#all of leonard bast

[freckledjoes]

Leonard Bast gifs 2/? it's like he stepped right out of a painting part 2

[joesquinns]

JOSEPH QUINN as LEONARD BAST in Howard's End

[d0rianw1lde]

“In All Timelines, In All Possibilities”- A Steddie Fanfiction

[READ ON AO3]

Summary: When Steve gets caught in the crossfire of Dustin’s plan to travel back to 1986 to save Eddie, he realizes that Eddie’s doom is woven into his design far before the battle against Vecna- from Ancient Roman Emperor, to a poor Edwardian Clerk, Steve must save Eddie by first saving the past lives that came before.

Tags: steddie I Past Lives I Time Travel I Period-Typical Homophobia I Implied/Referenced Character Death I Implied/Referenced Suicide I Minor Violence I Angst with a Happy Ending I Gay Steve Harrington I Gay Eddie Munson

[Chapter 1]. [Chapter 2]. [Chapter 3].

Chapter One

“HNL Security! Come out of the room with your hands up! We have this room and the laboratory surrounded- there’s nowhere for you to hide!”

ca-THUNK. Steve’s head whips around to look in horror through the small window on the lab’s door. Armed men, battering ram in hand, step back and wind up for another blow.

“Steve, now!” Dustin cries, scrambling to stand in the center of the platform at the center of the room, looking up to search over the machine behind him. Pointed metal prongs protrude from the machine like tendrils, its impossibly sharp ends pointed directly toward Dustin. The ends of each prong buzz dully, glowing a muted orange in against the dark, metal lab they’d found themselves in.

It was happening. It was actually happening.

THUNK.

The metal beside the door’s lock caves in slightly, and Steve jumps as the sound reverberates against the shiny, sterile walls of the lab. He swallows dryly, fingers trembling as he ghosts them over the control board. Dustin’s gaze is frantic. “Cmon- Remember!” Dustin cries, and Steve closes his eyes for a moment, thinking back to Dustin’s voice just moments earlier, trying to hear it over the chaos around him. The sequence plays back in his mind, and before he can process, his fingers are already flying against the control pad.

CRASH.

The door crashes in. But Steve barely has the time to process it before his attention is pulled toward the machine. It creaks, and the prongs begin to move. A mechanical whir fills the room, and suddenly, Steve’s arms are flung behind him as security takes ahold of him.

“Dustin!” Steve shouts over the chaos. He thrashes his body helplessly, hoping for a bit of give from either of the men beside him, but all he feels is their crushing grip squeezing tighter around his arms. He cries out in pain, and calls for him again. “Get out!”

Dustin watches in numb wonder as the machine begins to move around him. Behind the guards, HNL personnel flood through the doors, a mass of individuals, dressed in similar stark white, all clamoring over each other before grim silence suddenly falls upon them

“My God..” a tall man mutters, thickly rimmed glasses reflecting the sudden flash of orange from the machine’s prongs. “It’s-“

A few of the staff fly toward the control-pad, desperately beginning to click across the extensive buttons, their panicked expressions illuminated by the machine’s flashing lights. Their voices overlap, but everything feels so blurry in Steve’s vision. Is it the panic? Is it tears? Steve can’t entirely tell another discernible feeling besides pure, unadulterated helplessnes

“It’s on the fritz!” A worker cries as she desperately slams her palm against the controls. “It’s unresponsive to its controls!”

Steve’s heart makes a sudden drop toward his stomach. Adrenaline courses through him. As the machine crunches, and croaks, Steve’s mind sends sudden flashes- memories- through his vision. A fireball, not unlike the one that overtook Starcourt mall, erupting in this crowded room. The unforgiving heat engulfing Steve’s body. And Dustin in the center of it al

“Let go of me!” Steve cries, the idea of losing the one person he swore to protect striking mind-numbing horror through his veins. How could he let this happen? How could he have ever let this continue on?

“I have to do it!” Dustin screams, eyes overflowing with tears. His brow is knit in certainty, but his bottom lip trembles as he looks over at Steve. “I couldn’t save him- but now I can!”

Steve’s head whips around the room, desperately searching for something- anything- that could set him free. In a desperate last attempt, Steve lifts his leg, and brings it down behind him swiftly. He feels it hit against the leg of one of the guards, and hears a dampened crack. The guard yelps out in pain, and crumples into himself as Steve finds the opportunity to slip from his grasp. Sparks fly from the contraption, which sputters and crunches as its prongs twitch, and creak. Steve flies up onto the platform, suddenly deafened by a loud twinge- a high-pitched whir, like his ears were ringing. There’s a loud crunch, and Steve takes ahold of Dustin’s shoulders.

“Dustin, You have to go back!” Steve shouts over the mechanical mayhem. He grounds himself on the platform, which begins to shudder and tremble beneath the both of them. Dustin’s eyes scan Steve’s expression, and suddenly, his own face drops in a knowing horror.

“No- No. Steve- Steve you can’t do this to me too-“ he says, voice breaking as he pushes against Steve’s iron grip. “You can’t be a hero too!” He begs desperately. “I’m not gonna let you! If you go, I’m going too!”

C-R-R-A-C-K-L-E

Steve looks to Dustin, and cups his face. Time seems to stop in that moment- he gets that flash again- he’s holding his face the same way he did all those years ago when he got that boy ready for the snow ball. He gets that little glimpse of a toothless grin, hears that squeaky laughter. Holds it in his memory for a moment before he’s sucked back to reality. Before he’s brought back to who’s really standing in front of him.

“You said it yourself,” Steve says, voice breaking as he shouts over the machine. Dustin’s eyes grow frantic, and he shakes his head in Steve’s grasp. “I’ll only be a couple minutes!”

He lets go of Dustin’s face, and takes a firm hold on Dustin’s shoulders, shoving him aside. The sounds of metal scraping metal permeate throughout his entire being- it rattles his bones, his ribs feel like they’re crashing against each other. The air is torn from his lungs so violently, he swears he can feel them deflating in his chest.

‘God? It’s Steve Harrington. Is this dying?’

——

“And that’s all we would have to do.”

Steve stares, jaw slightly slack, at the boy in front of him. “Henderson,” he manages. “That’s..No.”

Dustin’s smug expression falls, and his eyes trail back down to the pile of papers he’d dropped unceremoniously onto the Family Video register. ”What do you mean no?” He asks, gesturing at the papers. “It makes complete sense! Steve- we could-“

”We? Henderson,” Steve drops the Rubiks cube he’d been absentmindedly toying with onto the counter, putting his hands up and shaking his head. “No. nope. Don’t involve me in all of this- you don’t even know if this is-“

”I do,” Dustin replies sternly. “Steve- It’s- It could work..” His voice trails off. Steve looks over his somber expression, and chews his lip, watching the energy he’d brought only a few moments ago slowly begins to deflate. Steve knew what this was all about. Steve understood the severity- the importance of it all. He understood why he wanted to do it. But everything about it just felt..

”Dustin..I know that-“

”Three years. Three years, five months, and twelve days.” Dustin says simply. “I see it every night, Steve. He-“ Dustin’s voice catches in his throat, but despite it, he pushes on. “He’s still down there. I couldn’t-“

“Hey.” Steve steps out from behind the counter to meet Dustin where he was, putting a hand on his back. “Hey, we don’t have to..to go through it all again. I know.” He replies in a low voice. “I know that you want to bring him back, man. But I..” He struggles on what to say- what do you even say at a time like this?

