marriage victorian

@likingthistoomuch requested an angsty (with happy at the end) Victorian or Regency Sherlolly where Molly breaks off their engagement because of how she believes Sherlock feels about Irene. I’m gonna go with Victorian and I also went with Sherlock’s POV. Enjoy! ;)

Sherlock passed by the library in his parent’s estate, catching sight of Molly lingering by the fireplace and wringing her hands a bit. The silvery gown she wore glistened with the kiss of the nearby flames, and for a moment she looked almost unearthly. 

“Ah, Miss Hooper,” he announced casually as he entered the room. “Watson said he saw you head this way. Perhaps it would be best if you rejoined the party, seeing as my father is preparing to announce our engagement.”

She remained silent.

Sherlock frowned to himself. Something wasn’t right. 

“Miss Hooper?” he questioned, stepping further into the room now.

“I cannot,” she said very softly.


Molly turned then, revealing the shimmer of tears on her cheeks which matched her gown. She gave him a quick smile.

“Mr. Holmes, I cannot go through with this. This engagement and marriage…it is so obviously a mistake.”

Keep reading

Lame adaptations and sequels are always like, “how can Mina go back to her stifling Victorian marriage after her experience with the dark, seductive Dracula??”

Meanwhile, Mina marries her best friend, who she’s known since they were children, who she share common interests with, they build a home together, work as partners, make immense sacrifices for each other, support each other through their traumas.

Guys, a marriage isn’t stifling and restrictive just because two people… get along, I guess?

anonymous asked:

you've probably already done this before but can you please recommend some lgbt books both fiction and non fiction? i'm especially interested in lgbt history.

Here’s some fiction, and I also have more recommendations in my literature tag! As for non-fiction, here are some of the ones I’ve read and enjoyed:

  • Who Was That Man?: A Present For Mr Oscar Wilde by Neil Bartlett
  • Gay and After: Gender, Culture and Consumption by Alan Sinfield
  • Cultural Politics - Queer Reading by Alan Sinfield
  • Apocalyptic Overtures: Sexual Politics and the Sense of an Ending by Richard Dellamora
  • Victorian Sexual Dissidence, ed. Richard Dellamora
  • Effeminate England: Homoerotic Writing After 1885 by Joseph Bristow
  • Slumming: Sexual and Social Politics in Victorian London by Seth Koven
  • Strangers: Homosexual Love in the Nineteenth Century by Graham Robb
  • London and the Culture of Homosexuality, 1885-1914 by Matt Cook
  • Nameless Offences: Homosexual Desire in the 19th Century by H.G. Cocks
  • Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity by Judith Butler
  • Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex” by Judith Butler
  • Epistemology of the Closet by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick
  • Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick
  • Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England by Sharon Marcus
  • The Gay Canon by Robert Drake
  • A History of Gay Literature: The Male Tradition by Gregory Woods
  • Closet Writing/Gay Reading: The Case of Melville’s Pierre by James Creech
  • No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive by Lee Edelman
  • British Queer History: New Approaches and Perspectives, ed. Brian Lewis
  • The Celluloid Closet: Homosexuality in the Movies by Vito Russo
  • The Vinyl Closet: Gays in the Music World by Boze Hadleigh
  • Queer Noises: Male and Female Homosexuality in Twentieth-century Music by John Gill
  • Queering the Pitch, eds. Philip Brett, Elizabeth Wood and Gary C Thomas
  • Queering the Popular Pitch by Sheila Whiteley
  • Saint Morrissey: A Portrait of This Charming Man by an Alarming Fan by Mark Simpson
  • Queer Gothic by George E. Haggerty
  • Queer Others in Victorian Gothic: Transgressing Monstrosity by Ardel Haefele-Thomas
  • Queering the Gothic, eds. William Hughes and Andrew Smith
  • The Queer Uncanny: New Perspectives on the Gothic by Paulina Palmer
  • AIDS: Don’t Die of Prejudice by Normal Fowler
  • And the Band Played On: Politics, People, and the AIDS Epidemic by Randy Shilts
  • Policing Desire: Pornography, AIDS and the Media by Simon Watney
  • Stonewall by Martin Bauml Duberman
  • Stonewall: The Riots That Sparked the Gay Revolution by David R Carter
  • Before Stonewall: Activists for Gay and Lesbian Rights in Historical Context by John Dececco
[Will] raised his glass.‘I do not know two finer people,’ he said, 'and I could not imagine better news. May your lives together be happy and long.’ His eyes sought Tessa’s, then slid away from her, fastening on Jem. 'Congratulations, brother.’
—  Will Herondale, Clockwork Prince, Cassandra Clare

kdm103020  asked:

