call any of them?"

"Because I can't, Martha. Every time I hear my grandmother's voice I think of how much I made her suffer. I can hear her begging in my head not to leave and I can't get rid of it."

"But you want to go back, don't you? You want to see her again if not you wouldn't 'work so hard'," the Doctor said, "You plan on returning."

"Maybe, one day," I shrugged, thinking of the day I would finally gather all my courage and visit my grandmother, "But I have to work more. She has to see how much I've accomplished. I want to make her proud of me and earn her forgiveness."

"You do," Martha nodded, the Doctor agreeing as well, "It's amazing how much you've done and not even realize it, Minerva. That's what I like about you, you don't show off in the least."

"Thanks, but I don't think it's enough. Besides, I can't just go blabbing about traveling in time to her. She's old and she wouldn't be able to handle something like that."

"Oi, give her some credit," the Doctor scolded lightly, "I think to handle losing two granddaughters, one for four years and still remains alive has been a lot."

"Yeah..." I contemplated his words, wondering how much pain I put my grandmother through. God, I hoped she'd forgive me one day, "...I can't...I just can't..." I looked at the table, seeing our fruit was still missing and feeling more tears come through, I quickly stood up, "...you know what, there's still some fruit we haven't got, I'll go get some." And I scurried off, or at least I tried to.

"Oh no you don't!" the Doctor called, his sounds of footsteps coming closer and closer down the stairs.

"Catch her!" Martha called, peering down from above.

"Thanks for the help, Martha!"

"Oi, I've got heels and a dress!"

"Got you," the Doctor spun me around midway through the spiral stairs, "Come on, Minerva. The whole point is to talk, not to run away."

"I'm sorry," I looked away, ashamed of my action, "It's just...too much..."

He nodded, "I know, and I'm very proud you're taking the step to talk us."

"I'm glad I made one person proud..."

"Stop it, just stop it," he ordered seriously, "You've got to stop putting so much blame on yourself! You've been tortured enough all your life and you won't continue to do it while you're with us. No more."

I looked at him and I couldn't help chuckle a little, albeit bitterly, "You thought I was such a 'beautiful complexion' when in reality I'm nothing but an ugly, horrible mess. Look at me," I let my arms fall beside me, frustrated with my life.

"Oh, don't say that," he put a hand on my cheek, rubbing away loose tears with his thumb, "I don't take back my words. I see a complexion, a much more complex complexion," he made a face that was able to get a faint smile from me, and in return he smiled as well. "But beautiful nonetheless..."

"Face it Doctor, I'm not the innocent girl you met. I'm not a good person."

"I could say the same for you, I'm no innocent man either," he shook his head, taking his hand off me.

"But what you did was without choice," I reminded, disliking the pain in his eyes when he spoke of that moment. He was very right, it was the same pain in my eyes, only his was enhanced with the thousands of people that died. And I hated it, I hated how tortured he looked, "I look at you and I just see the Doctor, someone who's always there when people need his help."

"Really?" he raised an eyebrow, seeming in doubt.

"Oh yeah, I see the ridiculous, banana-loving, alien that I time travel with."

He smiled, "Really? That's good, that's very good," he seemed so excited I actually laughed, "And that's even better," he pointed.

"Oi! You two?" Martha's voice made us look up, the woman looking down at us rather impatiently, "Are we going to have lunch or stand on the stairs?"

"Well?" the Doctor looked at me, gesturing the way back up, "That chicken smelled really good you know."

"And pasta, I love pasta," I nodded, taking hold of his hand, "Did you do that on purpose?" I questioned as we started back up, me holding a piece of my dress so I wouldn't trip.

"Maybe. Psychic paper does wonders for us."

"I thank you for your consideration in me, it means a lot."

"There you are," Martha walked over to us as soon as stepped onto the shack, "Are you okay?" she looked at me.

I sighed, looking at the table to avoid the answer of the question, "So how's about that lunch?"

"Definitely," she nodded, understanding I just couldn't answer to that yet, and returned to her seat as did we, "So, I was thinking we could maybe find your uncle," she said slowly, and rather casually, "If that's okay with you."

"I think it'd be a good idea," the Doctor agreed.

"I...I guess I wouldn't mind," I considered it, knowing Uncle Aaron would have so many stories of his own adventures to tell me if we spoke again, "Yeah, I definitely wouldn't mind."

"Excellent!" the Doctor grinned with so much excitement at the answer, "And your grandmother?"

"I don't know..." I shook my head, "...I don't feel ready."

"Well, regarding the promise I made to Jackie, I'm going to tweak it."

"How so?"

"I'm bringing you home," he nodded, chuckling at my deep frown I immediately gave. Had he not heard everything? I didn't want to go home! "I'm bringing you to your real home, with your grandmother. That's where you'd be more happy."

"I'm not ready, Doctor," I said quietly.

"But you will be," he said with so much assurance I almost believed him.

"There's no pressure though," Martha said, "But I'm with the Doctor on this one, you definitely will be ready."

"Maybe..." I shrugged, smiling sadly, knowing that day was just too far away.

~0~

"Olivia was a good sister, we weren't as close as I wanted us to be, but...she was different from my parents," I explained as the Doctor and I took a walk around the guinguette's outskirts, our arms linked with each other.

"Minerva, who is Olivia?" he asked, encouraging me to talk more about her.

"Olivia Sophia Souza was this amazing, perfect woman that ever walked the earth," I smiled at the memory of my sister, "She was beautiful. And I'm talking like super-model beautiful. She was blonde, tall, icy blue eyes," I chuckled a little, "They say she was the splitting image of my mother when she was young. My mom was blonde back in her day, though she dyed it brown for some reason, but other than that, same blue eyes and figure. She truly was my mom's daughter. Me, I was the odd one."

"Now why do you say that?" he frowned, "You're beautiful too, and with jade eyes!"