What do you say when you’re presented with pages of ramblings about The Upside Down and time travel?

“It’s still 1982 there,” Dustin says. “What if- what if there’s a way to use that? What if there’s something in- in the air? Or in the portals that can stop time? Or turn it back? What if there’s a way to stop it all from happening?” Dustin tries, flipping through his notes so quickly that his hands fly by Steve’s vision like an odd blur. “We could go back and- and stop Eddie from being involved at all.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” Steve says. “You’re- you’re smart, man, but you have no idea what this all means. What happens if you go back there and- and a portal closes or something? Or-“

“But what if it does!?” Dustin cries. “What if then? What if it does, and we can bring him back? What if it does and- and we’re just sitting back letting him lay down there for the rest of time? He- he barely has a grave, Steve. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Maybe you didn’t care about him. Maybe all you saw was Eddie the Freak. Maybe all you saw was that stupid name you gave him, a-and his scary music, and his big leather jacket, and you figured right then in your big jock mind that- that he wasn’t worth it. Maybe you’re just happy it wasn’t you!”

Steve lets his gaze fall somewhere else- he can’t look at Dustin. He can’t look at the kid in front of him- was he even a kid anymore? He’d turned eighteen only a few months ago, but in moments like this, all he could bring himself to see was the kid who’d come to his house and sat giddy in his bathroom as Steve carefully styled his hair for the snow ball. All he could see was a big grin made up of missing teeth and a wild mess of curls popping out beneath a colorful trucker hat.

But that’s not the reality. Because the Dustin in front of him was no longer in need of Steve’s assistance. No longer requesting rides to the Palace Arcade, or doing secret handshakes with him upon his arrival.

The Dustin in front of him was an adult. An adult with the memory of a friend dying in his arms. An adult whose words are tearing through him like a tornado of daggers- one after the other.

“Maybe you were jealous of him or something- But he was the only person who ever protected me in there. He- he was the only one- and I saw him as he was. He was a person, and everyone in this town treats him like he was collateral! Like- like ‘thank God that freak got the boot! That could have been me!’ What if that was- what if that was me, Steve?”

Steve screws his eyes shut tightly. He tries not to imagine Dustin, lifeless against the Upside Down. Bloodied. Torn up. Gone. Dustin waits for him to answer- waits for anything. The silence in the video store is palpable- the tension is so thick Steve swears it’s made the air harder to breathe. It feels like he’s inhaling mud- like it’s getting caught in a lump in his throat and pooling in his lungs. It leaves him heavy. Unable to speak.

Dustin takes a sharp breath in, the corners of his lips pulling back into a disappointed frown, or sneer. Steve couldn’t tell in his peripheral view.

“If you want to stay back, fine. But me?” Dustin holds up the papers. “I’m going to find out how to do this. With or without your help. Your choice.”

Dustin turns on his heel and makes his strides toward the door. He pushes it open, and the bell sounds off. Steve’s heart twists in his chest as he watches Dustin make his way toward his car, opening up the door and taking one more look into the video store.

Steve looks back- suddenly feels his body shiver when he really sits to think about what Dustin had said- ‘I’m going to find out how to do this. With or without your help.’ He imagines Dustin, cold and alone in the dark Upside Down. Imagines a hoard of Demobats flooding overhead- or Dustin seeing Eddie’s body sprawled across the cold ground. And doing it alone.

Who would he call to if he’d found himself in trouble?

How would Steve live with himself?

Steve quickly walks to the door, and swings it open. He meets Dustin’s eyes, which have begun to well with tears. Dustin blinks a few times, and averts his gaze somewhere else. Steve takes a step forward, frowning when Dustin flinches back. He can almost see the shame pool on the top of Dustin’s head and flow down the rest of his body- it looks like Dustin’s being weighed down. His whole body begins to sink slightly. Steve offers Dustin and concerned look, and puts a hand on his shoulder- a firm hand. A comforting hand. Dustin’s breath trembles- his bottom lip wobbles. His shoulders slump down under Steve’s hand.

”I’m sorry.” Dustin strains out, his breath catching as he inhales. “I didn’t- mean that- I didn’t-“

“Come here..” Steve says quietly, and pulls Dustin into his chest. Dustin’s arms fall to his side- he stands, wrapped in Steve’s arms as he sobs into his shoulder. Steve runs his hand along Dustin’s back soothingly, watching as Dustin’s shoulders tremble and bob as he lets out ragged sob after ragged sob. Dustin curls up into himself- and sniffles wetly.

“I need to do this-“ Dustin says, finally reaching up to wraps his arms around Steve. “I need to- t-to at least try.” He says. Steve nods, and pulls him a bit closer. “Everyone here gave up on him. I can’t give up on him when the answer is..is right there.”

Steve lets Dustin speak, and looks out into the parking lot, his heart twisting and crushing in his chest with every shakey word that falls from Dustin’s lips. Steve nods, allowing the quiet silence between them to soothe. What else was there for Steve to say? Steve racks his brain for anything. He’d known just what to say when Dustin had come to him for girl advice, or when his mother and stepfather had begun to fight. But this was different- grief was a monster. And Steve had watched its claws slowly dig into the witty, bubbly kid he’d once known.

So Steve takes a deep breath. He clears his throat. Pulls away from Dustin to let him wipe his tears, and shamefully turn his gaze toward the ground. “Hey..” Steve starts, and Dustin glances up.

“…How are we going to do this.”

[foundtherightwords]

(most of my fics are CC x OFC unless otherwise stated)

Tom Grant (Make Up)

Winter Light (AO3): angst, slow burn, sickfic, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 5 chapters + optional epilogue, 14.8k

Arthur Havisham (Dickensian)

The Road Forgotten (AO3): angst, slow burn, fix-it, post-canon, revenge, non-explicit smut | 14 chapters, 42.7k

Irresistibly Contagious (AO3): sequel to "The Road Forgotten", Christmas fic, fluff, found family | One-shot, 7k

Billy Knight (Lethal White/Strike)

The Quiet Chaos (AO3): angst, slow burn, developing relationship, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 10 chapters, 36.2K

The Simple Thought of You (AO3): sequel to "The Quiet Chaos", angst, childfree, proposal, non-explicit smut | 3 chapters, 9.2k

Ralph (Timewasters)

All Our Yesterdays (AO3): friends-to-lovers, slow burn, a bit of angst, time travel, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 14 chapters, 53.8k

Come, You Spirits (AO3): sort-of-sequel to "All Our Yesterdays", fluff, funny, spooky, established relationship | One-shot, 4.6k

Time Out in the Upside Down (AO3): "Stranger Things" x "Timewasters" crossover, funny | One-shot, 1.8k

Leonard Bast (Howards End)

Through the World's Far Ends (AO3): Leonard x Helen fix-it, World War I, angst, hurt/comfort | One-shot, 7.2k

Among the Shelves (AO3): Leonard x Helen, different first meeting, meet-cute, funny | One-shot, 4.1k

Prince Paul (Catherine the Great)