Yay! Okay, E13.

I’ve gotten this combination (Victorian + Arranged Marriage) before when I did this over a year ago, so I’m going to try and switch it up. Last time I just had same-sex marriage be allowed, so this time I think I’m going to make it a tad more historically accurate (only a tinsy bit) and change up some genders, I hope you don’t mind. Enjoy!


Arthur Penn was the heir to the Penn fortune and son of the Duke of Camelot. He was expected to be intellectual, polite, and the perfect gentleman. He learned to read French and Latin, he was one of the best horsemen in the county, and he spoke properly to everyone he met. As the future Duke of Camelot, Arthur Penn had standards and therefore he had to have a wife who would be able to uphold all these standards as well.

Perhaps he would have had a choice of spouse if he had he been more careful in his youth. When he was barely seventeen his father had caught him kissing his first love, Guinevere, who happened to be a housemaid. The Duke of Camelot had been furious and sent Arthur away, and had never allowed Arthur to even think of having any love affair ever again, lest he lose his fortune.

His wife was to be chosen by his father, with little to no input allowed by Arthur. It was not ideal, and although Arthur liked to think himself more soft-hearted when it came to love, he had always known that he would never be allowed to have a perfectly happy marriage.

The woman who was chosen to be his wife was the daughter of Lord Balinor of Avalon. She was taller than most young women, with pale skin, thick dark hair, stormy blue eyes, and gorgeous plump lips. She was beautiful, Arthur knew that at the least. Before the marriage they had only met half a dozen times and always in company. She was quiet, but Arthur couldn’t tell if that was nerves or her true personality. Though there was glimpses of a spark beneath her soft spoken voice, with a quickly covered smirk in the drawing room or a giggle at dinner which was hidden behind a cough.

Keep reading

The Arrangement: A Victorian Fraser Christmas Tale. Prologue One.

Set in 1850: Victorian Britain.

“Oi! Wretch, you’ve mail,” the quartermaster barked, kicking Claire swiftly in the ribs as she dozed on the workhouse floor. Being ‘well to do’ had labelled her as different from her *new* peers and sleeping amongst them had elicited only negative responses. Therefore, she had made herself at home under some old, forgotten equipment in a far off forgotten corner of their draughty government imposed prison.

The small envelope hit her on the head and she feigned sleep, waiting anxiously for the grumpy old man to disappear. As his footsteps vanished down the corridors of the empty building, she reached out and pulled the letter to her chest praying it was what she thought it might be. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to bat away the memories of how she’d come to be sequestered here of all places, fifteen and alone.

Uncle Lamb often left Claire in the capable hands of his man servant, Firouz, when he was called to duty abroad; being only young, she was a burden when travelling long distances. In return he wrote and brought home strange artifacts for her.

Having lost her parents before her first birthday in a tragic horse and cart collision, Claire had been thrust into her uncle’s mad world. Taken from country to country, she often travelled on dirty ships with hostile crew members. But, as she’d reached her teenage years, Lamb had thought it more beneficial for her to have a stable upbringing with a *good* education.

Boarding school had been his first suggestion, but Claire had been nothing but defiant when it came to being abandoned in a grotty old schoolhouse with people she did not care for.

Lamb, very conscious of Claire’s natural stubbornness, had succumbed pretty easily and had removed her before any serious damage could be done. But he still refused to sacrifice her schooling, and so, had hired Firouz to act as caregiver and educator during his absences.