I smiled, "Both my parents have blue eyes and so did Olivia. I got my green eyes from my grandmother, but that's all I got. I look nothing like them, much less act like them," I paused, sighing, "Olivia had the aspiration to be a lawyer. She wanted to be one, independent from my parents feelings. She had their support from the start. She was perfect, Doctor. She got good grades, did sports, knew how to talk to people and how to help-"

"You know how to do all that too," he pointed, "You're intelligent, you've beat me at several sports-"

"Yeah but you suck at them anyways," I cut him off.

"Oi!" he pouted, "I'm not that bad."

"Let's not go into that," I patted his arm.

He sighed, still sounding annoyed but let it go, "Anyways, Olivia?"

"Oh, are we talking about her now?" Martha walked over, "Mind if I join?"

"Please," the Doctor gestured for her to move beside me, "Minerva's belittling herself and it's quite frustrating."

"I'm not be-"

"Shush it," he pointed again, "Martha?"

"Stop belittling yourself," she sighed.

"I lived in the shadow of my sister," I explained, "And it wasn't her fault, she never gloated about it. She tried to help me, actually. She thought I should give the whole lawyer thing a chance, thinking it'd be good for me and my parent's relationship. She was a good sister. And even when I was little, and my parents didn't take her away from me, she'd play dolls with me. She'd tell me not to be afraid of the monsters under my bed, she'd tell them to go away," I chuckled, "She once yelled at my closet for five minutes because I told her a monster had come out and said he was gonna eat me. Before we grew up, Liv and I did share some kind of bond."

"So then how could you think she'd blame you for her death?" the Doctor asked.

"The day Liv died is not a day I like to remember," I sighed, wishing so hard I could forget it. But after many years of the accident, I found it impossible. "She took me out for lunch, our parents locked up in their office for work. We went by our favorite place, both pasta lovers. She's actually the one that got me into pasta," I chuckled lightly, soon finishing when I spoke of what happened next, "She started up with the whole lawyer thing. She insisted that I should try it because I was still young and indecisive. But I knew it wasn't a tantrum. I didn't want to be a lawyer. To this day, I still don't want to be one. The simple thought of it makes me cringe. I started getting frustrated when she told me that this was the reason my parents and I couldn't get along; that it was because of me and my snappy attitude. But then I lashed out..." the yells of that day started replaying in my head, "...I flat out told her it was because of her that my parents didn't love me. It was because of her that they never spent time with me. It was her fault...and it wasn't. I yelled at her because I was jealous. I was jealous that mom loved her and gave her all the time she needed while I was lucky to get a goodnight kiss. Olivia denied it, but I think she knew I was right, deep down. There was a look in her eyes... I think she knew it, but she didn't want to admit that she was the preferred daughter. It wasn't her fault, I know that now. I was just so tired of being ignored that the argument made me blurt everything and it got her dead. She got angry and told me to get home on my own. She just left after that and it only took me five minutes afterwards to realize how unfair I was to her, how sorry I was. I planned on apologizing as soon as she came home. I was going to, I swear, I..." and my voice broke, fresh tears preparing to stroll down, "...but she never came home."

"We're sorry," the Doctor said.

"I was waiting at home when my mom called. She told me Olivia got in a car accident and a man brought her into the hospital. It was because of that stranger that she even lasted a little longer. My mom was so upset, she was crying and asking what had happened. Why wasn't I with her? And then I told her..."

"And what she say?" Martha asked softly, half guessing it wasn't very nice.

"She said it was my fault. If I knew how to control myself Olivia would still be alive..." I sighed, "...I made her lose her daughter."

"But she still had you, her other daughter, and she should have been there for you too," the Doctor said.

"There was so much blame, so many words said from her...sometimes it makes me think that I'm not even related to her because her hatred is just so much, so bad...how does a mother hate their child?"

"But she can't hate you!" Martha exclaimed, shaking her head in exasperation, "No mother is capable of that!"

"But mine is. There's this look in her eyes, one that makes me think that if she could, she'd have me locked up for the rest of my life."

"But we're never letting that happen," the Doctor declared, "Ever."

"She's called, you know," I gritted my teeth, angry at all those times, "My father kind of just, washed out on the whole fathering thing. He's never called, but my Mom...she called a couple of times when I was with Uncle Aaron. I took them because I thought she'd tell me I was forgiven but it wasn't, it was never like that. She just kept yelling and yelling and ordering me to come home so she could make sure I wouldn't hurt anyone else, that I wouldn't take anyone else's children from them. After that, I stopped...and I grew angrier and angrier; angry that she wouldn't forgive me and angry because it was my fault. She stopped calling for years, up until Christmas time, last year," I glanced at the Doctor, "I don't know how she did that but she contacted Jackie. She had this whole 'nice' act, but it didn't last long. I don't know what that was...but I haven't heard from her since."

"And your grandmother?" he asked, knowing she was a different story.

"She's always called," I sighed, smiling sadly, "My grandma is so sweet like that. But I can't bring myself to take her calls. Ever. I'm not ready yet, I don't have much to prove I've done good. Plus, I'm afraid my mom got to her and she blames me for Liv's death."

"Minerva, she chose to drive off," Martha reminded, "That's not your fault."

"But I can't tell her how sorry I am now, how much I regret telling her all that. I don't hate her, I do love her, and it's not her fault our parents chose her."

"That's what you told her?"

"I yelled at her so much, I think the whole thirteen years of isolation and reprimands of my parents was unleashed."

"Well, she knows that now," the Doctor said, "Olivia knows that her sister is sorry for what was said and she most definitely forgives you and knows, for the dozen time, that it was not your fault for her death."

"C'mon," I shook my head and we walked off, the pause button activated.

~0~

"Martha, why do you care so much about me?" I asked suddenly, stopping our walk we had taken after lunch.

We started talking about small things, nothing important but everything had gone quiet. And then I started to wonder this exact question, and I got curious to know.