The Firebird (AO3): fairytale AU, magic, adventure, slow burn, non-explicit smut | 16 chapters, 66.7k

Michael (Hoard)

Love, If You're Near (AO3): angst, hurt/comfort | One-shot, 6.8k

Derwin Grunauer (Overlord)

As the Sun Will Rise (AO3): post-WWII, Beauty and the Beast retelling, friends to lovers, non-explicit smut | 21 chapters, 82.3k

Emperor Geta (Gladiator 2)

Fallen Empires (AO3): canon divergent, alternate history, slow burn | 20 chapters, 71.6k

Hellcheer Masterlist

[sssaigee]

Sweet Tooth, Sweetheart: Prologue ♡

Summary: Leonard has trouble leaving his favorite bakery, but bumps into you on the way out. Pairings: Leonard Bast x baker!fem!reader Word Count: 998 ✎ A/N: First fic & post EVER! Nervous posting this, but this is an AU with Lenny. Nothing mentioned w/ reader's appearance (i think). Work in Progress, support & constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! <3

.⋆｡⋆☂.⋆｡⋆

There was a monotonous normalcy to the life of Leonard Bast. Nothing ever happened, whether good or bad. His days always followed a tedious cycle: wake up, go to work, eat dinner, and sleep. After all, he never had time for anything else with his open-to-close printing job. The printing company he worked for was, in truth, quite harsh. Long hours, inadequate pay, and dreadful service from the higher-ups. There was much to complain about—almost too much.

So often did his coworkers invite him to hang out, and so often did he make flimsy excuses. He had only one space he liked- The Rustic Oven. This old bakery downtown was where he had found himself. If you were lucky and on your way to work, you might catch the breeze wafting the smells and scents of the sweet loaves of bread, the aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls, the saccharine cakes, and muffins. However, this could also be a curse, making you hungrier than you were before. But if you had the time to step inside, you would feel comfortable. The walls were a soothing cream color, and the accented walls behind the counters were adorned with delicate rose-patterned wallpaper. There were a few tables for two- and one particular spot that called Leonard’s name. It was a small nook that had practically become his sanctuary, his spot. He always frequented and always got a warm greeting from Dorothy, the owner. As she approached retirement, it became apparent that this bakery was much older than he was. He wondered who would be taking her place, who would be taking charge. He grew uncommonly anxious, worried that the mystery hire wouldn’t be the same as his beloved Dorothy. Of course, they wouldn’t—no one could measure up to his Dorothy! Nobody could create pastries, bread, cakes, cookies, or macarons like her!

“I’m really sorry, Leonard, but I have to close up, which means I have to kick ya to the streets.” Dorothy’s wavering voice interrupted his thoughts, her wrinkled hand resting on his shoulder, a testament to her lifelong dedication here. He realized she could finally relax once Leonard left. “…right. My apologies for… overstaying.” He was reluctant; he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want things to change. Yet, change was always inevitable. So was life; one had to live it to get anywhere. “Oh! Darling, here… for being such a loyal customer.” She offered him the leftover sweets. “Take your pick. It’s on the house.” The woman smiled warmly, pleased to offer, happy to retire, yet weary at the thought of actually leaving. It was a bittersweet moment for them both. 

It was inevitable, as time was a merciless metronome, relentlessly ticking away and destroying happy moments in its wake. The sun was bound to set soon, so she had to be on her way. “Come now, don’t gawk, dearie!” Her smile beckoned him closer, and he fell for it. “You…really don’t have to, Miss Easton.” 

“How many times have I told you, Leonard? It’s Dorothy. You call my granddaughter that when she comes in.” Granddaughter? “Granddaughter?” He echoed the word that reverberated in his mind. “Granddaughter, yes. My daughter’s daughter. Now come ‘ere.” Leonard finally listened. “She’ll be taking charge, she will. Efficient and happy to do it. A good girl. You’ve seen her before, haven’t ya?”

As your grandmother vividly described you, bagging his cakes, Leonard recalled seeing you work a few times just as vividly as her description. He remembered because of how much you stood out to him. You were ethereal in his eyes. Your complexion, your features, your voice—and, if he may be a man for a moment—your figure. Every bit of you absolutely captivated him. He found himself almost thanking the stars above for his loneliness, but then he remembered his other circumstances: his wealth, or rather, his lack thereof. This was the main issue that drove women away from him. He could support no one but himself and was struggling to gain any promotions. His daydreams and cake-picking were interrupted once again as you were further talked about.

“You’ll be alright, Lenny boy. This place won’t crumble to pieces, I promise you that. She’s a good lass; she’ll treat this place right with care.” Dorothy tried to comfort him as she rounded the counter, never quite understanding why he seemed to care so much or why he fussed over everything. Taking a sharp breath, he nodded and embraced Dorothy one last time. “Thank you for creating such a comforting place…” he said, the entire moment feeling bittersweet. He slowly moved away from her, reluctant to go. If not now, when? “Be sure to keep in touch, though, alright?” Leonard suggested, offering a soft smile as he grabbed his top hat and umbrella while opening the door, and bumping into a lovely young lady reaching for the same handle.

“Oh, my apologies, Miss—” it was you. His heart stopped; at least, he swore it did.  

“Oh—” your ornate umbrella fell from your grasp. He was swift to get it for you. “Here. My apologies again, miss… Enjoy your retirement, Dorothy!” he exclaimed, his cheeks slightly flushed. Before you could respond about the umbrella, he ran into the rain, leaving no further words. He would realize it when he tried to use it, wouldn’t he?

He stepped onto the concrete sidewalk, rushing himself away from the bakery. He knew that if he didn't leave, he wouldn’t dare to dream of—

His umbrella wasn't this fragile. It wasn't laced, it wasn't embellished. But the one in his hands was. What a fool he felt like. Or… was this hidden luck? A blessing in disguise, perhaps... He would have to return it, wouldn't he? Someday soon, perhaps tomorrow. Maybe in exchange for a croissant, a scone, or a biscuit. Some tea…? No, that was too ambitious.

He would need to see you again soon; after all, you needed your umbrella. This one couldn’t work for him.

.⋆｡⋆☂.⋆｡⋆

As always- reblog, comment & like to show your support ♡ I love you guys & constructive criticism is ALWAYS appreciated! THANK YOU FOR READING ♡♡♡♡

[thejoequinnlibrary]

Here’s where you’ll find all JQ writers that want to be in this project linked below with a little list of each of the characters they write!

send me a message or an ask to submit a writer to the library!

please let me know if you’re a steddie (or other ship) writer— you’ll get a cool ☼ next to your blog name! so those that want to easily find steddie works will be able to!

getaapologist

writes for: emperor geta

glassbxttless

writes for: eddie munson, emperor geta, eric (aqpdo)

keeryhours

writes for: eddie munson, emperor geta

keaganz ☼

writes for: eddie munson

punkrockmlchael

writes for: eddie munson

bumblebeeswrite

writes for: eddie munson, emperor geta, eric (aqpdo), michael (hoard), johnny storm

missjadesfics

writes for: joseph quinn, eddie munson, emperor geta, eric (aqpdo), michael (hoard), johnny storm, tom grant, arthur havisham, leonard bast, paul petrovich

wheels-of-despair

writes for: eddie munson, eric (aqpdo), michael (hoard), tom grant, billy knight, leonard bast, ralph penbury, koner

somethingvicked

writes for: eddie munson, tom grant

foundtherightwords

writes for: eddie munson (hellcheer ship!), emperor geta, michael (hoard), tom grant, billy knight, arthur havisham, leonard bast, paul petrovich, ralph penbury

livpet

writes for: eddie munson x OC

songforeddiemunson

writes for: joseph quinn, eddie munson

icallhimjoey

writes for: joseph quinn, eddie munson (minimal)

filthyjoetini

writes for: joseph quinn

eddies-puppet

writes for: joseph quinn, eddie munson

whatsupsonnyboy

writes for: joseph quinn

[voidindividual]

Here, have another bit of my as of yet unnamed Victory of Eagles fic. (also this isn't going to be a weekly thing, it just so happens to have been a week since I posted the last bit)

It had been a long and normal day for Leonard. He had gotten up early to ensure proper feed for the dragons at the breeding grounds, as it hadn’t been easy to find enough cattle since the start of the invasion.