Then, halfway through her fifteenth year, disaster had struck. Lambert Beauchamp had been aboard a ship bound for the America’s, a large passenger freight that had been caught short in a storm. The wreckage had been spotted by a returning ship.

No survivors were recorded, and no bodies retrieved.

It hadn’t taken long for the news to be conveyed to all relatives aboard the capsized vessel.

In mere weeks, Lamb’s Oxford home had been stripped and sold off and Claire had been torn from Firouz and thrust into a workhouse, a ward of the state. With no living relatives to claim either her or her dowry, she’d been left at the mercy of the government as a minor with no rights and no time to grieve for her loss.

Daylight shone through the grimy, tiny, windows of the tall brick building, shining a tainted black-yellow light over Claire as she shook the memory of the horror of her ordeal from her filthy skin. Misery wouldn’t solve her situation, not now. Instead, her only hope lay in the hands of one Brian Fraser.

Running the off-cream envelope through her dirty fingers, she brushed the pad of her thumb over the seal.

“Je suis prest.” it read, and she was, she surmised; ready to be out of this place for good.

Brian stood and watched as the rider cantered off, back on his journey to London no doubt.

“Is this the only way, my own?” Ellen’s voice drifted over the fading sound of hoofprints against the dry ground.

“Aye, mo ghaol. I ken it isna ideal for us, but I canna leave the bairn to rot in a *workhouse*,” he spat the word as if it were poison on his tongue, the stale, retched scent of the last one he’d been in clinging to the roof of his mouth as he shuddered at the recollection.

“Ye’ve a good heart, Brian Dubh…” she whispered, brushing the stray strands of his long black hair from around his ears, “tis why I married ye. But what if yer condemning the weans to a life in an unhappy marriage. Ye ken Jamie weel. He loves ye fiercely and he’d do anything to make ye proud. But he’s like me, aye? What if he falls madly in love wi’ another?”

Brian’s heart sank as he contemplated the risks. “Yer right, mo nighean ruaidh, o’ course ye are. I wish things were different, I wish that Lambert was still here wi’ us so that we didna have to make such bold moves. But he isne. So I have to rescue his niece, *we* have to do all we can to get her safely awa’ from that fate…” Wrapping his arm around Ellen’s waist, he pulled her to his side, drawing strength from her presence alone, “however I can.”

“I do love ye so, a ghràdh,” she returned, her heart swelling in affection for the lengths he was willing to go to in order to protect a lass he’d never even met. “Whatever comes o’ this, I’m sure our Jamie will see the benefit of it. And, I’m sure wee Mistress Beauchamp will be ever grateful.”

The harsh October chill whisked through the Scottish air as Brian and Ellen turned, as one, towards Lallybroch. Deal done, all they could do was wait. Claire would need to turn sixteen before she’d be released for her impending nuptials. Only a few days stood between her and freedom, the Frasers could only hope that she survived those and made it to them unscathed.

Rubbing her aching arm, Claire pulled at the tatty dress she’d been given for her long journey up to the highlands. Winter had well and truly set in. The deal that had been proposed months before had taken longer to secure than she’d have liked and it was mid-November before her freedom had been assured.

Dowry lost to unscrupulous fatcats and lawyers, Claire stood outside the vile workhouse with only a battered suitcase and a few measly possessions to call her own. Luckily, that hadn’t stopped Brian Fraser from coming to her aid, money or no, he’d been determined to do his duty by her.

“Mistress Claire?” came the deep Scots burr, breaking Claire from her thoughts as she twisted on her heel in the direction of the calm voice of her rescuer.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” she replied, her voice nearly lost to the rattle of carriages as they whizzed passed, splattering her already soiled dress with mud and muck from the over-clogged cobbled streets.

“Ach! Good. I have an inn for the night, ye dinna mind I hope. Only it’s a long ride back to Broch Tuarach and I didna ken if ye would wish fer a comfortable bed for the evening afore we start out.”