I could understand the Doctor since this was the whole point of traveling together; to get to know each other, but Martha? I knew her so little before the hospital, only touching bases on our families, friends and occupations. She'd taken such an interest in me, like a friend would, but too fast. I've had little friends in the past back at home but even those took several months to develop into an actual friendship. Yet with Martha, everything was happening so fast. One moment, the woman doesn't even know I'm a time traveler and the next she knows about my sister's tragic ending and my mother's cruel blame...and she was so calm about it. After the Doctor and I returned from New New York, I sat Martha down, with the encouragement of the Doctor, and repeated my story to her. And it wasn't even the Doctor's encouragement that made me tell her, I wanted to tell her.

"Because I'm your friend," Martha answered like it was an obvious thing, "I mean, at least I hope you consider me as your friend," she chuckled nervously, "Because then that would be awkward."

"I do see you as a friend," I nodded, "I see you almost like a best friend even, though it's a bit fast I know."

"Hey, it's like they say, you can fall in love with someone in one day. Same thing goes for friendships. You could meet someone early in the day and by night, you're practically best friends."

"Yeah, I suppose that makes sense," I thought back to Mickey and considered how fast we became best friends as well, "I'm lucky to meet people like you," I hugged her out of the no where, "I meet Mickey, Jackie, the Doctor, you, and you all make me so much better," I sighed, "Thank you."

"Hey, no problem," she chuckled, pulling away, "I'm glad we're becoming good friends."

"Me too," I admitted, "I've never really had a woman for a friend, a real friend."

"What about Rose?" she raised an eyebrow, a bit confused.

Well...the blonde had been...sort of one...for a short time...right?

"Minerva?"

"Uh, sorry Martha but that's another story for another day," I smiled a bit, "But just know you're something different Martha Jones, much different than Rose Tyler, and I am so glad we took you on-board."

"No complaints from me there," she raised her hands, making us both laugh.

"But seriously, thank you."

"For what?"

"Listening, for listening to every bit of information I've said all day," I shrugged, "I know it's a lot, and boring."

"Boring is the last word on my mind," she did a look that said just how screwed up my life really was.

"Well, just, thank you, you know. I know when the Doctor offered to bring you along for trips, you expected the fun, the excitement of them. You had no obligation to hear me out or anything."

"But I wanted to, I still do in case you wanna keep sharing," she smiled, "Listening to your story made me think about my own family. We're not the, um...picture-perfect family as you may have noticed," she shook her head, me recalling the yells of the blonde, now identified Martha's father's girlfriend, "But we do have a special bond. We're there when we need each other. I have my brother and sister and..." she looked at me, sadness pouring from her eyes.

"I don't have that," I finished what she couldn't, "It's okay to say it, Martha. I'm realistic."

"I just find it incredible what your mother has done to you. I find your whole life incredible. Most importantly, I find it incredible how strong you are even after all of that."

'Strong?" I repeated, waiting for her to reconsider her choice of words, "I'm not so sure 'stro-"

"You are, and you need to see it. The easier path is to break and let it consume you, but you don't. I know you have times where you fell like it will consume you but you don't let it. You keep yourself on check on your own and that's incredible. I think you're the strongest woman I've ever met, and I truly hope you remain like that."

"Oh Martha, you're so sweet," I smiled.

"I mean it. You're strong and I know that you'll get better. You'll see that Liv's death wasn't your fault, and you won't let your mother's words affect you anymore. You'll look back and see how wrong she is, and how innocent you are. One day, your mother will ask you to forgive her. Sophia didn't lose a daughter that day, she lost two. She cast you off your whole life and the one day she really needed you, she completely lost you too."

"Would it be crazy and wrong to say I would forgive her in a heartbeat?" I asked sheepishly, knowing with 100% assurance that I would forgive my mother.

"Not at all," she shook her head, "Because she's your mother; of course you'd forgive her."

"Sadly, I don't think that day will ever come."

"Well, in the meantime she comes to her senses," she linked arms with me, "You're not alone in this. You've got me and the Doctor and we will not allow you to carry this guilt anymore."

"My ridiculous, banana-loving alien and humany doctor best friend."

"Interesting chronological order you have there," she pointed, eyeing me with a smirk for some reason, "And...humany?"

"Oh, sorry, the Doctor says that sometimes, guess it kinda stuck."

"Oh, there's a surprise," she chuckled, "You two are so, 'aah'!"

"'Aah'?" I tilted my head, "What exactly does that mean?"

"Weeeell," she swayed her head, "It's-"

"Martha, it seems you bothered the workers so much for your horses that they've finally agreed to let us ride them earlier than planned," the Doctor walked towards us.

"Another time," she winked at me, leaving me even more perplexed, "Did I hear we're riding horses?" she asked the Martian once he was close enough.

"Yes, they're getting him for us," he nodded.

"Great! Because I want that one!" she let go of me and ran a little of to the side, pointing at a tanned horse, "See it?"

We glanced to her direction and saw the horse she was pointing at, drinking some water at the moment.

"I want that one," she reiterated, very serious.

The Doctor rolled his eyes then taking a lavender flower from his back, "And I happened to pick this out for you, it's a crocus."

"It's very pretty," I took it from him, touching its soft petals and looked up at him, "Thank you."

"It's the flower for happiness," he cleared his throat, his eyes seeming to struggle to stay on my level.

"Oh, that's nice to know," I turned the flower over.

"Because, you know, I want you to be happy. I intend to see you happy..."

Martha cleared her throat as she walked over to us, whispering as she moved behind me, "That's what 'aah' means," she patted my shoulder and walked off, chuckling to herself.

I raised an eyebrow, still misunderstanding but finding a very warm blush on my face.

~0~

"Whaddya say, Minerva? Wanna ride one?" Martha eyed me with a smirk, rounding a horse.

"No, but I know you do," I put my hands together, not wanting any of those animals licking me or whatever they did.

"You're not actually scared are you?"

"I'm afraid of horses, yeah..." I looked after one that trotted past us.

"Oh c'mon! The smartest woman I know, the one who's helped save the world is afraid of...horses?"

"Seriously?" the Doctor walked over, a man besides him.

"Yes," I confessed sheepishly.

"That's something I didn't know," he smirked.