Eventually he had managed it, but of course the dragons all complained that he had kept them waiting longer than they liked. He didn’t even try to explain the situation to them, he had given that up weeks ago, at one point he had done so, but the dragons weren’t very understanding. 

In the afternoon a Winchester came to the grounds. In itself that wasn’t very unusual. Ferals sometimes came and went and he had assumed that this was the case with this one as well.

Contrary to his expectations however, the dragon didn’t go to get food or to talk or mate with any of the other dragons at the grounds. No, the Winchester wanted to talk to him. 

This he wasn’t as used to. Unless it was due to an oversight or other fault of his, he was usually the one to initiate the conversations. 

But this “Moncey” fellow, he wasn’t quite sure what he said because he talked so fast and excited, seemed to not be here to stay, but apparently to “recruit them for the war effort”, whatever that meant.

Still a bit confused he asked “Mind slowin’ down a bit? I hardly understand a thing you’re saying.” The dragon looked annoyed, but he complied. 

“I was sent by the commander to bring more dragons from the breeding grounds into the militia. You are to follow them with the cattle to ensure our supply.” 

The confusion on Leonard’s face shifted to worry “You’re mad! How am I supposed to manage that? And, back up a bit. You want the ferals to go into combat? How do you expect that to work? They haven’t got crews or control, ignoring the lack of investment for the war. After all, they’ve got everything they need right here.” 

The Beast now looked down on him, as if talking to a stubborn child, and with an appropriate tone said “Well, you bring the food to them anyways, so what difference does it make where they get it. And as for the dragons, let me worry about them. They will come. Now will you do it, or not?” 

"Oh no, I won’t! Do you have any Idea what chaos that would cause? You can be sure that every one of those dragons will be recaptured and executed alongside me for permitting this to happen.” 

“Quite the contrary,” Moncey said, to Leonard’s growing horror, “You’ll be a war hero for having brought essential help to the commander when it was most needed. Oh, and I am afraid it isn’t really a choice. The dragons will go and either you bring them their supply, or they will pillage it from the countryside and you will have abandoned your duty.” 

“You bast- Oh, what am I even doing? It doesn’t matter what I do, I’ll be hanged anyway.” The Winchester, taking the last part as an acceptance of the circumstances and an agreement to care for the supply, flew deeper into the grounds, presumably to rally the dragons for this “Militia”.

[fairytalesandfandoms]

a long but still incomplete list of notable blorbos for @adamnagaitis, in approximate order of when I encountered them, and focusing on the male blorbos because, well, it's easier to spot patterns with them, not that we want to do that of course

Arthurian legend - Merlin

The Secret Garden - Archibald Craven (especially John Lynch in the movie)

Kidnapped - Alan Breck Stewart

(there was a certain professor character from [redacted series] which I only mention for completeness)

A Series of Unfortunate Events - Uncle Monty/Dr Montgomery Montgomery, and also later Lemony Snicket as an in-universe character (The Beatrice Letters will do that to you)

The Edge Chronicles - Cloud Wolf

The Hobbit - Thorin Oakenshield (and also Thranduil in the movies)

Treasure Planet - Dr Doppler

The Mask of Zorro - Diego de la Vega

The Spiderwick Chronicles (books) - Arthur Spiderwick

The Phantom of the Opera (musical) - Erik

Doctor Who - The Doctor

Independence Day - David Levinson

Stravaganza series - Rodolfo

Star Trek - Spock

Sally Lockhart series - Fred Garland

Discworld - Sam Vimes and Havelock Vetinari

BBC Robin Hood - Guy of Gisborne

X-Men - Wolverine

North and South - John Thornton

Indiana Jones - Henry Jones Sr. (Indy's dad)

Good Omens - Aziraphale

Chrestomanci series - Christopher Chant

The Looking Glass Wars by Frank Beddor - Hatter Madigan (especially in Seeing Redd)

Sense and Sensibility - Colonel Brandon

Foyle's War - DCS Christopher Foyle

Yes, Minister/Yes, Prime Minister - Sir Humphrey Appleby

National Treasure - Ben Gates

Back to the Future - Dr Emmett Brown

Moll Flanders (1996) - the Artist

Fire & Hemlock - Thomas Lynn

Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes - Gene Hunt (who is something of an outlier compared to many others on this list)

Rebecca - Maxim de Winter

Vanity Fair (1998) - William Dobbin

Cyrano de Bergerac (1990) - Cyrano de Bergerac

Around the World in 80 Days (2004 and 2022 versions) - Phileas Fogg

The Return of the Native - Clym Yeobright (Diggory Venn a close second)

Sherlock Holmes (and variations) - Sherlock Holmes

Kick-Ass - Damon Macready/Big Daddy (that is his vigilante name, don't blame me for it)

The Three Musketeers - Athos BUT The Man in the Iron Mask (1998) - D'Artagnan BUT The Musketeers TV show - Cardinal Richelieu (because Peter Capaldi)

Persuasion - Frederick Wentworth

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - Jim Prideaux

MCU - Tony Stark

Les Miserables - Jean Valjean

Howards End - Leonard Bast

The Historian - Bartholomew Rossi

Kingsman - Merlin

The Shadow of the Wind - Fermín Romero de Torres

The Grand Budapest Hotel - M. Gustave

Pacific Rim - Stacker Pentecost

Jurassic Park - Ian Malcolm

Earth Girls Are Easy - Mac

The 10th Kingdom - Wolf

Little Women - Friedrich Bhaer

Withnail and I - Withnail

The Terror - Harry Goodsir

Our Flag Means Death - Stede Bonnet

Master and Commander - Stephen Maturin

Ghosts (BBC) - the Captain

All Creatures Great and Small - Siegfried Farnon

Excalibur (1981) - King Arthur

Wicked - Jeff Goldblum Wizard ONLY. I detested him in the book and he is only redeemed by being played by Jeff Goldblum.