Blushing, Claire dipped her head and curtsied as best as she was able, conveying her appreciation. The overcrowded workhouse had been such a nightmare that she hadn’t stopped to contemplate whether accepting the marriage proposal of a man she’d never met could land her in an even worse situation than the one she’d actually been living. Now, watching as Brian Fraser offered out his hand to her, his kind eyes soft as he’d allowed her to make the first move, she felt the sweet rush of relief fill her right to the marrow.

“Thank you, sir. Yes, that would be most pleasant.”

“Nay, lass, no ‘sir’,” Brian admonished, a smile gracing his soft features, “we’re to be father and daughter-in-law after all, aye?”

At this reminder, Claire gulped. Fear overtaking comfort she’d allowed herself to feel.

Brian, seeing distress colour her features, took her by the hand and brought her to his chest, as gently as he was able.

“Jamie’s a good lad, Claire lassie. I promise ye he’ll do right by ye, no need to fret. Yer uncle was a good friend, he helped us in so many ways, and I wouldna do his memory a disservice by condemning ye to a bad marriage. I ken that words dinna mean a whole lot to ye at the moment, but I’m asking for yer trust on this, please?”

The lulling lilt of his accent soothed Claire as she rested her head against Brian’s chest, inhaling the soft scent of hay and whisky that clung to him like a fine musk. He smelt as a father should, she thought, fatigue seeping through every inch of her.

Nodding, she grasped her hands together behind his back, accepting his request. Having expended all that energy to obtain her immunity, she had to allow him that one courtesy.

Sparking, the fire crackled, filling the gaps in silence in Lallybroch’s main living room. Sitting around its warmth, basking in the glow, all three Fraser siblings sat with a wee dram each discussing the spring harvest regime.

“Jamie, lad?” Ellen called, hating to disrupt the harmony that she usually revelled in.

Dusting himself off, the youngest Fraser stood, placing his (now empty) tumbler back onto the silver tray by the decanter as he answered his mother’s request.

“Aye, mam?” he responded, kissing her cheek softly as she pulled him from the room.

“If everything has gone t’ plan, yer da should be well on his way by now, ken? We’ve everything prepared here. The bands have been read, so it shouldna take more than a week afore ye can be wed properly, ye and Claire.”

There was a faint tinge of sadness in her tone that worried Jamie. As a strong lad of eighteen, it was uncommon for him to still be without a bride, Janet and William were both married after all. But Brian and Ellen being as they were, they had left their youngest be, certain that his heart would guide him right in the end. Now, with his union sealed to a woman he hadn’t even met, Ellen was feeling supremely guilty for breaking the vow she and Brian had made in reference to their youngest surviving bairn.

“What’s amiss, mam?” he questioned, not wishing to see his mother so torn.

“Do ye begrudge me and yer da for arranging yer wedding like this, son?” she broached, a demure lilt to her usually upbeat voice.

Jamie swallowed back any doubts and shook his head, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Nay, mam, I dinna,” he began, his mind wandering as he pictured what Claire Beauchamp might actually be like. “I dinna ken what a work-house is, and I think I’m fair lucky that I don’t from what da says. The puir lass needs our help, and I wouldna see her in the hands of the English either.”

Ellen’s eyes shone with tears at hearing his words. A conscientious man by nature, Jamie had always been wise beyond his years but seeing him standing tall, his vibrant red hair clubbed at his neck, made her proud of the man he’d become.

“Yer a fair lad, Jamie.” Reaching her hand out, she laid it gently against the soft arc of his high cheekbones. “How can she no’ fall for ye?” she whispered, more to herself than to him causing him to flush bright red.

“I dinna ken, Mam. Maybe she’ll be put off by a rather large Scots farmer?” he jested, a twinkle in his eye. “After all, I do have a tang of horse about me, aye?”

– — –

Claire dozed lightly as the carriage bumped over the winding roads that lead her and Brian up into the Scottish wilds. Having spent nearly a week on the road, the weary pair were glad to be nearly home.

Home. The very word sent tingles down Claire’s spine. She had spent the last six months locked away in a building filled with the forgotten under the constant supervision of a number cruel guards. In that time, she’d seen women birth babies they had no means to care for, she’d witnessed families torn apart by famine and poverty, and she’d seen death in the most horrific ways. Mangled in the machinery, women often lost limbs as well as their lives.