"I assure you ma'am, these horses are quite calm and very tamed," the man said.

"Oh, this is Benson," the Doctor gestured to the older man, "He's going to help us ride these horses."

"You mean you two," I pointed to him and Martha who had moved beside me, "Because I won't be riding them."

"Oh c'mon," Martha tugged on my arm, "My dad taught me and it was the most incredible experience ever! We grew up in the city, c'mon, being on a horse in the open is so different from what we're used to."

"The land is very safe," Benson added, gesturing the forest behind the guinguette.

"We'll do it!" Martha quickly volunteered us, "All three of us, now show me horse Benson!"

The man smiled and nodded, walking off to a nearby horse that was tied up and brought it over, chuckling at how I backed away as they grew closer, "She's calm, ma'am, I assure you with my life."

"What's her name?" Martha moved to the tanned-colored horse, petting its mane.

"Alicia."

"Hello Alicia," Martha cooed, "Aren't you the prettiest horse out here?"

"Her name's Jessica," the Doctor suddenly said, making us all look at him, "What? I speak horse."

"Her name's Jessica?" Martha raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, and she's not the prettiest, she says the most beautiful horse here."

"Quite conceited then," I said, receiving a neigh from the horse.

"Jessica says it's not conceited if it's true."

Martha laughed, Benson just looking at us like we were crazy, "Alright then, I want a calm and excited ride, Jessica," Martha patted the horse again, "Benson?"

"Right away ma'am," he nodded and started readying up the horse.

"I'm not riding them," I whispered to the Doctor, "Not in this world."

"It's not that bad," he shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"They're bad, they're all bad," I looked from one horse to another.

"Now don't be rude. I happen to know that, that horse over there-" he nodded to a grey horse that was drinking water, "-seems to like the pretty girl in the blue dress wearing a purple flower on her head."

"He did not say that!" My hand instinctively raised to the crocus I wore on my hair, I hadn't wanted to lose it so I stuck it in the one place I wouldn't forget it, my head!

"He did," he chuckled, "And he's making his way over right now."

"You realize you sound so ridiculous right now," remarked Martha.

"It's what the horse is saying," he gestured to the horse that was indeed making its way over to us.

"Ma'am?" Benson called, Martha turning, "Alicia's ready."

And the horse neighed.

"Jessica," the Doctor reminded.

"Don't listen to him," Martha waved the Martian off and got on the horse with the help of Benson, "Woah," she took hold of the reigns, "I like it," she grinned.

"Horse is nearing," the Doctor coughed.

I only a had a chance to glance to the left when there was loud neigh sound and a big, gray muzzle greeted my face, "AAH!" I yelped and jumped back, bumping into the Doctor that was in a fit of laughter.

"Minerva, he likes you," Martha smiled, the horse coming closer to me, "Take a ride."

"N-n-no thanks," I shook my head, wanting to step back but the Doctor had stuck himself behind me and forced me to stay still, "I like ground, ground is nice, ground is not dangerous."

"His name is Marcel," Benson walked over, holding back the horse by its reins it already worse, "And I'd have to agree with Mr. Smith, he does seem to like you."

"Problem is I'm afraid," I tried leaning back when the horse forcefully took a step forwards, "Very, very afraid. Plus, I don't even know how to ride a horse. One of the things I've yet to do."

"So get on it," Martha exclaimed, "It'll help you distract yourself. We've done a lot of talking, you deserve some fun."

"And I will have fun, waiting for you here," I pointed to the ground, "On the ground."

"Marcel is tamed, good mannered, and very obedient," Benson said, petting the horse, "And if he's taken a liken to you, then he will most definitely take care of you."

"I...I can't," I shook my head and hands, wanting to be as far away as possible from the horse.

"Minerva, the sun is going to be setting and I want to take a ride, pleeease?" she clapped her hands together, my eyes widening at how careless she was. She could fall!

"Martha please take hold of the reigns!" I exclaimed, so fearful at the moment, "Please!"

"Sure," she shrugged, calmly re-holding the reigns, "So will you come?"

"I...I guess," I sighed. She, once again, let go of the reigns and clapped excitedly. I smiled softly, liking how happy she looked. I suppose she and the Doctor did deserve some time of fun after the stories I'd let out on them, "But I don't know how to ride one," I frowned as Benson started to prepare the horse as well, "Can it go like...really slow?"

Benson chuckled, "It's quite easy to maneuver them."

"Says the man who works with them all day..." I looked at the horse, my heart beating faster as I thought of the many ways I could fall and hurt myself.

"Oh don't be so scared," the Doctor walked me up to the horse, "It likes you very much. Though he says your dress looks like water."

"He's not gonna try and eat me, is he?" I mumbled, getting back a laugh from the three, "I am very serious."

"She's quite the amusing one," Benson remarked, stepping away from the horse.

"Up you go," the Doctor moving the horse closer to us.

"Martha, how mad would you be if I said I changed my mind?" my eyes widened as I took in the actual size of this horse.

"I'd be very discontent," she shrugged.

I sighed, "Marcel...don't eat me." And the hose neighed as if he was really responding to me...and he was.

"He promises he won't," the Doctor translated.

"Or drop me?"

The horse neighed, sounding odd.

"He says you offend him," the Doctor said.

"Sorry," I made a face, resigned to having to climb up this monstrosity.

"Ready?"

"...no."

"Up you go!" he exclaimed, helping me up and swing a leg over the horse, "Now hold on."

"No!" I leaned forwards, gripping the reigns, "I change my mind! I change my mind! I don't want to ride this anymore!"

"Minerva, you're not even moving," Martha moved her horse in front of mine, "And he won't drop you."

"I don't care! I don't want to do this anymore!"

"All that time with your uncle and not once did you ride a horse?" the Doctor raised an eyebrow, acting as if I wasn't crying for help.

"No! He tried to but...I always said no!"

"And look where that's got you now?"

"Help me, Martian! Help me! Get me down right now!" I shouted, shutting my eyes.

Marcel neighed and even moved a little, scaring me even more.

