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himbocoups · 1 year ago

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˗ˋˏ Epistolary Yearning ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: a series of letters, speckled with notes of budding romance and longing, exchanged between a newly married couple separated by seas and the ongoing war the emperor sent his commander to end.

pairing: duke!lsm x reader (gn afab)

genre: epistolary form, historical fantasy, romance | smut

tags: arranged marriage, mentions of a war, dk and yn accidentally invent the concept of planes, two people very much falling in love | degrading, fingering, guided play, honey play, marking, mirror play, pet names, praise, pussy slapping, riding, spitting, squirting…

wc: 5.13k

message from nu: fueled by my love for historical, fantasy, and isekai manhuas. big thank you to my beta readers (@heartkyeom, @aceofvernons, and @multi-kpop-fanfics) for reading when I was playing with the format of this fic + @junkissed with helping out with the syntax for this one very confusing line I wrote. also summoning @onlyseokmins bc I told her I'd tag her once duke!dk was finished <3

himbocoups's masterlist

Letter One - YN

My Lord,

How are you? I hope your trip is going as smoothly as planned.

It has been a while since I last heard from you. As Summer comes to a fading end, Autumn threatens to wash the foliage to hues of brown and auburn. And I sit at the library nook beside the window, taking quill to parchment against the cover of a heavily bound book and scratching against blank pages before I can muster the courage to write to you. I do sincerely apologize if this attempt seems strange.

Though I pity our brief time together, the only things I familiarized myself with are your scintillant eyes. Maybe instead of feeling as dull as the color of nature, I’ll think about how the color is reminiscent of your eyes. Eyes, these beautiful jewels seem to reflect the light through your smile. I can’t help but imagine myself as the last person to see them every night as I lay beside you as we drift off into slumber. Would it be too forward of me to say that the thought of growing fond of you, not just your eyes, is slowly appealing more and more to me?

However, I do have hesitations as I am left alone to roam these lonely halls in a place so unfamiliar to me. It would be a pity shall I reach familiarity with my surroundings before I become familiar with you. Or even worse, to have you forget your familiarity with me.

Please be safe for me. Hurry home soon.

Letter Two - DK

My Jewel,

For someone who longs for familiarity, you need not create even more distance between us through formalities. And my love, you need not refer to me as your Lord. Love is all I ask for, as love is what you will always be to me. Albeit, I do find it disheartening to read that you think of me so lowly. I could never forget someone as precious as you, even if you do not believe in your preciousness.

Nevertheless, I, too, pity the brevity of our time together. Marriage agreed upon through an exchanging of letters by our guardians, now our marriage follows suit in the epistolary form. Yet no descriptive access through penmanship could ever grant the feeling that blossomed inside me and continues to bloom since I first laid my eyes upon you. And on the eve of the third week of our matrimony, I was whisked away to end the war. I do sincerely apologize for my absence.

On this rocking ship, all I can do is stare into the swirling sea in search of a passing merchant ship with letters to deliver. The birds that soar above me seem to provoke me with their independence, cawing in hearty guffaw at the fact that this poor man can never take flight at any moment back into his lover’s arms - where he feels most at home.

Maybe we should take giant birds instead of ships, soaring in the skies and reaching our destination in an instant. How wondrous that would be.

But I am an equally lonesome Commander among his squadron, a man who keeps the first letter from his lover in the pocket against his breast and his wedding band around his neck. Just thinking about how you were thinking about me while writing that letter, still thinking about me, conciliates any disarray in my mind. And I promise you that I will make you feel loved for the rest of your life, even if our love is only budding.

I will lead my men well. Then I will lead myself home. To you.

Letter Three - YN

My Dokyeom (If it is fine to refer to you in this way),

I do have to admit to my shyness, how my face flushed with heat when you referred to me as your beloved. Your “love”…my goodness, our servants nearly called the doctor over when they saw my state of awe. Although, I do apologize if the language in my initial letter seemed blunt or made you feel even a hint of sadness that I accidentally made you for a man with a cold demeanor.

You wrote: “Maybe we should take giant birds instead of ships, soaring in the skies and reaching our destination in an instant” in our last exchange. What a preposterous idea! But what a new discovery to find that you are as funny as you are charming. Shall we commission a local alchemist to create potions that magnify tiny sparrows to large ships? Or shall I ditch my archery lessons in exchange for nights in your magnificent library, scouring the archives with the hope to find a recipe to an enlarging potion hidden in a romance novel?

Oh, how I wish everything could be as easy as depicted in romance novels or that one Opera we went to watch. Days consume me on end. Not in the way in which I consume much of my leisure time by staying in the places we frequented in our time together, but in the way in which time passes by so slowly it feels like the concept of time is consuming me instead. I wish it were you who were consuming me even though I do feel it through your love. Because I, too, keep your letter near me. And I trace over the areas your quill indented the parchment, so much that I sometimes end up smudging the dried ink with my hand.

I do miss you...even more when everything around me reminds me of you. Because you, who makes silly promises about a budding romance, will also be the receiver of my elementary promise about my slowly collecting love for you.

P.S. They are close to finishing our portraits. I have yet to decide where they are to be hung.

Letter Four - DK

My Love,

My Seokmin. Seok. Min. Mine. Beloved. Love. Dearest. Husband. Equal. Anything but Duke, Lord, Commander, or Dokyeom is welcome. How I wish for the day I get to hear my name leave your lips through a soft murmur, laughter, greeting, whisper, and mayhaps even a whine.

Honeymoon was cut short by my trip across the sea. We are finally on land. In front of me is a crackling campfire whose glow conceals the redness of my cheeks, dappled with jubilance from reading your last letter.

My dearest shy and humble lover whose metaphoric propositions of love are anything but reticent, I have annotated my favorite portions and circled words that I replay in my mind as a source of comfort. However, like what you did with your quotation of my imaginary bird ship, I must reference a few nuances in your letter that I find interesting. Particularly, I find that you must be careful in formatting your syntax, my beloved — for your way of language is enough to drive a sane man mad. Just think of me: a sane man before I had you and now a man slowly falling madly in love with you.

Referring back to how time achingly consumes you, your “I wish it were you who were consuming me. Although I do feel it through your love” causes me to quiver in a way that is only shared between two lovers. I am a man whose honeymoon was interrupted by the king’s call, a man who is weeks without his lover, a man who has needs - desires. And your need for me to consume you? I can only pluck it out of context.

If everything around you reminds you of me, then I must tell you that I hope your reminder does not make you suffer as how I suffer. My love, do you know how painful it was to lay in my bed while the ship continually rocked back and forth? It was reminiscent of our second week together when you decided to mount me in bed, your beautiful opalescent undergarment covering an action so lewd that it could never be named in public. Yet I was a man on a ship with his aching cock in his hand, imagining his newly beloved on top of him who squeezes him tightly as they ride his lap.

No hand could ever replace the fervor of having you rock me, leaning forward to kiss me down my naked chest while sucking and licking the thin area of skin right above my collarbone. How warmly your walls enveloped my own, squeezing and contrasting with every glide you make. I couldn’t help but twitch in you, trying to hold in my selfishness by grabbing onto your thighs - kneading and feeling the skin fill the areas between my fingers. But you bounced on my lap like a bunny in heat, causing my hands to trail further upwards until they lay on your ass…I wanted to worship you by turning myself into a throne, a marble stand so others could be in awe of you for centuries to come.

Mouth unable to talk, your kitten drooled onto my lap and coated the surface with liquid lust while you whimpered as I praised you for treating me so well. I scooped the syrup from the maple tap and brought it to my mouth to suck; even now I can still feel your sweet syrup rest on my tongue and swirl in my mouth. Yet there I was on that boat, losing my mind with my hand on my tap. Bed sheets soaked with my sweat, I could only imagine that it was your sweat-glistened skin that stuck against mine. It was but a shame, and still is but a shame, that the image of you collapsed against my chest with exhaustion when your thighs trembled with such a quake only exists as a memory. How long would it take for me to turn the memory of me looping my arms around your back and pushing your upper body against mine, feeling you build and crash through a scream, into our reality?

The land is no better than the sea. Truly, it must be treason to think such impure thoughts while riding on my finest stallion to head to our base. I am a Commander, a Duke for God’s sake. But the bouncing, the clopping - oh, beloved, my skin pricked with heat so much that I thought bandits were ambushing us. The pain I felt while I waited for my swelling to go down - I am utterly embarrassed to admit I almost released while riding in front of my men.

How I wish I could come running back home to you. Shall I single-handedly overturn the monarchy so we can be equal partners to the throne? So that we can be rulers who need not leave our estate? Just give me the word, and the empire will be yours. Then I would never need to leave your side. That I guarantee.

P.S. Hang the portrait wherever you please. Perhaps the ballroom so I would always be with you during the night of the balls.

Letter Five - YN

My King,

How mad of you to write such vulgarities, to suggest usurping the throne only if it means being able to stay with me. You are a Commander. You are a Duke. You are one of the King’s men. Do you not fear the inevitable consequences that you would face should your letter be opened by anybody other than myself? Do you not fear what would happen to you if your lust-driven joke was wrongly taken for treason? I must say that despite everything, I found myself dipping a finger into your words and listening to my juices sing your letter like lyrics.