The foul stench of spilt blood and feces wafted around her as if she’d willed it to be so and she wrapped her arms around her middle to avoid losing the contents of her stomach in the close confines of the carriage.  

“Claire, are ye alright lassie? Ye’ve gone sae green…” Brian interjected on seeing her crumple in front of him.

Nodding, she lay her head against the cool wood of the interior, unwilling to discuss it whilst they were still on the move. The motion combined with the memories was bad enough, but to dredge it up and have to actively talk about it during their rickety journey would not end well.

Letting the subject drop for the time being, Brian turned his attention to the scenery outside as it flashing by in brown and white blurs.

“The roads along here used to be impassable in winter, aye? We’re lucky now that they have men clearing the way for us, else we’d be stuck in Inverness until the worst of the snow passed,” he chatted, animatedly moving his arms in front of his chest as he pointed to the melting icicles hanging from the trees that lined the thin mud path.

Subdued by his tales of his childhood, Claire began to calm. She dropped her arm as she sat up straight again, relaxing her back against the soft cushions that lined the seats. Sitting for so long had its disadvantages and she squirmed, her back aching at the contact.

As well as various injuries from the worn machines in the factories, Claire had been thwacked with the strap more than necessary. In her final weeks in Oxford, with the taste of freedom coating her tongue like the finest of foods, Claire had been less cautious with her words. Her captors had not been the type to let her sass go unpunished and the final straw had been to strip her bare, haul her in front of the entire factory and thrash her to within an inch of her life with their threadbare leather belts.

Now, angry, sore welts lined the fine skin of her back. Lacing over one another, they were a staunch reminder of the bother her sharp tongue could get her in.

Sensing her anguish, Brian reached below and passed her his whisky flask, eager to offer her some relief. He didn’t know the ins and outs of her injuries, but he could guess that she wasn’t unharmed. Not many escaped the close confines of a workhouse without some form of physical abuse.

“Nearly home now, wee Claire. That willna fill yer belly, but it will make ye forget the hunger, aye? I’m sure Mrs. Crook will have something nice to eat once we’re back, too.”

Taking a swig of the spirit, Claire coughed as the sharp liquid hit the back of her throat.

“I want to thank you, Mr. Fraser…” she sighed, her sweaty palms running over the skirts of her dress as she tried to make herself as comfortable as possible, “for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Ach, Claire. Call me Brian, please, lass? Mr. Fraser is as bad as ‘sir’, ken?” He chuckled as he took back his flask and placed it back in his top pocket.

The sun was hanging low on the horizon as the horse and carriage began its ascent towards Lallybroch. Claire sat up straight, eyes focused out of the window on the faint glow of candlelight ahead, heart racing with nervousness as reality squarely hit home.

Silence filled the enclosed space as the intrepid adventurers came to a stop. Refusing to make eye contact, Claire waited for Brian to leave and come back to open her door before making a move to exit, her feet seemingly attached, firmly, to the floor.

Seeing candlelight flicker to Brian’s immediate left, Claire made it her mission to keep her gaze rigidly affixed to the floor.

“Come now, lass,” Brian cooed, his warm palm resting on her knee as if he were talking to an agitated animal rather than to a wee slip of a girl. “It’s no’ sae bad as all that. Come inside, there’s bannocks and honey.”

At the mention of food, Claire’s belly rumbled loudly, the echo of it resounding around the small space as she admitted defeat and allowed Brian to lead her from the carriage and out into the Scottish night.

“I ken yer uncle didna get chance to bring ye to meet us. Which, under the circumstances, was unfortunate. But he loved the big house.”

Blinking back tears, Claire glanced up, finally. “Y-yes, he did. He told me many stories about its fabulous architecture and its history,” she responded, unable to hold back the fond recollections of Lambert Beauchamp and his excitable recounts of his adventures.

She missed him terribly.

“Good evening, Claire,” a tall red-headed woman interjected, disturbing Claire’s thought as she took her place by Brian’s side, a lovely smile tugging at her pinked lips. “I’m Ellen Fraser. It’s so nice to finally meet yer acquaintance.”