"Yes, yes, but she's not over-dramatic; she's had a tough day," the Doctor spoke to the horse.

"Get me down!"

"The sun is setting!" Martha complained, "Minerva, please?"

"I'm so sorry Martha," I shook my head, "But I can't. You go ahead, though."

"Alright, I've had enough," the Doctor sighed.

"Sir, what are you-"

"Marcel and I have a point to prove," the Martian said before I felt the horse move again and an arm wrap around my waist, "Minerva, I'm going to need you to open your eyes."

I opened only one eye and saw his hand holding the reigns while the other held me, "Please tell me you're not..."

"...gonna ride the horse and prove you're wrong about being dropped?" he grinned, "Why yes, yes I am."

"Finally!" Martha exclaimed, "I'll race you!" she laughed and commanded her horse to, running off before us.

"Don't you dare," I warned but he only laughed and made the horse spring after our friend, "Get me down!" I shouted.

Martha laughed and came to an abrupt stop, her horse even tipping her back just a bit that made my heart beat at light speed thinking she'd fall back like the movies, "Let's not torture the poor girl," she turned around.

"Someone get me down from here," I was completely froze in place, breathing heavily.

"It's not that bad is it?" the Doctor asked, chuckling for some reason.

"Let's see, I could potentially die from an abrupt stop, the horse could eat me, or worse, one of you could fall and die!"

"And you think we'd let that happen?" Martha raised an eyebrow.

"The whole point of this is to talk and have some well-deserved fun," the Doctor reminded, 'And that does not include dying."

"Did your uncle die riding a horse?" Martha moved her horse besides us.

"Well, no..."

"Then why would we? We both know how to ride horses," she laughed as her horse neighed, "And the horses like us! Everything is going to be fine."

And the Doctor made Marcel start moving again, slowly for my sake, while Martha moved at the same pace next to us, "Where were you when your uncle rode the horses?" the Doctor asked, probably seeing I was still slightly frozen from fear.

"Um...Ohio," I made sure to look ahead in case either of them missed a rock or something that'd make us fall, "...there was a horse stable and his friends were the owners."

"What were you doing there?" Martha joined in on the distraction.

"He wanted to cheer me up...it was right after I emancipated myself. We went to Ohio for these competitions for the horse-riders and we happened to have a chance to ride them."

"And you didn't?"

"Does it look like I'm having fun?"

She laughed, "You should be!"

"How'd you even learn?" the Doctor asked out of his curiosity.

"Surprised I know something you do too?" she teased, raising an eyebrow.

He shook his head, "Ha, ha, no, I just want to know."

"It was a family vacation," she shrugged, "Tish was a scary cat and Leo wanted a race...so I gave him one...and won!"

"And you didn't fall?" I glanced at her, hoping the Doctor would keep a look ahead because I certainly didn't want to fall.

"No! We didn't have the race right at the first moment, we practiced and then..." she swayed her head, "...we had a race when our parents weren't looking."

"And you didn't fall?"

"No, we didn't fall!"

"Do you have that little faith in Marcel and I?" the Doctor frowned.

"Well Doctor, let's face it, your piloting skills aren't very um," I cleared my throat, "...good."

"You're a bit rude when you're scared, you know that?"

Martha scoffed, "You call it rude, we call it the truth."

"You know what, maybe I should get down and leave Minerva to ride the horse on her own," and he stopped the horse and started doing just that.

"N-n-n-no! I take it back!" I forced his hand on the reign to remain there, "You're a wonderful pilot and always right and please don't let go!"

"Wooooow," Martha smirked, "The necessity is big isn't it?"

"I can't help my fears," I shut my eyes, "Doctor?"

"I'm not going anywhere," he said like it was obvious, wiggling one his hands out from underneath mine to hold the reigns properly and wrapping his other arm around my waist again, "You're very gullible when you're afraid."

"You're not leaving?"

"No!"

"And now that that's settled," Martha cleared her throat and moved a little ahead of us, "How's about a little race? I heard there's a little lake at the center of the forest.

"Noooo!" I shook my head.

"That's a challenge I like!" the Doctor exclaimed happily.

"NO!" I shouted, looking up at him so he could see my determination to not have this race, "Unless you let me down from here, there will be no race!"

"Winner gets to choose the next place we go to?" he grinned.

"No!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"Winner gets to-"

"No! No, no, no, no," I shook my head, "N-"

"On your marks..." Martha suddenly said, smirking when I looked at her, "...get set..." the Doctor took hold of the reign with his free hand, all set.

"Martha," I gritted my teeth, "Don't you d-"

"GO!"

Next thing I knew, we ran like the wind and I screamed at the top of my lungs, terrified for my dear life and my friends.

"Minerva, quit your yelling and look at how beautiful this place is!" the Doctor ordered, even laughing a little.

I cracked open an eye, seeing Martha getting ahead. I opened both eyes as we closed in on the trees of the forest. I blinked, beginning to smile, the sun shining its orange tinge as it set down. It was actually...pretty beautiful.

"How's it look?" the Doctor asked, stopping the horse from its running to only frolic around.

"...very pretty," I whispered.

"Not afraid anymore?"

"...no."

And Marcel neighed, the Doctor chuckling, "Yes, I told you she would."

"What?" I glanced up at him.

"He said you should've known you would've liked it. He's a very good horse."

"And a big and scary one," I added, the horse neighing in response.

"He resents that."

"But a very talkative horse too," I started to smile.

"Oh yes, he is," the Doctor nodded, Marcel neighing again.

"I take he wasn't happy with that remark?"

"Not one bit."

"Martha's winning," I reminded, the woman getting deeper in the trees.

Marcel neighed.

"Yes, Marcel doesn't do races apparently. Also, he doesn't like hearing you scream."

"Sorry Marcel," I actually petted him, "It must be nice being able to speak to animals," I said, seeing him pull on the reigns, Marcel frolicking a little more strongly, but actually not that scary.

"It comes in handy," the Doctor shrugged.