The Fly - Seth Brundle (in the first half at least)

Tenspeed and Brown Shoe - Lionel Whitney

[keeponquinning]

spark of color amongst the grey — multi-chaptered masterlist

Leonard Bast x Nanny / Teacher Apprentice fem!Reader. 18+

Summary — You hope to be an educator, having always been a wonder to children, and wanting a better life for yourself and your family. Though your mother would wish you would show such passion in finding a husband, she is proud of you, nonetheless, at least earning yourself an apprenticeship. A much easier go at life than she had, doing odd jobs to support the family, to support you, one of the recent ones is taking care of little Robert Bast, son of Leonard Bast, who gained full custody of his son, an amicable arrangement with the boy's mother who provides financial support for the care of the boy and the occasional visit. The circumstances of the arrangement, of the child is an open secret and gossip, though according to your mother, he is a good man. Everything is well, until your mother grows ill and cannot fulfill her duties, forced into bed rest. But your family needs the financial help, and so, as the eldest of your family, you soon take over the job, taking care of little Bobby Bast and in that, get to know more of the boy's father as well.

Notes — Leonard Lives AU, and that baby boy is dark haired and brown eyed just like his daddy. Thank you to @quinnsmunson for helping to flesh this out, my own version of giving Lenny the happy ending he deserves, though he won't be getting it quite that easy. I'm excited for this! It's going to be multi-chaptered, and everything you'd expect from a period piece, longing, withering looks and gentle touch.

Warnings — slow burn, angst, fluff, things you would expect from a period piece, honestly. I did not research teaching apprenticeships much so use all your imagination folks.

Like this to be added to the tag list for future chapters!

M A S T E R L I S T ! Part One | Part Two

TAGLIST : @quinnsmunson , @etherealglimmer , @munsonology , @imaslutforcuddles , @mythicalea , @queengirl56 , @pollenallergie , @180presolutiondignity , @go-off-to-sleep-in-the-sunshine , @nightonblogmountain , @fxirybubble , @lunaapis , @bit-of-a-timelord , @electrolyteerien , @tussenmens , @angietherose , @missonlypost, @mythicalea , @originalstar1 , @quinnkeerys , @helloxoctober28, @winchester-angel , @bexreadstoomuch , @joesquinns , @slasherflickchick , @anaofthebarricade, @watercolourpainter , @harley1608 , @ladybug0095 , @joeqnz , @sosawmeinhalf , @chickensinrainboots , @boltonbritreads , @veuvemami , @daleyeahson , @aysheashea , @abigailelevier , @92keery , @rata-quinn , @manonluzon , @thirddeadlysin , @wakeupcocksuckers , @ladybug0095

[freckledjoes]

Leonard Bast gifs 3/?

[wheels-of-despair]

We Wheels You A Merry Christmas

Behold! A compilation of Christmas Fics by Wheels!

(Under the cut made of emojis, 'cause it's kind of a lot.)

🎄🎅🎄🤶🎄💍🎄🐧🎄🩰🎄🍪🎄☕🎄📕🎄

🎅Eddie Munson🤶

Wrapping Paper Eddie thinks he's here to hang out while you wrap presents, but you have something else in mind.

The Family Holiday It's December of 1985, and Evil Woman is ready to spend her first real Christmas with Eddie… why is he being weird about it?

I Promise Eddie gives Evil Woman something special during a quiet moment together on Christmas Morning '85.

It's a Wonderful Life (Even in Hawkins) What would the lives of Eddie Munson's loved ones look like if he didn't exist? (Inspired by It's a Wonderful Life. It gets a little dark.)

🐧Billy Knight🐧

Damn Those Penguins You impulsively buy matching pajamas and overreact at the thought of becoming One of Those People.

All I Want for Christmas Is You 'Twas only the night before Christmas, but you already have everything you want.

Christmas Treats Billy's doing a little Christmas baking, but not the kind you'd expect.

🎄Ralph Penbury🎄

The Other Dance A flashback to Ralph and the future Mrs. Penbury's first kiss at the Christmas Ball.

Christmas in July Mr. and Mrs. Penbury get another chance at a perfect kiss under the mistletoe at an unexpected time of the year.

Keeping Us Awake You and Ralph receive a pair of tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet as a Christmas gift, an event neither of you really wants to attend… how ever will you stay awake?

Home Alone Together Ralph made his family disappear! (A long one-shot set in Penbury Manor at Christmastime, inspired by Home Alone.)

🍪Michael🍪

Get the Fuck Out of My Kitchen Michael's being a pain in the ass while you attempt to make Christmas cookies. You decide to return the favor.

I Care Enough You give Michael the best Christmas present ever.

☕Tom Grant☕

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry It's been a year since the events of Enough, and you and Tom have an office Christmas party to attend.

📕Leonard Bast📗

What You Deserve Once upon a time, a boy walked into a bookshop... and the girl who worked there fell in love with him. A Christmas fix-it in four parts.

[indelibletraces]

Film Ask. Howards End

I have to apologize because I don’t have notifications turned on and I just discovered this ask today! So sorry, and thanks for the ask.

Note: Spoilers ahead

As to Howards End, I think it is excellent. Not one of the choices but I feel the film is better than great but not a masterpiece as a whole. While I do think it is a masterpiece in acting and style, personally, it’s not a film that I can watch over and over in its entirety because the characters actions frustrate me. Even though I know it will happen, I just can’t watch Margaret choose and continue to support Mr. Wilcox over and over. Especially in the face of all the evidence Helen keeps presenting to her about his character.

I do however love Helen and Mr. Bast’s story arc, with the exception of the ending of course, not least because I am a huge fan of both Helena Bonham Carter and Samuel West. A part of me would love to have Helen’s fiery spirit and her tenacity to stand by her convictions. And how can a person not relate to Mr. Bast as he toils away at his dull and thankless job, dreaming all the while not of a more prosperous life but a more intellectually fulfilled life. He doesn’t just dream but actually works toward it. All the while he sticks by Jackie simply because he gave his word.

The scene in the boat breaks my heart every time because you want these two characters to be together but you know they never can be. Both actors convey so many emotions with just their facial expressions.

Lastly, even though Leonard’s death is attributed to his weak heart, the image of him falling into the bookcase and him essentially being smothered by the weight of all this knowledge he desperately sought is poetically tragic and has always stuck with me.

Sorry for the long-winded answer.

[foundtherightwords]

Among the Shelves

Pairing: Leonard Bast x Helen Schlegel (Howards End)

Summary: In an attempt to understand a painting he recently saw at an exhibition, Leonard goes into a shop to look up a book of art. Little does he know that this harmless little errand is going to land him in hot water, but also throw him in the path of a charming young lady who doesn't mind a bit of embarrassment.

Warnings: descriptions of nude/erotic paintings

Word count: 4.1k

Read on AO3

It was a gray, rainy March afternoon when Leonard left the office of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company, walked down Regent Street, continued to Picadilly, turned right into Charing Cross Road, before turning left again into Cecil Court and ducking into a secondhand bookshop, one of many that lined the little lane. He shook the drops of rain from his hat, straightened up, and looked around. It wasn't his usual haunt. Books were one of the few luxuries Leonard permitted himself, and even then, only rarely, and his books were more often than not acquired from the various sellers that dotted the South Bank, or the stalls of Caledonian Road Market when he could get to it. But it was a specific book he was after today, and he decided to splurge a little.

The shopkeeper, a fellow as gray and cold-looking as the world outside, gave Leonard a suspicious glance as he entered, and Leonard felt a surge of indignation and bitterness. Four years since he finished his schooling and started working in London, and yet the stain of his Lincolnshire ancestors still clung to him like a miasma. It was the same everywhere he went. People looked at him in his top hat and frock coat—though to be fair, the hat and coat were not of great quality—and they didn't see a respectable young man; they only saw a country boy with nothing but mischief and thievery on his mind. 