Your words comforted my ache at my core, skillfully fighting fire with fire to extinguish my burning forest. However, if you were to turn into a mere object – a chair, a throne, a stand – I would never be satisfied in your worship. ‘Tis true that I would like to be worshiped by you like the first time your palm cupped my face in private confinement under the shade of the gazebo in the garden. With nobody around us, your face softened to reveal the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. Earnest eyes flittered to and fro as you studied me in awe and whispered words of praise. Up until then, I never even knew you could worship a person such as me. Yet, you, a mere stranger I met a few hours ago, placed a kiss upon my lips as soft as the petals on the flowers that surrounded us.

If worshipping me means an inanimate you, I don’t think there would be anybody who could worship me with such sincerity and reason as you do…and I quite like the animate you even if the animate you screamed at the bug upon your sleeve. I couldn’t stop laughing then. And when you looked back at me with those bashful eyes, I knew this would be a marriage filled with laughter.

Laughter, as I have recently learned, doesn’t only exist jovially. No. Reading your comment about my syntax, I almost erupted in a peal of sinister laughter. My poor lover with his cock in his hand and his quill in his other and his attempt to warn someone with such an extensive educational background about their syntax…you are too pure for this world. Should it make you feel better in any way, I have also thought about you in ways such a person in my stature should never.

The other day when I was particularly distracted by the particular “unease” that had been building inside me, I accidentally launched a practice arrow into the wind. Chasing it, I happened upon our agriculture stables where the young workers sit and milk our cows. I swear, I must have been in such a delusional state to feel such a rush just from watching the motion of our cows getting milked that I ran off to the kitchens without picking up my stray arrow.

Can you believe it, my dear? Have you been thinking of me differently since I admitted to almost leaking when I saw the cows getting milked? Would you think of me even differently if I told you I thought of you while talking to our ice sculptors? If you can quench my thirst on my loneliest days, I can only imagine what taking you in paired with ice would feel like for both you and me.

Mayhaps, we should convene in the kitchen at night after the bell strikes twelve when all of our kitchen staff have retired. I want to kiss you with cherry-stained lips, watching tint transfer onto yours as I play with the seed of the fruit in my mouth while I wait for our cups of tea to steep. Kissing, I hope, would act as an analgesic for your painfully sleepless nights. Still, I find it abstruse that a kind, gentle, and good man like you would live such a cathartic life as a commander. Enerverated in every way as I am, I can only offer a somnolent kiss in hopes of luring you to sleep before your tea can fully steep.

“What is a man without his honey,” you would say. Then I would ask you to specify what type of honey you are referring to.

You would reply with this cheekiness in your voice while your lips pull into a wide smile, “the syrup.” If I’m not wrong, you would peck the top of my head while you reach over me to grab the jar that the cook keeps at the counter for you to easily access. Because the man with a honeyed siren voice that often procures lullabies for me to fall asleep also has a taste for the pollinators’ syrup.

As you can tell…we are not simple people. We are not a regular couple. We have exchanged letters for longer than we have physically been together. So when I tell you to close your eyes to try to find your honey, would you? If I blindfolded you with a kitchen towel and told you to search for the dab of honey I swatched on my body, could you do it? Would you go to the lengths just to search for the honey to your tea?

Would you use your nose and sniff along my skin, searching for the floral and fruity aroma? Gently picking up my arm and bringing it to your nose, would you gently guide your nose along the surface of my skin in a position so intimate that you feel my arm hairs tickle the tip of your nose? Would you guide your nose upwards along my arm until you arrive at my collarbone, sniffing and docilely licking areas you think to be as sweet as honey?

Imploring you in your reconnoiter, I must keep quiet as I watch you blindly explore every groove of the topography of my body. I imagine myself tilting my head towards the side to allow you access to the side of my neck, sharply breathing in as you nose the area in which I am the most sensitive. I see you hesitate for a second before planting your supple lips against the skin as if to sample before making a decision. To your surprise, what coats your lips in a sticky and sweet amber gloss is the honey I placed on my neck slowly trailing towards my collarbone. And I watch you intently as you lick it off your lips, leaving a translucent liquid sheen.

Affected by a magnetic lure, you would somehow find yourself in front of me, your head positioned right above the slowly trailing bead of honey. It starts with a lick, hot tongue against cold skin. I can’t help but feel how the bumpy texture of your tongue cleans and pulls its way up my neck. After the hot saliva hits cold air, you take off the kitchen towel and look at me like a puppy waiting for its owner.

“Such a good boy,” I murmur as I take the towel from your hand and wrap it around the nape of your neck to pull you in closer. “How does it taste?”

What is more, is that I hope that in that moment my heart is not the only one that is beating as fast as how a hummingbird flaps its wings. My greedy husband, you back me against the kitchen island until you are pressed firmly against me as I watch and feel you bite and suck a garden of flowers across my neck and chest. Your large hands find themselves around my thighs, kneading and squeezing them so much that the fabric of my night clothes bunch in the palm of your hands. So I maneuver your hands around my waist, and you spin me around and bend me against that counter so I can feel you push yourself against me.

“Be good for me,” you would command while undressing me.

Then I would feel it, hands spreading my legs and fingers prying my ass apart, and then your warm and flat tongue against my kitten. One single lick would make my knees buckle. But you eating me out from behind, the way you knead my ass while you take your time swirling your tongue against my lips and lapping up my juices would make me come in an instant. Your tongue presses against my nub while your nose digs itself into my opening almost to the point where you’re fucking me with the tip of your nose, yet it is me who begs for air. And you keep my liquid on your tongue as you rise from your knees to pull my head back until I’m looking at you and your swollen and burgundy lips with my head tilted backward.

And you pry my mouth open with your hand and watch me catch that sweet honey on the tip of my tongue.

My dear, I am much too hot to even think about what comes after you let go of my jaw. My tenses in this letter are all mixed up because I’m so caught up in my delusions that I mistake dreams for reality. I feel ashamed to revert to such elementary composition when I am clouded by lust. But in this sensory game of wits, who do you think would win — the explorer or the explored?

P.S. I’ve had our painting temporarily hung in our dining room as I cannot even bring myself to think about the possibility of hosting a ball without you. The great ballroom has been collecting dust since the first month you left for the war. Besides, invitations to the first ball of the season have long been sent out. I attended and made some acquaintances. Are you proud of me? Are you missing me as much as I am missing you?

Letter Six - DK

My Sweet,

Loneliness is when you are trapped by your stillness while everything around you splits into two and crumbles. And you are stuck in the open space of where everything once was, you in your bubble of muteness as the world crashes and breaks in a cacophonous roar. The feeling that engulfed me during these past few months was beyond my description of loneliness. So with a happy heart, I am telling you that the war is over. I’m coming home soon to hold you in my arms, to show you what this world that surrounds you is truly like — delicate and with the warmth of a glowing morning Sun that promises juvenescent Springs until the end of time.

Regarding your question about the potential winner of the sensory game you described in your last letter, whether I am the person exploring or explored, I know I would always be the victor as only a true victor can call you “his.” My sweet love, I hope to stick by your side as long as I prefer honey in my tea and you by my side when I sleep.

However, with a slightly interruptive transition, I have a few requests regarding the contents of your postscript. That is:

One, I am wholly and with every fiber of my mind, soul, and body proud of you. You, my shyest lover who sought friendship in your moments of loneliness, I love you so. Yet I find myself utterly in distress that I cannot co-host our tea parties until later should you hold one in a few days. Our estate is boring, and it must be tiring seeing the same things and people every day for the past few months. I urge you to go out more and explore so I can come home to plentiful stories told in your voice. I want to fall asleep to your descriptions so I can dream of how you see the world around you.

Two, of course, I am missing you. Even if I were a few yards away from you, I would still miss you. I am currently bothering our treasurer in regards to spending the rest of our budget on a winter wonderland in which we would freeze the entire world so I could easily and quickly sled back home like a seal off an iceberg. However, our treasurer is insistent on saving the budget for lodging, travel, and sustenance. I, for one, think I am right.

Three, I think this might be my last letter in a while as when this stack of parchments finally reaches you, I would almost be home. So I am struggling between keeping this short and straight to the point or long and thoroughly eloquent with everything that I want to write and say to you. Instead of coming to a conclusion by myself, I bid you farewell until we meet again with this set of instructions within my set of requests for you. I’m sorry if the format of my letter makes it very hard for you to read. Like how you described your delusions, I often find myself alone at night imagining you by my side so much that I feel your physical presence next to me.

Four, as for our portrait in our dining room, I must ask you to perform a favor for me as I have not seen the finished painting myself. It is a test regarding the “likeness” of our portraits that can only be performed by yourself. When you wish to perform the test before I arrive, please excuse all our staff who stay by your side during dinner and ask to eat alone. Should they give you looks, please say that it was requested by me.

When you are alone, I need you to get into a position in which you can look at yourself through the large mirror that is mounted above the low mantle towards the end of the dining room table. I assume our portrait is hung on the wall at the other side of the dining room table, am I right? If you move the plates and sit on the table, you should be able to look at both your entire body and our portrait through the mirror. Do not worry about making a mess my dear.

Perhaps this test may be a little lewd for a dinner setting. But after your proposed rendezvous in the kitchen in your last letter, I suppose this test would be nothing to you.

Look at yourself in the mirror. Can you imagine me behind you, slowly kissing down your neck as I undress you while the candlelights flicker beside us? Our shadows cast against the walls that surround us tell the story of two lovers slowly conjoining into one. And I sit you against the front of my naked body, bending your legs and positioning them so you can see all of you through the mirror.