"It must be nice doing everything you do, huh?"

"What are you getting at?" now he looked down at me with a curious expression.

I ignored his closeness and looked ahead, suddenly wanting to answer what I had ignored earlier, "I don't know what I want to become."

"Hm?"

"You asked me what I wanted to be. If I don't want to be a lawyer, or a photographer, what do I want to be?" I looked around, now entering through the trees, finding an immense beauty and the rest of the surroundings, "The answer is: I don't know."

"What about your drawings? You're really good at them. Have you ever considered maybe painting?"

"Would you take me back to Da Vinci?"

He scoffed, "Right after I visit Elizabeth I."

I smiled, "I love to draw, and maybe I would like painting but...I don't know. I love helping people too... I-I just love learning a little bit of everything, you know. I can't really see myself locked in one career," I sighed, "I wanna try everything. Perhaps that was what my mother disliked, dislikes to this day, the most about me, I'm more liberal. I want to go out and do stuff, and she wants me locked up in an office and that's something I can't see myself doing," I sighed again, a deeper sigh, more contemplative, "You know what I wish? I wish humans could have a bigger lifespan so that I could try everything, anything. But I know there isn't time...I just wish I could live a little longer, so I could see what's out there, what my world has to offer...to a human like me. What do you think?" I glanced up at him, seeing a soft smile on his face.

"I think...I think a human likes you deserves that," he mumbled, his smile growing.

"Think so?"

"I do, I very much do."

I swallowed hard for some reason, looking at him for a moment until I felt a blush and looked ahead, "Thanks..."

We moved along again and in silence. Martha's horse barely made a sound now that we had slowed down even more. But it gave me a chance to look around. I really loved this environment, it was so brightly green with the enhancement of the sun shining over the trees. It made me wonder what other planets looked like...and it made me wonder...

"Doctor, what did your planet look like?"

"You wanna know?" he didn't sound too happy about it for some reason.

"Yeah, you know, looking around here," I gestured to the scenery, "It makes me wonder what yours was like. Can I know?"

"Well, for started, we had two suns," he said, pausing I gasped.

"Seriously, two?"

"Mhm, one would rise in the south, and it would make all the mountains shine like you wouldn't believe it."

"Two suns," I repeated, fascinated by that detail, "I bet the sunsets were really beautiful, weren't they?"

"Yeah, the whole sky was a burnt orange..."

"Like a sunset all day? A twilight all day..." I smiled, "And what else?" I sounded like a child but I was so curious!

"Well, in the mornings, the suns would shine and the trees that were silver would catch its light and the forest looked like it was on fire. It was truly beautiful."

"Very," I whispered, "And?"

He chuckled, "Our citadel was enclosed with a mighty glass dome and our suns shined brilliantly above us. But what really got me was the mountains, oh those mountains."

"What about them?"

"They're deep red, Minerva, and the're capped with snow. It was an endless sight..."

I looked at him, realizing this must not be an easy topic for him, and here I am burdening with my questions, "I'm sorry."

But he just smiled, "I wish I could show you. You'd be enthralled..."

"I already am," I corrected, "It sounds wonderful. Especially the snow caps, I love snow."

"I wished it could've stayed like that, but then war started and I had to..." and he paused, making me look up and see him staring ahead, quickly filling with pain at the memory.

"It's okay, Doctor, you don't have to continue," I said softly, regretting my decision to ask him about his home.

All day his sole purpose was to make me happy and what's the first thing I do? Remind him of a terrible, painful memory. Yeah, good going Minerva.

"I do. You told me how your sister died, even when it's not your fault, and you deserve to know why I killed them all, why I killed my own people."

"You don't," I assured, "You're not ready-"

He stopped Marcel suddenly, Martha's trotting disappearing completely, "I had a friend before the war started, she loved hearing about Gallifrey. I told her one day I'd find a way to bring her there...but I never did," his eyes fell down for a moment, a clear struggle to say his next words apparent on his face, "She died because of us. She and her whole planet died because of what my people did. I was going to save her, I was going to take her somewhere safe, somewhere she could survive...but I was too late. I let her get killed. She was innocent," he shook his head, "Her whole species were just innocent bystanders," and then he started speaking with so much anger, such that it startled me how much he changed in a matter of seconds, "When I found out she died at the hands of the Time Lords, I knew it was time to stop. I'm against violence, and you know it," he looked at me and I quickly nodded, "But I couldn't let it continue. Kaeya died because I delayed making that decision. If I would've done something just a bit earlier, then maybe she'd be alive today."

"You feel guilty," I whispered, completely understanding his pain and loss for a moment.

"How could I not? She used to admire us, she had such admiration for me...and I let her down. When she died, it was like an alarm went off in my head: you have to stop this. Because if I didn't, others like her would go down and I would not allow it."

"So you ended it, you ended it to save the innocent," I bit my lip, not even able to imagine him killing all those people, but never judging what he had to do for the sake of others.

"I killed them and this is my punishment, remembering all of those I killed and knowing that my friend died because I didn't save her."

"Have you mourned her?" I asked curiously, thinking it could perhaps help as it did manage to help me last week, even in a small way, "You know, kinda get closure and say goodbye."

"I wish I could, but I don't even know where she is; her body was never found. And I searched, I searched the whole damn planet and she wasn't there. I don't know where she ended up...where she's spending eternity in. I just hope wherever she is, she was able to forgive me."

I hated, I hated seeing him like this. His guilt mixed in with his grief and an extra layer of anger. It was the same I carried, and I understood him. For once, I could understand the 903 year old Time Lord because for a split moment, we both lost someone we cared about...and we felt responsible for it.

"We're not so different in the end," I sighed, placing my hand over his on the reigns, "But perhaps we can help each other. You've helped me enough, now let me help you. I can listen, be there when you need me to. We can talk."

"Oh Minerva," he sighed, moving us again, "This is help enough. I love this. Being here, with my sassy human, helping her, on a horse, in a beautiful forest, and just...moving along. This is what I need, moments like these."