For four years, perhaps longer than that, even before he came to London, Leonard had tried to wash that stain off, with Culture as his cleanser. Diligently he read all the books one should read, attended concerts and operas—when money permitted—and went to the National Gallery to look at all the paintings—when he had the time. Alas, Culture proved to be too soapy, for it slid off him without leaving much behind. He tried to copy the prose he'd read, but he had no one to write them to save for his two sisters and his brother, who would've found the style incomprehensible. As for the music and the paintings, he could only say if they were pleasing to his ears and eyes, but no more. To compensate for his lack of opinions, he read others', hoping to form his own, but what good was it to have his own opinions if there was no one to discuss them with? Once or twice, Leonard had tried to strike up conversations with fellow concertgoers, but they were either even less informed than he, or so much more knowledgeable that Leonard, afraid of exposing his ignorance, only mumbled something inane and turned away, ashamed.

That was his reason for coming to this bookshop. He had been to an exhibition at the Dudley Gallery in Dering Yard. The exhibition was of the New English Art Club, and Leonard had gone in the hope that, since classical art had eluded him, perhaps contemporary art would stir in him the clever thoughts and feelings he'd been after. But the exhibition, for the most part, was a disappointment. The New English Artists seemed to specialize in particularly unbeautiful art. For all his ignorance, Leonard knew that art didn't always have to be beautiful, but shouldn't it inspire and lift one's spirit? Looking at those muddy pictures depicting muddy scenes and people, he had felt nothing but exhaustion. His life was dreary enough without having to encounter such dreariness in art as well.

And yet there was a painting that had captured him. It depicted two people—a nude woman, lying on a small bed with her face turned to the wall, and a man, in his shirtsleeves, sitting at the foot of the bed with his hands together and his head bowed. There was nothing remarkable about these figures. The fact that the woman was nude didn't even shock Leonard—he'd seen his fair share of nudes at the National Gallery, though they tended to be tastefully and demurely draped in voluminous sheets, not this gloomy imperfection, altogether too realistic. Perhaps that was why the painting had disturbed him so. The cramped, dark bedroom could have been his own. Another ten years and he could have been the man sitting dejectedly on the bed. And the woman...

A week ago, Leonard had let his fellow clerks persuade him to accompany them to a public house in Camden Town. He had felt rather ill at ease, as he always did around his fellow clerks, for they either reminded him too much of himself, their worries too similar to his own, or they were so different from him that they might as well be creatures from another world altogether. He had sat a little apart from them, and thus had drawn the attention of a young lady called Jacky—though upon further reflection, he concluded she wasn't young, and she couldn't be called a lady either. But she had seemed so worldly—she'd mentioned having lived in Cyprus—and she had been the first woman to pay such attention to him, even if there was something anxious and hungry in her attention. It had, for a few hours, washed the stain of Lincolnshire off him, or at least made him forget about that stain. So he had spent the evening buying her drinks and even agreed, albeit in a tentative, noncommittal manner, to see her again next Saturday.

Standing in front of that painting in the Dudley Gallery, looking at the woman with her disheveled hair and all the folds of her flesh and skin, and the man with his droopy mustache and his paunch, Leonard had felt as though he was looking at his own future with Jacky. Even as he had blushed to think of Jacky in the nude, the sense of utter melancholy rising from the picture, so palpable he could almost taste it in the back of his throat—it tasted of gas fumes and the soup squares he always had for dinner—had overwhelmed and frightened him. He had spent the rest of his visit staring at the little sign next to the painting, which displayed its artist—someone named Walter Sickert—and title—What Shall We Do for the Rent?—so heartrending in its simple truth and hopelessness, and wondered what had possessed Sickert to paint such a scene.

While doing so, Leonard had heard two men behind him discuss the painting in that easy way he'd dreamed of being able to do someday.

"Quite reminiscent of Tassaert, don't you think?" one of them had said.

"Indeed," the other had replied. "Though Tassaert was influenced by the classical, there is still something beatific about his figures even in their suffering. No, this is much more raw..."

Raw, that was it. That was the word Leonard had been searching for, the word to describe how those two figures had made him feel. Raw and aching, like a skinned knee that refused to scab over, because the things that scraped it, squalor and hunger and loneliness, were always there, rubbing against it, making it bleed anew. The two men had moved on to other paintings, and Leonard hadn't dared trail after them to listen to what else they had to say. But the name, Tassaert, had stuck in his mind. Sickert, being a new artist, had no books written about him yet, but Tassaert might have, and so Leonard had gone in search of the elusive painter, hoping to find out more about him and what he had to say about lives like Leonard's own.

Presently he went up to the shopkeeper with all the dignity that his underfed twenty-year-old self could muster up, and asked, "Do you have any book on Tassaert?" He took care to pronounce the name just as he'd heard the men at Dudley Gallery pronounce it.

Frowning, the shopkeeper lifted from under the counter a gigantic ledger that took up most of his table and started turning the pages. "Tassaert, you say?" he said. "How do you spell it?"

Leonard hesitated. He had never seen the name in writing—he didn't even know Tassaert's first name, which country he had come from, or what his style of painting was. Would this man think him a fraud? Was he about to humiliate himself?

"He was a painter," he said slowly, to buy himself time. "It's T-A-S-" That should be safe enough. Leonard paused, pretending he was watching the shopkeeper's ink-stained finger move down the "T" page of the ledger.

To his immense relief, the shopkeeper said, "Octave Tassaert?"

"Yes," said Leonard, hoping, praying it was the correct one. There couldn't have been that many painters named Tassaerts.

"Notes on His Life and a Catalogue of His Work, by Prost, Bernard," said the shopkeeper, nodding toward a shelf in the back. "Over there. It's in French," he added helpfully.

Leonard's steps faltered. His schoolboy French was not enough for him to read an entire book in French, he knew, but he was already halfway to the shelf, and it would be humiliating to turn back now and admit that the book he'd asked for so confidently was no good to him. Doggedly he pressed on, and found himself between two towering, dusty shelves, piled haphazardly with books of all languages and subjects. It was a wonder the shopkeeper even knew where anything was.

He could find the author's name at least. The book turned out to be a thick, well-thumbed volume with a cracked spine, probably older than Leonard himself. Leonard glanced at the closely printed pages with a sinking heart, feeling Culture slip away from him yet again.

As he turned the pages, he felt a little more cheered upon discovering that Monsieur Tassaert's life apparently took up only one-third of the book, and the rest of it was devoted to reproductions of his paintings, sketches, and prints. Well, if he couldn't know the man's life, then at least he could look at his art and perhaps understand Tassaert and Sickert a little more, and those two lugubrious figures would stop haunting him.

He flipped through a few of the prints. There were the usual religious and allegorical pictures of Christ on the Cross and so on, nothing of the raw and real melancholy he'd encountered in Sickert's painting. Then he turned to the end of the book, and his mouth dropped in astonishment, his pursuit of culture and beauty completely forgotten.