My love, can you see your lips unfold into a beautiful bloom, leaking with its sweet nectar for your man to taste? The sweet nectar, the glistening substitute to the honey our staff brought alongside our dinner rolls, rolls off the flower and soaks the tablecloth beneath you. Tonight I am not doing anything except revel in your beauty like a man awestruck by something so exquisite that he cannot do anything but stare.

I want you to imagine that the same me in the portrait is the me you imagine to be behind you, the very me who writes this letter and instructs you on how to pleasure yourself for the night. Suck on your own fingers, my darling. Bring your fingers to your lips, and let me see the way you ready yourself before the pleasure comes. Because what I want is for you to fuck yourself well for me so that after you’ve squirted all over the dining table your pussy continues to throb so much that you confuse it for your beating heart.

Don’t be shy. Bring your soaked fingers to your folds, and trace along the lines of the petals. Look at how they seemingly open and close as your stomach jerks in reaction. Slowly rub yourself up and down, coaxing that beautiful sigh that I know too well out of your mouth. Feel the pads of your finger mix with your juices, slipping easily and making your hand glide smoother.

Are you looking at me through the mirror? Are you begging me to instruct you in other ways to satisfy your lust? Do you want to rub your pearl and flick it with your finger in a way that makes you clench and collapse?

What is it, honey? Are you whining for me to make you feel good? But this is your guided session. Don’t you see yourself through the mirror, so pathetic looking that you would do anything that I tell you to do? Then take that same hand you used to tease yourself and slap your pussy for me. Bring the hand back and bring it down on your pussy quickly and with so much might that the sound of palm against tender skin echoes throughout the empty dining room.

Don’t you feel pathetic? Getting off from you slapping your own pussy? Doesn’t it please you and make feel so dirty at the same time? When you’re striking your palm against your pussy over and over as your other hand unconsciously reaches upwards to knead your sore nipple, are you looking at yourself through the mirror? Are you still imagining me sitting behind you on our dining table, whispering and taunting you as you attempt to come undone? If your head is not completely clouded with lust, when that pussy is throbbing with such pain and pleasure, you will take your finger to your entrance and insert it slowly so you feel your warm and wet insides slowly swallow your finger the further in it goes.

Let your mouth hang open as you plug yourself with another finger. Fill the lonely dining room with your sweet moans for me. Listen to your kitten squelch and leak the more you pump yourself so that a warm and hot feeling grows in your stomach, making you clench your body tighter and tighter. Scissor your fingers, and fill up that empty space where my cock usually rests. When you release, pull out your fingers as you come on the tablecloth and look at the cream I miss the most.

You’re so perfect, you know that? You’d look even more perfect when you’re on your knees with your fingers underneath you and inside of you. Bounce for me my sweet, ride your own fingers as if you’re riding me. Massage yourself with your other hand, grabbing and kneading your breasts and your nipples as I do for you. Can you see yourself through the mirror more clearly when you’re in this position? Do you see how messy and needy you look while you’re pathetically riding your own fingers? Do you wish they were mine? Do you wish they were my thighs?

Open your eyes for me as you reach another wave of ecstasy. Look at me in the eyes, the man painted next to your glowing figure as you reach your last high. I know you can do it. Scream my name if you love me, and squirt as if your pussy was crying for the man you love.

Turn your head around when you’ve caught your breath. Look at our portrait. Do you see how I’m smiling at you?

I’m proud of you, my love. Thank you for holding on for so long. I’ll be home soon.

P.S. I love you.

#svthub #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #dk smut #seokmin smut #dk x reader #seokmin x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #dk imagines #seokmin imagines #✏️ ━ himbocoups

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milliesfishes · 3 months ago

Note

I've read almost all of your fics and I adore the way in which you portray Billy, he's always so sweet and soft and it suits him so well 🖤 But, if you're willing to, could be have something where he's a little more... grumpy? lol

I've noticed that Billy rarely smiles in the show, so I've been thinking about something where reader, who's so extroverted and talkative af, always tries to make him smile but he's always dismissing her, pushing her away. Maybe one day he's grumpier than ever and snaps at her and in consequence reader starts ignoring him. Her absence from his daily life makes him realise that he actually cares a lot about her. You could add or suppress anything you want from this idea! :)

⋆౨ৎyou annoy billy⋆౨ৎ fem reader x billy the kid

Like a recurring itch, you appeared at his side more often than Billy thought necessary.

He wasn't sure exactly what about you put him so on edge. Maybe it was your constant smile or the way you were always chattering about one thing or another. You were like an ivy vine crawling up his fence, no matter how often he trimmed it. In his stoic way, Billy listened, trying not to show interest. He had been hopeful at first that it would dissuade you from your pursuits, but nothing of the sort happened.

How could one person be so happy? In his entire life he'd never met a soul so delighted to be breathing. Maybe he would have felt worse about his annoyance by you if he was the only person you spoke to, but it was quite the opposite. Every time he saw you in public you were entranced in conversation, the other person often with a smile on their face or laughing at your comments. So he didn't understand at all why you insisted on talking to him.

Still, he endured it, for reasons unknown to him. Whenever you came up to him, he did not shy away or cut the conversation short. He listened the whole way through, adding his own comments and even chuckling when you occasionally said something funny. Thinking over this, he supposed he'd been encouraging your idea of this 'friendship'. Quietly irked.

He was upset with himself for letting it go this far, and with you for being so... Billy wasn't quite sure what word to use. By the hour this feeling grew, until it had overtaken him like a swarm of moths to a lamp. So much it was prevalent that the next time you approached him he was on the edge of irritability.

It had already been a trying day. Ranch work had dragged on longer than usual, and there'd been a disagreement among a few of the men that he'd been forced to take sides on, resulting in a near uproar among the group. He was far from in the mood for conversation.

Packing his saddlebags with newly purchased supplies, Billy had to prevent himself from groaning when he heard your familiar light footsteps. He clenched his jaw when you greeted him, offering a low, "Mornin'."

You brightened at that much to his quiet dismay. "I haven't seen you around for awhile. Whatcha been up to?"

"Just work," he responded simply, hoping his brevity would make you walk away.

"Ah, it never ends, does it?" You smiled, tilting your head. "You must like it, though. The only time I've ever seen you smile is when you're on a horse."

The observation annoyed him, and he pursed his lips, letting a single nod do the talking for him. Inside he was pleading with you. Go away, go away, go away before I say something awful-

You were immune to his internal begging. "I can't blame you for it really, it's-"

"Would you please leave me alone?" Billy snapped, turning his head to you. The look on your face weakened his resolve, but he was already set in motion, stubbornly continuing. "You're always on my tail, never givin' me a second alone. Just-" He cut himself off, realizing the damage done.

Your eyes were round and sorrowful, and Billy bit the inside of his lip. Hurting you had been like kicking a kitten. As he was about to offer his apologies, you turned on your heel, leaving him alone with his regrets, who were less forgiving in conversation than you.

The next time he was in town, Billy hoped you would come up to him purely so he could offer his apologies, but you didn't. Half of him was satisfied, that part holding its head high. But the other half bowed its head, humbled by the terrible way in which he'd dismissed you. Indeed, the stirrings of that part were beginning to overtake the other, until all that was inside him was a mass of guilt.

You didn't appear at his side the next time, or the time after that. He realized that he had gotten exactly what he wanted- peaceful trips to town, free from the knot of all your talk.

But the more time spent away, the more Billy realized how he had grown used to it. To you sidling up to him and asking about his day, the look in your eye suggesting that you truly cared about the answer. That gesture was rare in his line of work, in his life in general.

You had been the one person who had shown interest in him besides his men, and he'd pushed you away. As he raked through his memories, he realized his annoyance toward you had likely been because he wasn't used to such kindness.

For all the darkness in his life, you had been the one bright spot, shining through to him like a sunbeam through a windowpane. And because it was unfamiliar he had squashed it, though the intentions were well meaning. How foolish he had been.

As he laid down and closed his eyes that night, Billy tried to imagine an apology, a gesture he could make to smooth over the rough patch he had created. Right now he would do anything to see the sweet smile back on your face. It was a sight he realized he'd missed- seeing your eyes light up so prettily.

The tendrils of feeling began to take hold of Billy, wrapping around his heart like an unbreakable chain. He found himself imagining your touch, your soft skin against his. What it would be like to kiss you-

Gritting his teeth, he opened his eyes, staring up into the black of the night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would grovel on his knees if he had to.

The next morning, Billy's eyes were raking over passerby, a handful of wildflowers bunched in his fist. He knew you enjoyed the blooms, per one of your many past conversations. Finally, amidst the crowd, he spotted you, deep in animated conversation with another friend of yours. Your hair was loose, spilling over your shoulders like a waterfall he longed to dip his fingers into, eyes sparkling.

He realized that once you'd had that look on your face when speaking with him, only he hadn't realized it. It was a cruel thing, how one never knew how good something was until they lost it.

You parted ways with your friend eventually, trailing to the side absentmindedly. Daydreaming, no doubt, as you were wont to do. Seeing a window, Billy moved forward, shielding the flowers with his back. Maybe it wouldn't be best to start with that.

Catching you by the elbow, he greeted you by name. You looked up at him in surprise, brow knitting slightly. "Billy." The one word that passed your perfect lips was spoken slightly stiffly, with a tint of melancholy. It nearly broke his heart, and he pressed forward, hoping you would melt.

"I...I brought these for ya," he said carefully, holding out the bouquet. Much to his relief, you reached out slowly, taking it and looking over the blooms.

The corners of your lips twitched just slightly, but a full smile did not appear just yet. "Thank you."