"Well, there's no complaints from me," I shrugged, getting him to chuckle, "Hey, you're laughing, that's good. Now I know how that feels, making other people laugh."

"You're good at it too," he mumbled, pulling on the reign again and moving Marcel, his other arm around my waist tightening when I yelped at a sudden hop over a rock, "I won't drop you," he mumbled.

I smiled sheepishly, another blush starting up again. Holding me closer meant I was even closer to him. If I concentrated, I could probably feel the rhythm of his two hears behind my back.

"You know, I don't even think we're trying to race," Martha called, appearing between two trees across us, "I could have easily done two rounds and still win. Is there something I'm missing out on?" she smirked, eyeing us.

"You win," the Doctor waved her off.

"I was thinking that on the way back we could teach Minerva how to actually ride a horse," she suggested, "On her own."

"Then maybe I could drop him off," I pointed back to the Doctor, Marcel neighing right after.

"Oh, that's unity," the Doctor frowned, "Thanks Marcel."

"What he say?" Martha asked.

"He's on Minerva's side!" he exclaimed, indignantly, "I can't believe you'd trade me in for a girl."

And the horse neighed again.

"Wouldn't you?" I glanced at him curiously.

He had this serious look that would be sure to tell me how wrong I was but then it sort of, softened? "...I suppose, if it's you, then..." And he looked away afterwards.

I pondered on his words until I found Martha smirking again, interrupting my thoughts.

What the hell is she smirking about? I wondered.

"So Minerva," she called, "How are you feeling?" her smirk faded into a smile.

I a real and genuine smile as I looked between her and the Doctor. "I think I'm fine. Maybe not the miraculous recovery you want, but I think I'll get there one day. But for the moment, I actually feel quite...fine," My smile grew as my gaze remained on the Doctor. He eventually met my eyes and smiled back.

#dw imagine #10th doctor #ocappreciation #ocapp #doctor who #doctor who imagines #10th doctor imagines #10th doctor fics #doctor who fics #tenth doctor fics #martha jones #oc: Minerva Souza #fic: next stop eveywhere

[cinemaocd]

Sophia Cracroft Looks, Rated

I’m hopping on the Terror Looks, Rated Meme bandwagon with @henrylevesconte​, @bomburjo, @radiojamming​, and @theiceandbones,  because ya girl can definitely bring the looks!

Here is Sophia the first time she appears in episode one. It’s a flashback to the theater. Crozier is about to propose. Trying to figure out when this is supposed to be because she is wearing totally different clothes here than she is in the dinner scene when she said “he proposed again” and different to the “does one not bring their habits to marriage” scene. So either she’s changing clothes three times in one night or Crozier has come to see her to propose on a different day. I’m so confused! ANYWAY this is my least favorite Sophia look. The dress is very fussy and I loath the sleeves. It is at least her signature color: blue. She gets an extra point for the floral detail at the shoulder which is kind of nice and I like that she often has flowers in her hair. Overall Sophia’s hairstyle isn’t super historically accurate. The center part is right, but it’s too soft and fluffy and modern, I think. Also the back ringlets definitely look like a hairpiece in this scene. 5/10.

Up next is the dinner scene, Franklin’s flashback in episode 2 after he says “strange to think of this place as home.” In the “habits to marriage” scene they are interrupted by Lady Jane who tells Sophia it’s time to change for dinner, so I think she changed from the patterned day dress (inset) to this evening blue/green silk evening dress with the low neck. She’s also changed her jewelry and hair ornaments which must have taken some time. To make things even weirder Crozier has changed as well, but then he decides not to stay for dinner and leaves after he overhears Franklin talkin shit about him. So. much. changing. Not. enough. eating! Anyway, this look is better than the fussy theater dress, but probably slightly less historically accurate (plain, long sleeves on an evening dress in the 1840s are rare) The floral ornaments and simple jewelry make a nice look. Sian Brooke really has killer collarbones as you can see here. 6/10

Sophia’s only appearance in episode 3 is this millisecond flashback of Sir John, just before he dies. This is literally his final thought. Why? My theory is that he felt guilty about the way he’d handled the whole situation, esp. since he reveals that he has witnessed a scene of great affection between them, when they don’t know he’s looking. For the longest time I thought this was the same day as the habits to marriage scene, but it’s not the same dress. This striped day dress is the least blue thing that Sophia wears, but maybe because it’s a flashback to happier times? I’ve headcanoned this as being in Francis’ rooms (which is why he is not wearing his coat and why Sophia knows how many drawers he uses...) Extra points for her accessory: handsome Irish sea captain in billowing white shirtsleeves. 8/10

This is one of my absolute favorite Sophia looks. I love a good bonnet and this is a stunner. The combination of teal and blue velvet over aubergine silk? Simply TDF. The flowers are very dark and the whole vibe is more sombre here with the deep navy velvet jacket with fur trim and paisley lining (I DIE). The blue/green silk dress with the black bone button closures is really sharp and almost military with the stripe and the pintucking. All of this is set off by that yellow ribbon (which probably has a symbolic significance). None of Sophia’s skirts are really full enough to be historically accurate, but both she and Lady J need to act next to one another and remain in the same post code, so I forgive it. 10/10

OK this is the ICONIC Sophia Cracroft lewk. This stunning graphic day dress with long sleeves, shows off her collar bones and that set of lapis beads. (My headcanon...Crozier bought her those in Van Dieman’s land). The details on this dress are so impressive: the pintucks that come to a V at the waist, the little accordian puff at the elbow, the blue piping. Sophia’s hair looks great in this scene and the the blue hair tie is such a nice touch. This is a dress in which to break a man’s heart and make a horrible mistake! 100/10

Another stunning graphic day dress, trimmed in blue piping, another amazing bonnet, this time with a powder blue ribbon. Minus one point because I prefer her in an open neckline. 9/10

Sophia’s final look is somewhere between a day and an evening look: a 3/4 length sleeve blue silk dress with a boat neck and lots of pintucking but no jewelry or decorations. The detailing on this bodice is absolutely masterful. Another beautiful neckline to show off her collarbones. Extra points for matching slippers, perfect for slipping off in the snow so that you can wallow in your shitty, shitty life choices.  -1,000,000/10

#The Terror #Sophia Cracroft #Francis Crozier #Terror Looks meme #Sian Brooke #Jared Harris #I would love to do a Crozier looks post but maybe I would have to narrow it down to just ten looks or something

[d-a-anderson]

She pulled a final drag on her cigarette, looking at me over the lounge’s little round table. She blew out the smoke, its gray wafting cloud folding patterns in the air.