It was a lithograph print. Like Sickert's painting, it was of a man and a woman in a bedroom, but the scene could not be more different. The man's trousers were around his ankles, and the woman's gown was pushed up and pulled down in strategic places, exposing her breasts and thighs, thighs that were locked around the man's waist, while she was lying back on the pillow in apparent ecstasy. The man, however, was not in ecstasy. He was looking down and over his shoulder in horror at a little cat, whose claws were extended and plunged into his fleshy buttock. The caption underneath this extraordinary picture said, Chat jaloux. The jealous cat. Even Leonard, with his tenuous grasp on the French language, could understand that.

What sort of artist was Tassaert that he would have this printed next to a sketch of angels and cherubs? Leonard turned another page to make sure "The Jealous Cat" was just a bawdy exception to Tassaert's usual style, but no, there were more of the same, each one more explicit than the previous. Leonard shut the book in horror. Why should those men at Dudley Gallery compare this to Sickert's tragic scene? And what would the shopkeeper think of Leonard for seeking out such pictures?

At this last thought, the blood that had been rushing to Leonard's face, turning his pale cheeks crimson, became a scorching fire under his skin. He looked around to make sure no one had seen him. The shop appeared deserted of customers, and the shopkeeper was nowhere to be found, no doubt having retreated to some backroom. It would be best to make his escape now, before the shopkeeper came back and asked how he'd liked the book, or worse, insisted that he bought it.

Fumbling, he tried to wedge the book back into its place on the shelf. But his treacherous hand, clumsy with embarrassment, lost its grip on the old leather cover, and the book fell to the floor with a resounding crash that Leonard was certain could be heard from around the block. It dropped open on a double-page spread, and, horror of horrors! The sketch was of a classical style, but the subject was no Madonna and Child. A nude woman was floating in mid-air, surrounded by three nubile youths, one at her lips, one at her breast, and one between her legs. La Femme damnée, said the caption. The damned woman. The woman looked far too euphoric for one being damned, but Leonard had no heart to quibble about the artist's title of choice. The picture was making him feel like a damned man himself, for at that very moment, as if summoned by some perverse magic, the shopkeeper and all the previously unseen customers emerged from various nooks and corners of the shop, their eyes immediately focusing on Leonard, on his knees, next to the shameful book with its shameful picture spread wide. He scrambled to close it, to hide away the evidence, only for the book to slip again, displaying "The Damned Woman" even more clearly for all of them to see. Leonard didn't have to look up to know their eyes were fixed on him—their stares were scraping his skin like the claws of that jealous cat, and soon enough, he was sure, they would leave him raw and bleeding on the inside...

That was when he heard a clear, cheerful voice behind him, saying, "There you are, darling! I've been looking for you everywhere."

***

Helen hadn't noticed the young man when she first came into the shop. She had only wished to seek refuge from the rain, but the shop turned out to have an unexpectedly fine selection of German books, and her nose was buried in a volume of Schiller when the young man walked past her. Even when he dropped the book on the floor, she had only looked up with a cursory glance, out of reflex rather than interest.

What she had noticed was the back of his neck.

His neck was bent over the dropped book, and the back of it was as rigid as marble, as though he was holding himself as tightly as he could. Yet it looked strangely helpless too, helpless and childlike, with a lock of dark blonde hair curling on it like a question mark and the blush creeping up from his shirt collar—frayed, her elder sister Margaret would've noticed, though the state of the young man's dress escaped Helen entirely—shading the white marble with a hint of rose, reaching to the very tips of his ears.

She took a look, more than cursory now, at the book in front of him, and finally understood. Now, if Margaret had been there, she would have averted her eyes and pretended she'd seen nothing, to avoid further embarrassing the young man. Their younger brother, Tibby, wouldn't have noticed the young man or his mortification at all, and if he had, it would only have been to make some sardonic remark about the poor devil afterward. But this was Helen, and Helen was not her siblings. That stiff, flushed neck had gone straight to her heart, so she put Herr Schiller away, stepped closer to the young man, and said brightly, "There you are, darling! I've been looking for you everywhere."

The young man looked up with eyes wide and round like a startled animal, and Helen's heart, already softened, melted even further. His eyes bore the same strange mix of pride and vulnerability, as though he was both defying the judgment of the other patrons and trying to disappear from their view at the same time. There was confusion in those eyes as well, and Helen hastened to bring the young man into the play, a play she had only devised a moment ago and in which he didn't know he was participating. Leaning down, she scooped up the book in one swift movement.

"And you've found the book!" she said. "Exactly the one I want! That's wonderful, darling. Now let's go home, Meg and Tibby and Aunt Juley are waiting for us for tea."

Grabbing the young man's arm, she pulled him to his feet and marched him and the book to the counter. The other patrons returned to their browsing, their interest evaporating now that the drama had fizzled out. Mutely, as if still in shock, the young man paid for the book. The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes at them, but he wrapped the book without questioning. Helen took it and walked out of the shop with the book under one arm and her other arm linked with the young man's. She remembered to pick up her umbrella as well, though the rain had dwindled to a light mist and there was no need for it.

As soon as they cleared the front door, the young man made to extract his arm from her.

"Madam, I—" he began, but Helen only drew him closer.

"Wait, they may still be watching," she said out of the corner of her mouth. She was enjoying herself immensely. "Let us walk together a little." And, still holding on to his arm, she walked briskly out of Cecil Court, steering him toward the river.

For his part, Leonard felt like he had been taken up by a whirlwind of flying hair, waving umbrellas, bobbing hats, a cheerful voice, and gentle but surprisingly strong grip on the arm. He had no memory of paying for the book or leaving the shop. By the time he came to, he found himself walking down the Victoria Embankment in the arm of a girl—no, a young lady. Her hat was tilted rakishly—rather than coquettishly, like Jacky's had been—on a dark head, and her eyes sparkled at him with interest. Interest! And in him, who had just humiliated himself so foolishly! Leonard felt the old bitterness coming back and halted abruptly, withdrawing his arm from the lady.

"Madam, I'm very grateful for your tact and your quick thinking back there," he said uneasily, clumsily. "I believe we are quite safe now. I'm sorry to have put you to the trouble."

"It's no trouble at all." Smiling, the young lady handed him the book (two shillings! If he had been himself, he would have certainly worried about paying that much for a book he didn't particularly want). "And I'm sorry for making you buy the book. I hope it is what you were looking for."

Leonard bridled with self-defense. "I can assure you, I wasn't—" he began.

"Though if you're looking for that type of book, I believe they are more readily available on Booksellers' Row, in Holywell," the young lady said, her smile turning mischievous. Leonard looked back at her blankly. "I haven't been there myself," the girl added, a pretty blush tinting her cheeks. "But one hears about these things, you know."

No, Leonard didn't know. Perhaps she was no lady after all. Would a real lady talk about that type of book—and Leonard believed he knew what type of book she was alluding to—so readily with a stranger? And even know where they were sold?

"This is an art book," he said sternly.

"Of course! Are you an art student?"

"No," Leonard admitted. Then he said, perhaps with a touch of pretension, "But I suppose I am a student of art." And because he couldn't bear to have a lady think he was some sort of debauched degenerate, he asked, "Do you know the New English Art Club? They recently had an exhibit in Dering Yard."