Shifting slightly on his feet like a reprimanded schoolboy, Billy held your gaze, though it was painful. There was still hurt reflected in your irises, and it pained him to see. "I...I wanted to apologize. For what I said. I was havin' a bad day and it wasn't right to take it out on you when you were just bein' nice."

You cast your eyes to the ground, fingers distractedly stroking the petals of the flowers. "I...I know I can be a lot. And sometimes I overstep. I should be apologizing to you. I've felt so guilty the past bit for upsetting you-"

Billy's eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. "No, no don't apologize." His hands found your shoulders, holding you steady. "It ain't your fault I was in a bad mood. And..." he inhaled once. "I don't think you're a lot. You're good, better than I deserve."

Holding his gaze, something seemed to lighten in you, comfort you even. Seeing you ease ever closer to a smile, Billy continued. "You always notice people. Make 'em feel good by caring 'bout what they have to say. I've been takin' that for granted. It was wrong and I'm sorry."

You smiled slightly, and his heart rejoiced. Meeting his eyes shyly, you said, "I appreciate that very much." Biting your lip gently, you added, "I've noticed how little you appear happy...all I've wanted truly is to see you smile."

Touched by your sweet sentiment, Billy's lips did turn up at that, causing a chain reaction when your smile widened as well. Now you were both staring at each other, grinning in utter delight. With a hint of joyful laughter in your voice, you commented, "Now I've gotten my wish."

Taking in the vision of you, Billy felt a surge of merriment push up into his chest, blooming like a patch of flowers in the spring. In his future he could easily see you spreading this feeling from his head to his toes, slowly but surely brightening him from the inside out. He could see that you had such an effect of nearly everyone you met, and he had been resisting it before. How wonderful it would be to become utterly enchanted by you as the rest of the world was.

Searching your eyes, Billy's hand moved from your shoulder to your cheek, and you leaned into his touch just slightly. Before he knew it, the spark that lit within him was propelling his head forward, and then his lips were on yours, moving softly. They were just as soft as he had imagined, your taste as sweet as he'd known it would be.

Your hand found his chest, sliding upward to his shoulder and making his heart beat faster. Billy was drunk off the mere presence, the touch of you, and all he wanted was more. His lips caressed yours until you both broke off for air, unable to tear your eyes away from each other. His hand stayed on your face, body right up close.

Vividly, he allowed that all-encompassing feeling to overwhelm him, causing his lips to find their home on your forehead as he whispered, "I have a feelin' I'll be smilin' a lot more now, sweetheart."

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x reader #william h bonney x you #william h bonney imagines #billy the kid imagines #billy bonney #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid fanfic #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid fic #billy the kid fluff #william h bonney imagine #william h bonney #milliesfishes billy

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middlingmay · 5 months ago

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The Buckies nearly get caught (Part 1)

The only feeling better than flying was John Egan fucking his tongue into Gale’s mouth.

What was supposed to be a fun, quick writing exercise has turned into a series with multiple parts. Brevity? Never heard of her.

Anyway, here's the first (not smutty but still spicy) part that kicks off the Buckies' predilection for nearly getting caught in compromising positions.

NSFW under the cut.

The only feeling better than flying was John Egan fucking his tongue into Gale’s mouth.

He should have known Bucky kissed with everything he had - just like he did everything else. He was a man who didn’t know how to half-ass anything. That competence was one of the things that had Gale staring so hard in the first place. So hard, that Bucky finally noticed.

But basic ran them ragged and finding moments alone was always difficult, but they usually managed to sneak away for something. Lately though, it had been nearly impossible. And every time they found a precious few moments alone, and Bucky got that burning look, or Buck gave that smile that somehow no one saw how filthy it really was, they were interrupted before either one of them could do a damn thing about it.

It had gotten to the point that Jack had pulled Gale aside one day and said, “I don’t know what you two have had a falling out over, but Bucky has been unbearable. You better fix it, before the COs lose their minds. And stop glaring at him in the mess hall; the men are starting to take bets which one is going to crack and punch the other one out first.”

He’d marched off leaving Gale blinking in the corridor.

So, pent up and desperate and apparently causing disruption amongst the boys, Gale had ordered John the find them a place they wouldn’t be interrupted, which led them here: a closet door at Gale’s back and John Egan gripping the back of his head in one hand and his throat with the other, delving his tongue into Gale’s mouth so deep and so good he was struck fuckin’ dumb and could only stand there and take it.

John’s hips pulsed to the rhythm of his kiss and Gale was so hard his cock jumped with every thrust of John’s clothed hips, and he was soaking through to his standard issue pants with the way John had him dripping.

John reluctantly pulled back, and the sound his tongue made as it left Gale’s mouth was wet, slick, and loud in the narrow space of the closet. It made Gale groan deep from his belly. John’s chest heaved, gulping in lungfuls of air as he rested his forehead against Gale’s and pinned Gale’s hips against the door with his hands. Gale hadn’t noticed how he’d been rutting up into John’s hardness.

“Fuck, fuck. Wait, wait, wait, waitwait. Gale, you gotta stop, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.” John whispered frantically against Gale’s lips and Gale moaned and flicked out his tongue to lick into John’s open mouth, before curling it back into his own and savouring the taste of John.

“S’a problem?” Gale asked, drunk on his arousal. “Gotta be quick, Bucky. Come on,” he grabbed John’s belt and tugged him in. “Give it me.”

“Jesus,” John prayed and his palms hit the door as he bit up the column of Gale’s throat, lips thrumming with the rumble of Gale’s deep voice. “God. Hold up, just—” he panted against Gale’s ear. “I haven’t come in my pants from a bit of kissing since…fuck. I don’t if I ever have. Ohmygod—”

Gale’s fingers had deftly worked open John’s belt and popped the button on his pants, creating just enough give for Gale to dip his hands down the back of them and grab a handful of John’s ass. He dug his blunt nails into the meat of it and drove John hard into the line of his cock.

They both whined at the contact, so hot and worked up it was aching somewhere near painful, and it finally broke John’s resolve. He grabbed a handful of Gale’s thigh and hitched his leg over his hip for leverage and—

“He said it was a closet in the hut by Barracks C.”

The voice was close, and Gale and John locked their muscles still with the quickness of trained men.

“This isn’t a hut; it’s a shack,” said another voice. “Come on Butler, there’s nothing here. Just look at it.”

“Turner. I am not getting into trouble for you again. Just—look. There’s a closet there. You check that, whilst I look down here.”

John and Gale stared at each other at the footsteps came closer. The read the fear and horror in each other’s eyes. There was no way to explain away what they were doing here. And yet…

Gale felt the throb of John’s cock twitch against his own as the footsteps sounded just outside the door. Gale’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he bit his lip to tamp down on the ungodly noise it almost unleashed from within him.

John’s voice was barely a whisper at his ear. “Holy fuck, oh my god.” His hips rolled in tiny pulses, barely a movement, but enough to spark up the tinder the voices had dampened.

The voice called through the door. “I heard Kidd found a family of rats in a disused closet; I hate rats! There’s not going to be anything here!”

Gale’s hand squeezed hard at the back of John’s neck. “God, you gotta stop, John.”

But John knew him better than anyone except maybe Marge. And he was learning to read him real good. John looked him in the eye for all of two seconds before he muttered low in his ear. “Do you really want me to stop?”

Gale’s heart stuttered in his chest. His belly dropped out and he looked at John and knew he saw the answer written all over Gale’s face. No.

The door handle jerked at his back and Gale felt and flush of precome spurt from his cock.

“Got it!” Came a further off voice and footsteps running up the corridor. The handle at Gale’s back was released. The voice on the other side was so close, they heard his sigh of relief.

“Thank God for that. Let’s go.”

“Big baby, frightened of some rats.”

The two bickering men faded into the distance.

Gale and John panted harshly in the quiet. That was close. That was too fucking close. That had to stop; calm themselves down, neaten themselves up, and stop.

John’s eyes darted down to Gale’s lips.

“Fuck.” Gale tightened his arms around John and jumped so he could wrap his other leg around John’s waist, too. John who’d never missed one of his beats caught him and pushed him up against the door and rutted into him so hard, the door rocked and banged at Gale’s back with every stroke.

“Fuckin’ close—”

“Too close, baby. Fuck.”

They gasped and moaned and talked filthy into each other’s open mouths, rocketing towards that precipice.

“Ah, fuck! M’gonna—”

“Nearly caught us, Nearly saw you come against me.”

“Shit!”

Gale’s vision whitened and his orgasm ripped through him. His head hit the back of the door and John pushed against him so violently as he rode his own finish, Gale felt the imprint of the handle embed into his skin. It pulled another string of come from his cock and a whimper from his throat.

He was unsure how long they stayed there, jolting from the aftershocks. But Gale’s thighs started to tremble, and John carefully set him down without pulling away from placing fluttering kisses along his neck.

Gale was grateful. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was upright from his own power, or the weight of John pinning him against the door.

“That was…”

“Unexpected?”

“Yeah.”

The laughed into each other’s skin and John pulled back and touched the tips of their noses together.

“Discovering all kinds of things about myself with you, Buck.”

And Gale was loathe to break the moment, but there was more than one realisation he’d come to, now he was coming down from their high.

“Know what else I discovered?” he said to John.

“You’re a filthy bastard?”

“That too.”

John grinned. “What?”

Gale pressed him lips together. “We just came in our pants and still gotta walk back to the barracks.”

“Ah, fuck.”