“You know, I’m a geologist,” she said, stubbing the cigarette out in the glass ashtray in front of us. “Let me tell you something:

“The earth is a very old organism. We’re less than fruit flies. We’re gone in a blink of an eye. Our projects, our desires, our careers—one of the things I take comfort in is the long view of things. Might not be for everyone, but it keeps me moving. There’s no longer view than geologic time.

“You’re concerned about plastic in the soil? You take a moral high ground because you recycle? You know that continents shift and, at their rifts, one pushes up while the other gets pushed under. The one that gets pushed under, beneath the oceans or beneath those land fissures, gets wedged beneath the Earth’s crust. As the newborn continent expands on one side—that pure, virgin rock holding all sorts of neat minerals that plants and animals crave—the other side gets pushed toward the mantle.

“That mantle is hot. So hot that it can melt stone, metal—doesn’t matter. Of course it can—it’s what forms the stuff we stand on now. It burps up stuff our best laboratories and factories can’t make, and it does it on a planetary scale. What we call land, what we call the ocean, sits on the epidermis of a furnace of heat and pressure that outranks anything we could make ourselves; it’s the next closest thing to sitting on a star.

“Imagine that the mantle is an ocean of magma, and our land is coagulated dust on the surface of that simmering pot. At the edge of our floating dust island, each edge is getting pushed around by forces beneath us. It’s not quite fair to say that it’s like magma down there. It’s not orange and red; it’s not even white-hot. At pressures that intense, it actually gets denser, not looser. It’s thick, almost goopy. It’s like a glaring greenish jello, and it’s churned by convection currents and the earth’s magnetic field, which itself is created by the iron and nickel core at the center.

“So as our continent gets pushed below the crust, a piece of it breaks off. It falls down into that molten fudge. Because it’s colder in temperature, it gets pulled down further and further. Cold things fall, hot things rise. Eventually the whole tectonic plate will get melted down, with all its fossils, all the abandoned cars, all those microplastics and broken cities. It all gets turned back into baser and baser elements, like how the sun performs fusion in its core.

“But mother Earth isn’t done. Remember those convection fields, made by temperature and pressure, and stirred by magnetism? It’s a lot like a lava lamp. As one cooler glob falls, a warmer one begins to rise up. Our hard crust of land diving down is that cooler glob. A hot bubble of primordial rock rises up through the jello, moving all those broken and forgotten continents out of the way. When it reaches the top, it pushes up on the crust, creating fissures in the rocky ceiling. If the ceiling happens to be the sea floor, it creates undersea mountains that cool instantly. That’s how we get the Hawaiian islands. If it hits some already-made land—well, that’s how we get volcanoes.

“So all the stages of evolution that came before—generations of organisms, unique landforms, precious gems, folded up and sewn together like fabric, are floating down there beneath us, like icebergs of history swallowed and sublimated in the mantle. Can you imagine what ancient cities must be down there? Can you imagine all those fossil records, those ages of ancestors that were just Earth giving itself a fresh start? The stuff we find here on the surface is a scratch on the skin—and we call those scratches ‘ancient history’.

“And it’ll continue like that. Even with global warming, if we totally screw up the Earth as far as humans and animals are concerned, the Earth is a primordial titanness that will far surpass any kind of damage we can do. Of course, if we shit the bed it’ll be bad for us and anyone around. It’ll be up to some future civilization to dig up our bones, take to the stars, and find curious the layers of iPhones, flatscreen TVs, and generations of the Volkswagen Beetle buried beneath their feet—if they end up having feet. But if and when they do, that will be one percent of all the history mother Earth invented. The rest of the ninety-nine will already be on its journey to the core, and not even the best geologist can tell you what the goddess’s heart is like for sure.”

She paused, picking up her drink from the table. She gave the glass swirl and looked at me in the eyes.

“So sip the salt in those tears. It came from the Earth—that sodium chloride is made of processes you can’t control and can’t imagine. I’m not telling you it doesn’t matter; if history matters at all, it’s because we make it matter. It hurts—it’s a bunch of hurt right now. Maybe it’s a cold comfort to take this long a view of things. Maybe the best way to think about it is that for every heart broken, every civilization ruined, every continent swallowed, there’s another born anew at the other side. And that new one’s never experienced the hurt you and I know. It has no fossils; it has no microplastics in its soil, it has no need for recycling. It carries no misgivings. It’s a blank canvas, and Earth is the ultimate artist. She always replenishes, always regenerates, and she does it by sheer force of will, by powers that are awesome to us, but to her are trivial, like it’s trivial for you or I to squish an ant with a finger.

“Life is precious—don’t mistake me. Every individual, every iteration is important and beautiful. If there’s something you happen to hate, you can at least grin an awful, spiteful grin that the hateful thing will inevitably be gone—and from Earth’s perspective, it will be gone soon. If you want a god to worship, worship goddess Earth; she’s what you spring from, and she’s what sublimates everything to purity again when its time is up.”

She sipped from her glass, downing the rest.

“Kiss the ground you walk on. It’s your mama. She’s got a fiery love—and she don’t give a damn.”

–

Illustration Source: Volcanoes: what they are and what they teach, Judd, John W. (John Wesley), 1840-1916 - “Interior of a rhyolytic lava stream...showing broad sigmoidal folds produced by the slow movements of the mass.” Internet Archive

#daily #writing #prompt #stoic #geology #stoicism #earth #nature #volcanism #geological