Holding her hands behind her back, Claire couldn’t help but feel a tiny kinship with the Fraser matriarch. Even with only an introduction, Ellen Fraser felt like the mother Claire so desperately needed.

Slowly but surely, the Fraser brood began to step out of the shadows of the main doorway, assessing their newest family member as they looked her up and down.

“Hallo, Claire. I’m William, and this is Janet…”

William Fraser truly was a giant amongst men, and Claire’s eyes widened as she took in his massive stature.

“Ach, awa’ wi’ ye, Willie. I am Janet, Claire, but ye can call me Jenny, aye? Everyone else does,” Jenny quipped, patting Claire on the shoulder as she shoved her eldest brother aside as if he weighed nothing.

Overwhelmed, Claire simply nodded along, grateful that they had left her intended until last.

Jamie, tapping his fingers lightly against the thick wood of the doorframe, had remained hidden in the entranceway. He had watched from the window of the sitting room as his mother had rushed out to greet his father, intrigued by what would emerge from the family carriage but unwilling to spook the poor thing before she’d even stepped foot on Broch Tuarach soil.

Shifting his weight, he pondered his next move. He was half determined to meet his affianced, intrigued as he was by the prospect. But he also half longed for the sanctuary of his rooms, away from the pressure of marrying a complete stranger.

His heart picked up pace as he peeked his head around the door, watching as his mam held the candle she had aloft, lighting Claire’s face. A yellow glow surrounded her, illuminating her features as her eyes darted to and fro, from one Fraser to another.

“Ah Dhia…” he muttered, his lungs contracting as she blinked her large blue eyes, her eyelashes casting a beautiful shadow over her stained cheeks.

She was dazzling. Her delicate face tilted away from the luminous blaze of the wee flame, shining an orange hue along her graceful neck.

“Blessed Mary and Bride,” he muttered, moving outside into the courtyard as if compelled to do so by an unknown force.

“Och,” Brian exclaimed, his shoulders relaxing as he saw Jamie emerge, eyes glazed and mouth open, “laddie, come aye? Introduce yerself…”

Suddenly an eerie stillness swept through the quiet highland evening as all eyes rested on Jamie, his expression turning coy as he came forward, an alluring blush covering his cheeks.

Claire, her heart thudding loudly, shuffled her feet, her thin broken shoes disturbing the damp ground and sending small puffs of wet dust floating around her ankles in dark flurries.

He was *ravishing*. A subtle mix of statuesque grace and enticing handsomeness.

“Claire,” he began, forgetting his manners for the smallest of seconds, “I-I mean, Mistress Beauchamp,” he corrected, dipping his head in a courtly bow, “it’s a pleasure to meet ye. I’m James Fraser…”

His words pulsed through her and she felt alive, her whole body ignited with courage as she advanced towards him. Above all else, Jamie Fraser was beguiling. The word floated into her subconscious as she unconsciously reached her hand up to move a stray curl from his brow.

Hovering her fingers just above his ear, Claire suddenly came to, her brain finally catching up to her body as she went to pull back and then just –stilled.

Taking her hand under his, Jamie pulled her palm to rest over his heart and held her there, his touch light and gentle.

“…and I hope ye and I will grow to be fond of one another, ye ken?” he finished, humour lacing his tone as he stood tall in front of her.

“Please,” she replied, finally finding her voice, “call me Claire, Jamie.”

Twitching her fingers against his thin shirt, she focused on the fast rhythm of his heart as she counted its soothing beat.

He was as scared as she was. She could feel it.

“Thank you….” she burst out, taking a deep breath before continuing, “for, –well–, y-you know.” Losing her nerve, Claire let her chin fall to her chest.

Seeing her unease, Jamie leaned his forehead against hers, growing bolder by the second.

“Dinna fash, lassie,” he whispered, completely forgetting his audience, “there’s two of us now.”