#clegan #buck x bucky #john egan #gale cleven #mota fic #buckies nearly get caught series #buckbucky

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tavyliasin · 10 months ago

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A gift, from Tavylia and the Dear Abdirak fans who made this happen, and of course the star of the show himself~

Hello darlings, dear ones, and sinners all~ This cameo is our gift, for all of us who know pain a little too intimately. Written and joint funded by Abdirak fans and Lia, to provide some measure of comfort. Please, enjoy, know you are heard, you are loved, and you are never alone when enduring the most intense of Loviatar's affections. (And all my gratitude to Declan for making this so very swiftly right before going offline for his holiday)

--- The script, including content there was no space for, and some more notes from Lia, will follow after the cut~ This one is clean, no NSFW content, so feel free to proceed at your leisure. For those new here, please be aware that the majority of my content is around NSFW writing with a few art shares and essays on fandom things. Welcome, and I hope you enjoy your stay even if you're only here for this one video.

About The Script

Even with the additional payment, the maximum character limit in a request is 650. My original draft? 1117. We got out the knives, we cut it up, we boiled it down to the most pertinent line, and still had to defenestrate some of the punctuation. Far be it from me to ever know the meaning of brevity, loves, simply not in my extensive vocabulary. I also cannot thank Declan enough for the stunning performance, both in the game and in the cameo, and for giving us a character who we can relate to and adore in so many unexpected ways.

The Script We Sent

[greeting] Loviatar Maiden of Pain felt the echo of your pain singing through infinite realities. In her mercy, she has allowed us to speak. Agony is a cloak that you wear, armour you cannot remove, it is as bound to you as the guilt you feel for its very presence. I might envy you, but you did not choose this path. Your penitence is unnecessary. Let go, dear one, do not punish yourself further. The ebb and flow of exquisite torment, the rise & fall of the tides, you need not try so hard to swim. Breathe. Whether it is of the flesh or mind, your devotions have been heard. [reminder to share burdens/rely on each other/not alone/anything else]

The Original Draft Script

Greetings, Dear Ones, beloved of Loviatar - perhaps too beloved, in your case… Your pain sang through the fabric of the planes of infinite realities, catching and pulling at the Weave like a loose thread. My Goddess, the Maiden of Pain, she felt your echo through her web. Through her mercy, she has allowed me to speak with you. Agony is a cloak that you wear, an armour you cannot remove, it is as bound to you as the guilt you feel for its very presence. I might envy you…but you did not choose this path. Your penitence is not necessary. Let it go, dear one, do not punish yourself further. The ebb and flow of exquisite torment, the rise and fall of the tides, you need not try so hard to swim through them all. Breathe, keep your head above the water. Whether it is of the flesh or of the mind, your devotions have been heard by our most beloved Maiden of Pain. You endure it well, and you are not alone. There are other voices that sing her melody, listen for them, share your burdens and know you are all very dearly loved by the most gracious Loviatar. Even if her affections are a little excessive…

Lia's Notes And Thanks

First of all, a HUGE thank you to the dear ones who helped this happen, with encouragement, editing advice, and throwing some pennies in the pot to cover the cost I couldn't do alone. I shan't name names but you are already well aware of the endless affection I hold for you all. For everyone else, I really do hope this brings you some measure of comfort. It's important to recognise how much we tend to give of ourselves even when we suffer most, and how harsh we can be towards ourselves too.

You are not a burden, having needs is normal and natural, the people who matter most should be there to support you just as you would wish to be there to support them were your roles reversed.

We can rely on each other to a degree, even if it is just to listen, to say "I understand, it's alright to feel all of the things you are feeling. You do not have to be strong, you do not have to wear that mask of endurance with me." So do let go of that guilt, dear one, it does not serve you. If you would like to read more of a discussion on chronic pain, Abdirak, fandom, please see the main essay on the topic (click here) though be aware there is discussion of the more spicy topic of how pleasure and pain can be entwined, even for those of us who feel too much pain in our every day.

Tavylia's Offer

I'm going to round this one off with a simple offer to you all. Should you wish for words of comfort from a beloved character (probably BG3 but if I know the character well enough I can try others), send them to my ask box, or on Discord/Twitter/Anything on my Carrd. This is what I have worked on before, mostly SFW (only some light suggestive moments) as the focus is on comfort to the reader.

Abdirak - Migraine Comfort Yurgir - Migraine Comfort Tav - General Comfort, with Audio Multi-Character Comfort Drabbles (Including Abdirak)

If my little words can bring you any measure of comfort or relief, you need only ask.

Farewell for now, Dear Ones, darlings, loves, Pain Pals, - all of you. Please take care of yourselves - hydrate, nourish, and for the sake of the gods please allow yourself some rest and be kind to yourself for a change. And I do mean all of you. No exceptions, now. Love yourself with grace and forgiveness, care for yourself as if you were the most precious friend you have ever made. I hope to see you all very soon~

May Loviatar's blessings be more merciful. ~ Lia

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #abdirak #cameo #chronic pain #chronic illness #comfort #words of comfort #comfort in fiction #pain pals #Loviatar #loviatar loves you as you are #tavylia also loves you #so learn to love yourself too #feel free to share this post and save the video for the times you need to hear it most #thank you again to everyone who helped make this happen you're stunning you really are

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cartoonsinthemorning · 10 days ago

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Hi forgive me if this has been addressed before! I'm a little new to your fem!stan stuff (I saw your ask reblogged by Boston and snuck out of the back of their foodtruck to send this) but I love the idea and was wondering does stan pretend to be Stanford when he falls in the portal? (If that is the route that's taken in the au at least) because it would be really interesting to see if constance would enjoy the freedom that comes with being a man but at the same time I think it would drive (incel) ford up the wall if he came back and saw his sister running a successful business out of his house. There would be this extra layer of tension as ford has to grapple with his own learned misogyny. Though I also imagine exploring the multiverse and seeing the way gender is explored or even ignored in other worlds would probably force him to have some realizations before hand but whether or not hed really allow himself to internalize those realizations is another story. Bros got an easy excuse to not analyze his own sexism since hes trying to hunt down bill

And then when he comes back and sees his sister is doing just fine would probably wound his pride a little bit. All those fantasies and unfair expectations of their roles hes built in his mind are forced to come crashing down once again

I'm also just kind of obsessed with the idea of constance finally learning how to be /stan/ in gravity falls because she never had the freedom and safety to do so before. I'm sure a large part of rejection of any femininity whatsoever came from not having the option to do so in the past. But then she watches the kids over the summer and sees mabel embracing makeovers and grappling hooks hand in hand. Dipper is insistent on being a "man" but never once tries to tell mabel she needs to be a "woman"

This ask is all over the place sorry I think i had a point to the start of this and now I'm just rambling about your own au to you lmfao

Anyway love the concept (and your art!!)

-🐶

Hello! Thank you for passing by and sending me such a nice message, sharing your own ideas with me! and many thanks for the compliments too, of course ❤ That said, I'm afraid my answer will be a tad disappointing. Because, the fem!Stan I enjoy to imagine is cis, and I can't imagine a cis woman being able to consistently pretend to be a man for thirty years, without losing their mind (in the same way it's detrimental for most trans people to supress their true identity for a lifetime, non?). Especially, in the same way canon Stan is very masculine (with a sprinkle of femininity, despite his shame about it), I like to imagine Constance as a lady who is very proud and comfortable in her womanhood- despite her loud voice and direct and somehow brash manners. Even in her younger years, when she was classified as a tomboy by most, she loved girly things- dresses, make up, gossip magazines, etc. without issues. I think of Stan in her 60s wearing tacky jewelry, lipstick, and hair-curlers at night, tbh. That's why, in this AU, my mind skirts around the part were Ford gets stuck into the portal.

For example, I sometimes imagine 30s Ford simply having a change of heart and dismantling the portal, and (now former) Drifter!Constance living with him from that point on (and, of course, I elaborated this one up until Stan and Mabel get into the picture, but for the sake of brevity I'll stop here). Or, I bend canon a little, making up that the people of Gravity Falls only heard of some researcher who was gonna build and live in a shack in the forest, but they never actually got to see them, let alone find out if it was a man or a woman. It's a version were the chaos Ford caused in town while posses by Bill either never happened or he did it without getting caught by police or getting seen. And, about the name on documents and stuff-- Constance was a marinated and resourceful conwoman at that point, she simply found a way to make things work. Hell, they have the same last name- maybe this time she registered Ford as deceased, passed herself as his wife, and inherited the Shack and the rest of Ford's possessions. I know many, reading this, would think it's heartless of Stan, but to me this trick is fucking hilarious. Especially, I'm grinning like a maniac imagining how mad and appalled Ford would look as he realizes the trick Constance pulled- not only because what a fucking ASSHOLE she's been, to use his "death" to appropriate his stuff- but also!! secretly!! because WHAT the FUCK- he often fantasized about Stan being his wife, but this is the most cruel and ironic monkey paw situation EVER!! To reconnect back to your speculations about sexist!Ford being humiliated and mad about Constance running a business independently: I like it! it's fun to read! But, I have to go deeper. I usually think of Ford's sexism toward Constance to be the outside layer, so to speak. I think deep down Ford always knew Stan had the potential to be strong, resourceful and independent, despite what their ma, pa, teachers and other people said. Ford grew next to her, he knows what this girl is capable of, how determined she is. And that's the point...What he really dreads, what he really hates, is the idea she doesn't need him, at all. That's what would make Ford actually upset about Stan running a business: knowing that, hadn't she brought him back, she would had been fine, without him. Sexism would be the mental shield Ford uses to protect himself from this painful acknowledgment: He's just mad because his fraud of a sister thinks she's being successful, but all she accomplished was using her physical appearance and womanly ways to seduce and manipulate. That's all, really. I roll my eyes at him, here, which is a good indicator I got him in character, if I can say so myself. The last scene you shared, with Stan realizing her nephew and niece aren't as oppressed by gender roles as she herself used to be- and bypassing them, even- is SO sweet 🥺 I have absolutely no doubt in my mind: one thing that does NOT change in either the canon universe and the genderbend one, is that Stan would love and adore Dipper and Mabel- and learn a lot from them ❤ PS: is the puppy icon your anon signature? it's so cute! 🐶 look at this fine boy. Great choice.