Yes, she had heard of the New English Art Club. No, she hadn't been to their exhibit. There was a hint of distaste as she said this, as though she found the New English artists too tawdry for her taste, but Leonard, happy to have found someone less informed than he was for once, launched into an explanation of Sickert's painting and what had driven him to seek out Tassaert. Soon he had forgotten his early suspicion and irritation and fallen into his habit of talking intimately and openly with strangers—precisely because they were strangers. Far too often, he'd seen the stranger in whom he'd been confiding grow wary or weary of him, and he could see them trying to come up with some excuse to leave the conversation, but perversely he pressed on, secure in the knowledge that they were unlikely to ever see him again. But the girl's eyes only grew brighter and more interested, and Leonard stumbled over his words.

"I had no idea who Tassaert was—is he similar to Sickert because they both paint nudes?" he said. "I suppose there is something grubby in Tassaert's pictures too, but it's not the same sort of grubbiness as Sickert's—I mean, for goodness' sake, the man painted a cat clawing a man's behind—" Here he stopped short, remembering he was talking to a lady, albeit a lady who knew about dirty books.

The girl's eyes widened. "Did he?" she said. "May I?"

Before Leonard could protest, she had snatched the book from his hand, unwrapped it, and flipped through the pages until she found "The Jealous Cat". She stared at it for a moment while Leonard waited, miserable. If she was not going to think he was a degenerate, then she was going to think he was an ignoramus with no understanding of painting and art at all.

Then she began to laugh, a lively, unrestrained, mirthful laugh that sent butterflies flitting through Leonard's stomach, the stomach that had only known hunger and worry. No woman had ever laughed so in his presence, not even Jacky.  The sun chose that moment to come out from behind the clouds. It was a pale, watery sun of a spring afternoon, but its warmth felt wonderful after the cold rain. The absurdity of the situation struck him, and suddenly he laughed as well. None of it mattered—Sickert, Tassaert, the jealous cat, the damned woman, those two haunting figures on the bed, Jacky, the endless hours at the Porphyrion, his cramped little flat on Camellia Road—none. Here, now, he was laughing with a not-unattractive girl on the Victoria Embankment, with the sun on his face and the breeze from the river stirring his curls and blowing the girl's ringlets about her face, and it was all the beauty he ever wanted from life.

***

Helen was struck by the change coming over the young man when he laughed. He was no longer a colorless, toneless boy, rigid with mortification and put-on dignity. Laughter had turned him sweet-natured and handsome—yes, handsome, with his dark eyes sparkling, his curls dancing in the spring breeze, and a dimple flashing in and out of his cheek. The tips of his ears were still a little red, but they only added to his charm and sweetness.

They introduced themselves—it seemed the right thing to do, after having shared a laugh over a picture of a cat clawing a man's bare buttocks. They walked together as far as Westminster Bridge, talking of arts—Helen insisting that music and pictures were just the same, and Leonard, with his newfound confidence, arguing eagerly that they could not be. Before they said goodbye, Helen mentioned that there was going to be a concert at Prince Regent's Hall this Saturday and that she and her siblings were attending.

"Perhaps I'll see you there," she said, "and we can settle this debate?"

Leonard's fears and worries came back—would he have enough money by Saturday? Did he know enough about music to enter a debate with this strange, pretty girl? He thought of Jacky as well, with a twinge of guilt. Then he remembered how he'd felt just then, on the Embankment. That, that was the ease he didn't realize he wanted, to laugh and joke, to pursue art and beauty not for some lofty purposes but simply to bring some color into his gray life. His future would not be those two figures on the bed in that sad, empty room.

"Yes," he told Helen. "I'll see you there."

THE END

A/N: This is inspired by this post (big thanks to @bebethsas for encouraging me to write it!) My other Leonard/Helen fic is pretty angsty, so it feels nice to write something a bit silly/happy for them. I had a difficult time finding an artist whose work would embarrass Leonard, but when I stumbled upon Octave Tassaert, especially his erotic paintings, everything just fell into place.

Here's the Walter Sickert painting mentioned in the story.  The book about Tassaert is real, though it doesn't contain prints of his erotic works (you can see some of them here, including "The Jealous Cat" and "The Damned Woman".) The reason I link Sickert to Tassaert is because Tassaert was known for his paintings of the unfortunate and the downtrodden, though I didn't describe those here.

[piastrinorris]

I figured you'd be swimming in asks about this but FINE I'LL DO IT MYSELF YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING-DORKS: might I please have a crumb of information about your Leonard fic? 🥺🖤

heheheh u can have SO MANY crumbs, as a treat <3

i call it the fix-it fic bc in it, leonard NEVER MEETS those goddamn sisters who start his downward spiral leading to his eventual death. leonard instead meets you, the reader, at the concert that happens in episode 1, he notices that you're about to walk home in the rain without so much as an umbrella and what sort of man would he be if he let that happen? so he walks you home and you get to talking about the concert and then about books n stuff and you're v apologetic for taking up leonard's time but he thanks you for being the most interesting person he's spoken to in weeks. he tells jacky he's late bc he made a friend at the concert who he walked home (no infidelity here, our len is a GOOD and HONEST MAN) and jacky's like "omg now you have someone to go with you to all those things you enjoy"

you're a teaching apprentice, tutoring an especially difficult child to educate to prove yourself as a class teacher someday. you live in the basement of [insert distant relative, i haven't decided yet] and tutor from there. you and len grow closer, both pining after each other but knowing that len gave up so much to be with jacky that he isn't gonna just toss that aside, even if it would make him happier.

at one point [something i haven't decided yet] happens that means len and jacky can't stay in their house. you ask your relative if you can offer them their spare room. upon meeting jacky you and your relative realise how unwell she is, so your relative gets a doctor out to see her, and the doctor also picks up on len's illnesses, and you spend your free time nursing them both. spending a few days with both basts p much 24hrs/day, it becomes increasingly obvious to jacky that len isn't actually happy with her.

and that's p much the whole entire story from start to end lol but there's other bits i'm excited to write about to expand on all their characters a lil bit more :)

[ryan-waddell11]

thank you so much for the tag @munsonsbaby ily and this really hurt my brain (I just love them all) 🖤

pick 2 Joe characters that you’d have a threesome with (and you can’t say Joe)!

1) Eddie (DUH, that’s my baby)

2) Enjolras

(but tbh Tom Grant, Leonard Bast, and Jamie are honorable mentions 🫢)

no pressure tags: @mcbeanzontoast @moonchildquinn @munsons-mayhem28 @muuuuuuuunsons @edsforehead @heydreamchild @whoahoney 🩵

WAIT OKAY SO IT JUST CAME TO ME ON FT WITH @lovejosephquinn

2 Joe characters that you’d have a threesome with (and you can’t say Joe) 🫣🫣

For me it’s gotta be:

1. Eddie

2. Enjolras

And I’ll be having an absolute blast

Imma tag:

@quinnypixie @thepastdied @seatnights @joehhy @joejoequinnquinn @lovejosephquinn @choke-me-eddie @bimbobaggins69 @icallhimjoey

(You don’t have to but wouldn’t it be AMAZING to dream about 🥲)

[parkermunson]

lads, i NEED joe headcannons dropped in my asks for his bday <3 i am on my knees begging

smutty or not, i'll take em all

any character or rp