Overcoming - purefoysgirl - Hannibal (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 4/55
Fandom: Hannibal (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter
Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Alpha/Omega, Romance, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Victorian, I am not kidding this is seriously a slow burn, Angst, Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, because will’s dad is a twat, Omega Verse, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage

A Victorian A/B/O romance in which Hannibal Lecter is the future Duke of Westvale who has been away at war for the past ten years. His Grandfather has made good on a contract made shortly after Hannibal’s birth to procure him a wife. It was supposed to be easy. Naturally, with the Omega, Will, given in the place of his twin sister, it is anything but, because if there is one thing Hannibal Lecter despises, it’s Omegas.


It’s on at Hartford House!

Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge 2015 Masterlist

I wasn’t going to make this list cause they’re all in a collection on AO3 (here), but as the wise and wonderful @just-mindy rightfully pointed out, the 50 Reasons fics are also in an AO3 collection (here) and I have a masterlist for them. So here they are, links to the 2015 SBBC stories for your reading pleasure!


A Bitter, Sweet Life by occasionallycreative (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Chocolat AU, parentlock, historicalock 2015

A Vicious Motivator by darnedchild (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Post HLV AO3 2015

A Work In Progress by miabicicletta (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Post HLV AO3 2016

All My Sins Remembered by mizjoely (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) kidnap fic, Pregnancy fic, Post HLV AO3 2015

All We Have by writingwife83 (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) parentlock, Post HLV AO3 2015

The Avatar and the Real Girl by Pickwick12 (Rated K, Complete, Multi-Chapter) AO3 2015


The Boyfriend Experience by hobbitsdoitbetter (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) AO3 2016


Detours and Fairy Tales by felinefemme (Rated K, Complete, Multi-Chapter) AO3 2015


Empty Souls by flavialikestodraw, potix (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Dead Again AU AO3 2016


For What It’s Worth by kendrapendragon (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) pregnancy fic, parentlock, secret child  AO3 2015

For You Alone by Alethnya (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Post HLV AO3 2015

Furo by asteraceaeblue & mizjoely (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) zombie!lock 2015


Grain Of Sand In An Hourglass by afteriwake (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) MCD, fantasy AO3 2015


In Matters of the Heart by TheSapphireSky (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Regency AO3 2015


Magic Can’t Fix Everything by sir squidfish the first (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) potterlock AO3 2015

Miss Molly Hooper by daisherz365 (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Jane Eyre AU AO3 2015

Molly Hooper and the Flagon of Nocturnal by Zoa (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) historicalock AO3 2015

my very soul demands you by afteriwake (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) fantasy, soulmates AO3 2015


The One After Sherlock Gets High by keeptheotherone (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) AO3 2015

One Small Hitch by texadian (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) fake relationship AO3 2016


Queen of Peace by Gwinny (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Victorian, arranged marriage 2016


Seven Hours In Heaven by Elyf_Sinfonia (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) trapped together AO3 2015

The Signs of the Four by emma_lynch (Rated K, Complete, Multi-Chapter) Victorian  AO3 2015

So This Is Love by onceinabluemoon13 (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) fake relationship, Royalty AU, Cinderella AU AO3 2015

Some things cosmic by consultingpathologist (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) parentlock, retirement!lock AO3 2015


The Tinder Effect by cassbuttandsquirrel, mkhockeygurl (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) AO3 2016

Turns by Agents of Sherlolly (Rated M, Complete, Multi-Chapter) potterlock AO3 2015


Worlds Apart by sherlollymouse (Rated T, Complete, Multi-Chapter) AO3 2016

A Most Unsuitable Arrangement

Watson snorted and jolted awake, running a hand over his face.

‘Please tell me that we have arrived,’ the doctor grumbled.

‘Just about,’ Holmes replied, not looking away from the passing London streets. The early morning fog wound around each building as their carriage rolled along the cobblestone.

‘Our wives will certainly be glad for us to be home,’ Watson remarked idly. ‘Though she never wrote it in her letters, Mary did hint at being worried about us.’

Holmes hummed distractedly.

‘How did Mrs Holmes seem? Married not yet three months and you called away for a case in Scotland. I can’t imagine it was an easy decision for you to take it.’