#stancest #fem!Stan #I have sketches of 60s Constance that I will eventually share #it's nothing groundbreaking tbh BUT I have to spam y'all you must be subjected to my visions

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the-nosy-neighbor · 4 months ago

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Pedrolino and Commedia dell'arte

Pedrolino and Commedia dell’arte (Part 1)

So, I thought I’d posted about this before, but I can’t find it anywhere. I actually have some knowledge in this subject, so it was something I feel like I wrote about, but maybe didn’t share or put in a place I could actually find it. Stop me if you’ve heard this one, basically. Anyway, maybe I’m not into Sally because we are the same. I was, and kinda still am, super into this obscure period of theatre history

In “Happy Haunting to Boo and Yours” (which I will be calling HH for brevity and my sanity), a big deal is made about Sally dressing as Pedrolino. Like a massive big deal:

Sally goes around calling people uncultured oafs for not knowing her costume’s origin

The narrator tries to lecture about Pedrolino and commedia dell’arte but gets interrupted and you were all saved, but I was just getting started

Eddie shows he knows who Sally’s costume is of, and he gets belittled anyway “even the mailman gets it.” Also, Eddie was reading about it for fun when the mail room was slow. Eddie gets me

So, there is a very obvious focus on this symbol as important. Pedrolino is one of history’s most famous characters, and I am going to tell you why.

Commedia dell’arte (just commedia from this point on) is a somewhat obscure, but highly influential part of theatre history that originated in Italy around the 1600’s. Italy has always been pretty rich with theatre history. Commedia was performed by a roving group of players, who would tour around the country. Funnily enough, acting has been a profession greatly enjoyed by many people and yet actors have almost always been viewed with derision and as criminal types, and I imagine this roaming didn’t do much for these players’ reputations.

Commedia is a highly structured form of improvisation. Each actor in the troupe is assigned a character to play (not that they couldn’t swap things around) with a very specific set of movements, dress and personality. The audience knew about these characters as well, so it was a shared language as to what to expect from these players based on archetypes. For a modern equivalent, say a show comes to your town and you see a beefy character in a cape and tights. We have all been raised with the knowledge that makes it easy to identify a superhero when we see one (and to be vulnerable to the subversion of this character.) In the same way, the audience would recognize these characters, listed below:

Innamorati—(The lovers) The ingenue is the love interest, always high-born, young, and attractive. They would have called them “the lovers” or similar, but the modern term would be an ingenue. These are highly coveted roles, and in this sense were straight actors playing a serious-ish love story, while chaos happens around them. Modern understanding of any role like this is that it is good for your career, but kind of boring. Male and female versions of this role are standard.

(There are more variations in these characters below, but these are the main ones)

Masters

Il dottore—(The doctor) The doctor is a high-minded, intelligent individual who has a lot of book learning, but zero street smarts. Think chemistry professor,at least in behavior. The doctor wears robes that indicate his station, so scholar’s robes and hat. The doctor’s general movement betray his personality. The doctor would have his focus on the heavens, so would often be looking up and not directly at those around him. An older man, he is often an obstacle to the lovers.

Pantalone—(It means pants?) Pantalone is also an old man, and also an obstacle. Pantalone’s thing is money. He’s a rich old man who covets the female lead, and is often the intended spouse of the young woman. The young woman is never into him, this would be an arranged kind of thing. Pantalone is a natural cuckhold, and somewhat a commentary on the practices of women to be bartered for like property, with common wisdom suggesting that you can buy a woman, but you can’t make her like you. Pantolone would be dressed richly (and like new money, not classy). All of his movement is focused around the groin, hunched protectively around his…money pouch (and that other thing, as he is motivated by baser instincts.

Il Capitano—The Solider/Captain. The soldier is a boastful and vain man, who thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread (If you are into Shakespeare, think Benedict from Much Ado About Nothing but not the lead). The Soldier is high ranking, in his military suit and movements are focused on being still and stern. He often is bragging about military exploits and romantic conquests, but nobody is listening to him.

Pedrolino and Commedia dell’arte

Zannies

Arlecchino—(Harlequin) Arlecchino is the role to have. He is a servant to a great man, generally the male ingenue, and works for his master very much like Puss in Boots does in the stories. He is loyal to his master, but is also a trickster, so is known to give him a ribbing as well. Prone to bouts of acrobatics, Arlecchino is light on his feet and quick with his movement and his wit. Arlechinno is probably the most famous commedia character, and would essentially be considered either the lead or the narrator, depending on framing. He was often paired as a love interest with the head female servant, Columbina.

Pedrolino/Pierrot—(little peter? Is that a dick joke?) Anyway, Pedrolino was often another servant on a similar level to Arlecchino. Sometimes they were set up as rivals, or they could also be set up as conspirators against their awful masters. Pedrolino could be a servant of the captain, the doctor, or Pantalone, but would often be working against their interests. Pedrolino was sometimes a rival for the heart of Columbina.

This is Pedrolino’s costume closer to the original time period, but most identify Pedrolino from a later period, as this costume (which is Sally’s costume).

This Pedrolino is sometimes more associated with Pierrot, which is a French version of the character, famously used in a photoshoot with David Bowie for his song, “Ashes to Ashes “(famously for me, I am obsessive about him anyway).

Columbina—(Little dove) Columbina is a female servant, who works for the female lover. She is heavily involved with the plotting and scheming to get the lovers together, though is less playful than her male counterparts. She was a love interest for Arlecchino and Pedrolino. (more another Shakespeare equivalent, Maria from Twelfth Night)

Scenarios

Everyone had their character, so the story would be set. Generally, it was understood to be like an comedy of the time period. You had two kids in love, they were being kept apart my horrible old men, and their funny servants work to get them together and stick it to the man. It was a version of improv, but they had scenarios to guide them in specifics. So, if you were in a troupe, from the list of known scenarios, which would be mixed and matched to be a full story. I say listed, but I doubt this was written but more memorized.

An example of a scenario: “In the enchanting city of Genoa, Cinthio's sister, Isabella, finds herself entangled in a web of promises and broken dreams as she embarks on a journey to Rome in pursuit of her unfaithful suitor, the Captain, only to discover a surprising twist of fate that leads her to a different path of love and fulfillment, much to her brother's delight.”

If you’ve watched Who’s Line is it Anyway, you will be familiar with how improv scenes tend to work. The prompt might be new, but they do rely on cues from each other to work towards a successful bit. In commedia, these are called “lazzi” and are essentially the same thing. I know when to help you set something up when I see you perform an action. Example, Arlecchino pours a glass of wine, the lazzi is “Startled, Arlecchino, holding a full glass of wine, executes a complete backward somersault without spilling the wine.”

Commedia is fascinating to a lot of people, probably mostly performers or theatre practitioners, because the archetypes, scenarios, and lazzi can be seen throughout the history of performance. Vaudeville, in particular, seems to be a pretty much direct line of gags throughout history. If you are familiar with the Marx Brothers, they perform bits that can be found in scholarship on commedia.

For example this scenario: Arlecchino and Pedrolino come face-to-face, armed and ready for a confrontation. They exchange insults and rely on others to physically hold them back. Eventually, when the Captain tries to separate them, they start striking each other, with the Captain receiving most of the blows.

The Marx Brothers: https://www.google.com/search?q=marx+brothers+fighting+each+other+and+end+up+fighting+someone+else&rlz=1C1GCEB_enUS1045US1045&oq=marx+brothers+fighting+each+other+and+end+up+fighting+someone+else&gs_lcrp=EgZjaHJvbWUyBggAEEUYOdIBCDkyOTNqMGo3qAIAsAIA&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:b909fae3,vid:q9OUIk4Oaq4,st:0

This example from Duck Soup shows two of the brothers (who play essentially Zannis in each production) work together to frustrate a lemonade vendor and to make off with his cart. Not 1 to 1, but very similar energy, and very typical of a zanni interaction in commedia. I wrote an entire paper on the lineage of Marx Brothers gags from commedia to Vaudeville.

Interestingly, Groucho generally plays, what feels to me, like a mix of The Doctor and Arlecchino.

This is already paper length, so I will spare you more detail on commedia. However, if you are interested, I would encourage you to look into it, as the information about this type of performance is very good and seems to have appealed to humans for centuries.

Next post, I will cover Sally’s costume and the specific reference to Pedrolino.

#welcome home #welcome home arg #sally starlet #happy haunting #commedia dell'arte

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zablife · 1 year ago

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As Long As I Live (Part 2)

Tommy Shelby & Amelia Holland (OC) x Bonnie Gold

Summary: Amelia introduces herself to Tommy and gets acquainted with the Shelby clan, plus one of Tommy's men whom she has particular feelings about.