‘Why would it not be?’ Holmes finally turned and looked at his friend, a frown on his face. ‘I agreed to this marriage arrangement under the condition that she understand my work comes first.’

Watson shook his head. ‘She’s your wife, Holmes. You need to understand that now there is another person in that little world you inhabit and you need to have a care how you treat her.’ He furrowed his brow in thought. ‘Did you write to her at all during this case? Reassure her of your safety?’

Holmes rolled his eyes. ‘How many times must I tell you, when I am on a case, I have no need for distractions, especially of the ‘marital’ kind. She knew this when she agreed to the arrangement.’

‘Bloody hell, Holmes! A whole month without a word from you? You never sent her a letter or anything? Not so much as a telegram? She must think you dead!’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Watson.’ Holmes waved him off. ‘If she were so inclined to think so, I am sure either my brother or your wife would assure her of my continued existence. Why should I be expected to waste valuable time doing such an unnecessary, domesticated chore?’

Watson gaped at him, then grimly shut his mouth and shook his head. ‘You’re a fool, Sherlock Holmes. A bloody fool.’


It was just past 7 when Sherlock strode through the front door of his Baker Street home. Having dropped Watson off at his house beforehand and witnessing Mrs Watson rush outside to welcome her husband home with a warm smile and open arms, Sherlock had spent the remaining ten minutes ride fighting down an unfamiliar sense of foreboding and the stranglehold of guilt.

Perhaps he should have taken a moment or two during the case to send word to his own wife. He barely knew her beyond what Mycroft had told him when he’d drafted the contract, but as their first few months of marriage passed he found himself contemplating the mystery of her. Shy, a bit bumbling, not at all the sort of woman he’d expected his brother would force him to marry. But the inheritance her late father had left her, on the condition of her marrying, was enough to keep him happily solving crimes until a ripe old age, should he live to see the day. And she would be free to do…. well, whatever it was a woman of society did. Embroidery, gossip, and other such ridiculous frippery, he’d assumed, bracing himself for a life of mindless chittering.

Yet, to his surprise, she had slid into his life with ease, leaving him to his experiments and cases, but nearby with a cup of tea or some bread before he knew he needed it. She quietly read or scribbled in that journal of hers while he sojourned into his Mind Palace. She listened as he talked himself through his cases and experiments. She offered the occasional question that, on more than one instance, had led him to the right conclusion.  

She had been perfectly attuned to what he’d needed in a companion. But truth be told, he knew very little of her. And until this moment, he’d never considered it a bad thing.

Tossing his coat over the banister, he strode down the hall. Upon entering the lounge, he found it practically undisturbed from how he’d left it. His violin rested on the table, his music sheets scattered haphazardly about, his books and notes on his experiments were in disarray on the coffee table.

Nothing in the room spoke of another person living here. In short, there was nothing to warrant the growing sense of unease in his gut. His wife’s things were relegated solely to her room and her timidity prevented her from encroaching on what she considered his space. Yet there was something amiss in the empty room that sent a foreboding rolling over him.

Sherlock spun on his heel and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door at the top was cracked open and he shoved it open, letting it bang against the wall, and came to dead stop.

He had not been upstairs since they’d been married. The only time they had shared a room, his bed, had been their wedding night. But he had slipped out while she slept. When she came to him the next morning and said she would take the upper room for herself, he had assumed she was as uncomfortable with their arrangement as he was and wanted her own space.

His heart pounded and his hands clenched into fists at his side as he took in the room: bed was made and hadn’t been slept in for at least four nights and a thin layer of dust had settled on the nightstand and bureau. He stormed over to the wardrobe and flung open the doors, staring in growing horror at the empty rack.

She hadn’t given him space because it was what she wanted; no, she’d done it because she thought it was what he had wanted.

Watson had been correct.

He was a fool.

Arranged marriage, Victorian-ish Rogue One AU (but still with blasters, spaceships etc) where Cassian has to play the role of repression and duty and Jyn is the one that represents restrained force/freedom is actually a very interesting writing exercise in examining how to write the trope without feminizing/masculinizing the characters…


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