Author's Note: Requested by the lovely @kpopgirlbtssvt. This has taken some time for me to finish, but it's completed now and will be released once a week until we reach the end. There are 4 parts total.

Warnings: language, mention of pregnancy, mention of a weapon

Part 1

Tommy’s reverie was broken by the sound of boots thudding down the carpeted hallway. His hand hovered over the handle of his pistol as the door swung open, but he quickly released his grip as he took in the sight of a girl, no more than sixteen, standing at the threshold, muddied from riding and cheeks chapped from the cold.

A maid stood behind her out of breath with a ready apology. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Shelby, she ran past and I couldn’t stop her!”

“It’s alright, Clara,” Tommy replied. “Come,” he said with a wave toward the girl, removing his glasses and setting them beside his typewriter.

She hesitated only a moment as she studied him, then as if her mind was made up, dropped the bag she carried and paced toward him purposefully. He sighed heavily, knowing the reproachful look on her brow and the weight which caused her shoulders to slope. The question on her lips would be one he’d heard before, but he would allowed it to be asked just the same.

“Are you Thomas Shelby?” she began searching his steely blue eyes for a semblance of recognition.

“I am,” Tommy said with a nod though nothing in his affirmation was welcoming. His face remained impassive and his arms crossed at his chest defensively.

Amelia gulped, feeling his stare piercing through her and nearly lost her courage, but quickly regained it as curiosity got the better of her. “Then I believe you’re my father,” she informed him, not wasting any time revealing the reason she stood before him. She had a feeling he was a man who appreciated brevity.

“I see,” Tommy said simply, searching his desk for his cigarettes and lighter. Amelia furrowed her brow in confusion as she watched him take his time selecting a cigarette and rubbing it across his bottom lip carefully. “Have a seat. Tell me about yourself and how you came here,” he offered as he lit it and took a long drag. Rounding the corner of his desk, he leaned against the corner, watching the smoke rise to the ceiling as she spoke.

Amelia stood a little straighter, collecting herself to explain in the most direct way possible, but found it difficult to keep emotion out of her voice when mentioning her mother. “My name’s Amelia…There’s not much to tell really. Mum didn’t have much, but she raised me with kindness and love. She said you died in the war so I never thought to look for you until my aunt told me you were alive. I came because she didn’t want me anymore, but…I also wanted to meet you very much,” she confessed, surprising herself when she added the last part.

Tommy only nodded thoughtfully, exhaling smoke slowly as he responded in a flat, even voice that contrasted starkly to Amelia’s testament. “I’m a wealthy businessman and a member of Parliament, love. I get these kinds of visits more times a month than you can possibly imagine. Poor girls like you who tell me I left their mother to raise a child alone in the worst circumstances. I should write them all down and make another fortune in penny dreadfuls,” he said with a humorless laugh.

Amelia felt her blood turn to ice as she listened to his callous words. Her jaw tensed involuntarily and she found herself striking back before she had time to think. “I didn’t come here for your money, Mr. Shelby. I came to find my father,” she said, voice shaking with emotion. “You don’t want to admit it? That’s fine because I would never claim a heartless bastard like you either,” voice raised to match her growing temper as she stood face to face with the man who had chosen cruelty over compassion.

For the first time, Tommy’s eyes fell upon her and the necklace that hung around her neck. His fingers reached for the sapphire and he blinked quickly at the sudden recognition of the gem. “This…this necklace. Where did you get it?” he asked feeling momentarily unbalanced.

Amelia pushed him away, shaking her head in fury, “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you're asking!”

Tommy’s entire disposition changed in that moment as he was transported back to 1914. He remembered the dappled sunshine of the hazel tree and afternoons spent in the arms of a girl with raven hair as his fingers grasped the air in front of him. “I gave that to a girl before France as a promise. When I returned her family wouldn’t tell me where she’d gone,” he said quietly, more to himself than Amelia as the memories resurfaced. Some members of her camp swore they’d seen his girl, Izzy, with a swollen stomach soon after his departure, but it was a rumor he’d chosen to forget in his heartbreak.

He looked at Amelia now, studying her carefully. “What was your mother’s name?” he asked, squinting at her.

“Isidora Holland,” she replied hesitantly, concerned by the sudden change in his mood. “I-I think I’ve made a mistake in coming here,” Amelia replied, rushing to the door to retrieve her bag.

As the fog cleared from Tommy’s brain, he called out “Amelia, wait! Where will you go?”

Amelia fumbled with her bag, shifting her weight as she replied, “I’ll find a place to make camp. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but let me offer a room as an apology for my remarks…please,” Tommy pleaded. If this was his daughter standing before him he didn’t want them to part this way.

Amelia stared past Tommy and out the large window watching the rain begin to fall in menacing torrents, an inhospitable gloom descending over the house. The crackling fire in the office beckoned to her and she was practically salivating at the smell of something delicious coming from the hall. She told herself she was staying for the comforts provided and not the apology of a man she barely knew or trusted, but a small spark inside her wanted to believe in the love story she'd briefly glimpsed.

———————————

Lizzie took the whisky glass from Tommy’s hands and placed it on the table as he took a seat on the bed. “You’re certain, Tom?” she asked.

Still in disbelief himself, he spoke quietly, “she has the necklace, Lizzie.” She hummed, knowing all too well what it meant. In their early days of acquaintance, when he’d sought her body for pleasure and comfort, he’d confided about his lost love. When the opium and whisky hadn’t dulled enough of the pain, he talked and hated himself for sounding too like Arthur.

Lizzie came to stand over her husband and placed her hands on either side of his face, rubbing her thumbs against his hollowed cheeks in soothing circles. He tilted his head up to look at her, searching her eyes for a hint of anger or jealousy. He found none, only compassion for the young girl who had appeared on their doorstep.

“If it’s true what she says about her aunt throwing her out, we can’t turn her away. She has a home here with us,” she assured him.

Further down the corridor, Amelia wasn’t settling into the idea quite so easily. Running her hand across the beautiful oak dresser in the room adjacent to the nursery, she found a row of gilt frames with family photographs. The first to catch her eye was of Tommy and his wife with their two children, a boy and a girl, a perfect little family. The next was of Tommy smiling for the camera, pride evident in his face, as his son looked up at him in wonderment. Her fingers caressed the glass feeling like an intruder.

As she wandered into the empty nursery and found the children’s teddy bear, tea set and carved, wooden horses, she wondered what she had disturbed when she arrived today. Holding a soft baby blanket to her cheek she ached to be close to her mother again and feel comforted by her. There were so many thoughts and questions swirling in her mind about why her mother's family had kept her mother and father apart and what kind of person her father really was. She knew now she wanted to stay long enough to find out.

——————————

Amelia awoke just before dawn, leaving the house to stroll the grounds in the soft pink haze of the morning light. Listening for the sound of the horses, she ambled slowly toward the stables to visit them in hopes of finding solace there. It was a habit she’d had since she was small and it never failed to quiet her mind and slow her racing pulse when she felt anxious about something.

However, this morning she found she was not alone. As she approached the first stall she startled at the sight of someone beside her horse, the man's white shirt billowing in the wind to reveal a gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “Mornin’,” the young man with ruddy cheeks and an easy smile greeted her.

“Who are you and what are you doing out here?” Amelia asked a bit more defensively than she intended.

“Could ask the same of you,” he said with a chuckle, going back to his work.

“I’m here to tend to my horse,” Amelia stated.

“And I'm already doing it, so you might say thank you,” he retorted.

“Didn’t ask for your help,” she mumbled, still trying to decide why a stable hand would need a gun.

Making his way out of the stall, the young man cocked his head at her as he wiped his hands on his trousers. “Are you always so bad tempered in the mornin' lass?” he asked. “Look like you’re ready for a fight!” he said, punching the air quickly before dissolving into laughter.

Amelia was thoroughly irritated with him now, shoving him aside to get to her horse.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Bonnie took a deep breath and leaned against the door. “Don't be like that. I was just having a laugh. My name’s Bonnie. What’s yours?”

Amelia eyed him suspiciously as she ran a hand down her horse’s neck. “Amelia,” she eventually replied, turning her attention back to the animal and pressing her forehead against the soft fur of its nose, hoping the boy would go away.

“I heard about you from the lads on watch last night. They say you’re Tommy Shelby’s long lost daughter. Are ya?” he asked.

Turning to look him in the eye Amelia scowled. “Who did you say you were?”

“Bonnie. Bonnie Gold,” he said with a grin, his hazel eyes catching the early morning rays and shimmering back at her with little flecks of golden light.

Amelia took a step toward him, recognizing the name. “You were the ones thrown out of the fair last year,” she recalled. Bonnie looked wounded, face falling as she continued with her indictment. “You and your kin are nothing but a bunch of thieves and swindlers. Everyone says your da rigged them fights,” she accused, raising her eyebrows in challenge.

Bonnie’s chest puffed out at the insinuation he’d cheated, stepping closer to her as he asserted, “I could fight a fucking tree and knock it out. Never had to pay anyone to take a fall.”

“If you're so tough, how come you carry a gun everywhere, even to a stable with only little ponies?” she taunted, face inches from his. “What are you scared of Bonnie boy?”

“Oi! What’s going on?” Tommy’s voice boomed from the doorway.

“Mr. Shelby,” Bonnie said in surprise, jumping back from Amelia. “I was just finishing up.”

“Get on with it then, eh?” Tommy said with a jerk of his chin.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, picking up a pitch fork and stalking off.

“Amelia, what was that about?” Tommy asked, noticing the flush in her cheeks.

“Just getting to know your employees,” she lied, turning back to her horse quickly.

“And?” Tommy said, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back onto his heels as he awaited an answer. He sensed there was more she wanted to say, but was holding back.

Amelia looked in the direction Bonnie had gone, biting the inside of her cheek. “You should know his family’s got a bad reputation in our community,” she warned.

Tommy huffed out a little laugh. “You should know better than to believe rumors.”

“What does he do for you anyway?” Amelia asked, feeling bold and seizing her moment to ask indirectly what Tommy’s business actually entailed.

“Oh…a bit of everything, but you might be glad to know he isn’t at Arrow House most days,” Tommy assured her.

“Why is that?” Amelia ventured yet another query, studying Tommy to see if he would continue to humor her.

He took a deep breath, eyeing her carefully before continuing, and she knew this would be the final explanation for the morning. “He’s in training at a boxing gym in Small Heath. Bonnie is a gifted athlete and Arthur manages his fights," he explained, taking a step toward the door. Then in a loud clear voice he proclaimed, "Now, if I’ve satisfied your questions, Frances has made us some breakfast." He rubbed his hands together to ward off the cold before stating, “Join me." It was a statement rather than a request and he instantly began walking toward the house at a rather fast pace.

“Wait!” Amelia called after him, running to catch up. “I’d like to take care of my own horse if it’s all the same to you,” she requested.

Tommy stopped to look at her, seeing the note of concern in her eyes, he agreed. “Alright, but you should know Bonnie’s a good lad.” Amelia nodded, though she wasn’t ready to believe it just yet.

—————————

From then on Amelia took up her rightful place in the family as though no time had passed. She played with Charlie and Ruby, teaching them games she learned as a small child. Her fierce protectiveness over them developed naturally, supervising them when she took them for walks by the river or led them around the stables on the horses. Naturally, they adored her and her kind smile which they saw more of as she settled into Arrow House.

Lizzie enjoyed her company as well. It was a comfort to her, having someone in the house who was able to calm Tommy when he came dangerously close to working himself to death. Amelia brought him out of the office and into the dining room when the maids failed to garner his attention. On those occasions, the whole family was regaled by her tales of travel. Tommy and Lizzie were most eager to hear about the years they’d spent apart, but they never pressed her for more information than she was willing to share.

Many times after dinner as Lizzie and the maids readied the younger children for bed, Tommy had a few moments alone with Amelia to discuss any questions she had for him. He was open and honest with her in a way he had difficulty with in the past. He wanted her to know him, feeling guilty for having been absent for so long. Amelia responded to this bonding exercise, constantly keeping Tommy on his toes with her multitude of questions about his ambitions. At times he wondered if he should be so frank with her, but her maturity made it easy to explain.

———————————-

The morning Polly returned from her honeymoon with Aberama, Tommy whisked Amelia away from Arrow House in his Bentley to meet the train. When Polly received the telegram she too was anxious to see what she’d only glimpsed in the cards. Over the years she convinced herself what she saw couldn’t be true, but as she stood beside Tommy on the train platform, the proof was undeniable.

“My God, Tommy, she’s Izzy!” Polly exclaimed, watching the girl from a distance, Amelia's wild, dark hair dancing in the wind. Polly held a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun taking one last look before glancing back at Tommy. He too was staring as Amelia approached, now unable to deny the resemblance.

“How did you find her?” Polly asked in confusion and slight awe, still acclimating to the news that Tommy had another child.

“She found me,” Tommy replied. “Zelda threw her out. Told her to come find me,” he explained.

“That family was always a mystery to me,” Polly admitted sadly. “How’s Lizzie taking it?” she inquired.

“Lizzie knows all me secrets, Pol,” he said and with a knowing look Polly nodded.

“And the children?” she asked.

“They act as though she’s always been here. She’s teaching Charlie to swim and Ruby begs her to braid her hair and have tea parties,” Tommy said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he looked off into the distance, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air.

The look of genuine happiness was not lost on Polly. There was one last question on her mind, but she couldn’t ask it of him now, not when peace had descended for the briefest of moments. Amelia would find out soon enough what it meant to be a Shelby and if she was smart, she would choose a life having nothing to do with their business. Polly promised herself to protect Amelia that day as she watched father and daughter together, thinking of the things she might have done differently with Michael.

Continue reading Part 3

-----------------

Tag list:

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#Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby imagine #Bonnie Gold #Bonnie Gold fanfic #Bonnie Gold imagine #bonnie Gold x OC

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blondelover2772 · 9 months ago

Text

The Book

CHAPTER 1

Larissa Weems x (adult) Wednesday Addams

WARNINGS: angst, drama, romance, comfort, fluff, Christmas, age difference, adult Wednesday, lonely Larissa, sex, oral sex, vaginal fingering, sexual inexperience, love, cat and happy ending :)

WORD COUNT: 20,000+

about conscience, about forgiveness and about love

First of all, I’m not a native English speaker so excuse me for all my mistakes.

Secondly, this story has three chapters, which are already written. I’m just struggling with translation right now :)

And finally, Wednesday is adult enough to have a relationship with another woman.

Enjoy.

The permanent principal of Nevermore Academy Larissa Weems drummed her fingers boringly on a mug with already cold hot chocolate, watching raindrops quickly flow down the huge windows of the Weathervane café, obscuring the cozy streets of Christmas Jericho with their bizarre patterns. After another glance at her wristwatch, the woman was about to leave, when suddenly the ringing of Chinese bells, hanging on the front door, announced a new visitor. The blonde didn't even have to turn around to find out who it was. Only she could have dared to come to the Weathervane when nature, deciding to give people a pre-holiday surprise, brought down a real downpour on the city.

“I'm sorry I'm late.” The familiar voice of Wednesday Addams was heard behind the woman.

Finally, turning around, Larissa discovered the girl, soaked from head to toe in the December rain, was quickly squeezing the remnants of water from her long hair.

On closer inspection, Wednesday turned out to be unexpectedly much older and matured. Instead of the two usual braids and bangs, the girl's face was framed by a shock of wavy wet hair of the same pitch-black color, her lips, neatly emphasized with scarlet lipstick, looked even plumper, and the figure, hidden under a tight dark turtleneck and matching jeans, now looked like the figure of a real young woman. The two years since their last meeting had clearly benefited Wednesday.

“Miss Addams,” Larissa nodded her head politely. “I was already beginning to think that your letter was someone's stupid joke.”

The woman watched Wednesday closely, waiting for some sarcastic remark. Surprisingly, there was no remark. Instead, the girl was diligently wiping raindrops from a large black bag with paper napkins, as if it contained something so fragile that it could disappear from simple contact with water. Finally satisfied with the result, Wednesday looked into Larissa's eyes for the first time that evening.

It was not the look that the woman remembered in Marilyn Thornhill's greenhouse, where they saw each other for the last time. Then the frightened eyes, frozen in genuine shock and horror, seemed to beg for help. Now, there was a subtle softness mixed with atypical shyness in the girl's black eyes.

“I did it.” Wednesday said without preliminaries and not taking her gaze off Larissa.

“Of course, I understand that brevity is the sister of talent, but could you be more specific, Miss Addams?”

Taking a deep breath, the girl took the menu, lying on the table, and began to study it intently, either from a desire to really order something, or in an attempt to take a break.

“It has been two years since I’m not in Nevermore and you are no longer my principal. I see no reason not to call me just Wednesday,” throwing the menu aside, the girl looked at Larissa again and added uncertainly, “I think it's fair for me when I talk to you.”

Larissa grinned softly. Still, some things never change.

“Well, just Wednesday, I guess discussing such formalities was not the purpose of our sudden meeting. The letter said there is something so important that it couldn't even be discussed over the phone.”

“Although I have a phone, not by my own will of course, it is much more pleasant to invite another person on a date by a letter.” Leaning her chin on her hand, Wednesday looked attentively at the woman.

“A date?” Larissa couldn't hide her surprise at the girl's words.

“A meeting of two people, if you like,” Wednesday looked down at the menu again, “but before we continue discussing semantic subtleties, I need to drink a hot espresso. For all my love for water and cold tortures, I wasn't ready for these today.” The girl waved her hand at a bored waiter at the bar.

And only now did the woman realize that in her rain-soaked clothes, Wednesday was probably chilled to the bone.

The barista guy came up, kindly took the order for a quadruple espresso, and went to the coffee machine at the bar.

Larissa noted that apart from her and Wednesday, there was not a soul in the whole Weathervane. The subdued light from the Christmas garlands, hanging on the windows, gave an incredible comfort, and the jazz music, playing from the speakers, created a truly romantic atmosphere. Really, it looks like a date. Larissa immediately pushed the thought planted by the girl out of her head. What kind of a date can we talk about with Morticia's daughter? On top of everything else with a former student. Even with the smartest, most daring, brave and, as it turned out now, very sexy, but still the former student.

From a string of not very decent thoughts, the woman was distracted by the friendly voice of the waiter with a cup of fragrant drink for the frozen girl.

“Would you like some more hot chocolate, miss?”

“No, thanks.” Larissa rewarded the barista guy with a polite smile and turned her astonished gaze to Wednesday. The girl greedily gulped down the strong espresso, as if it was not a ninety-degree drink, but simple water at room temperature. Setting the nearly empty cup aside, Wednesday sighed with relief.

“As I said, I did it.” With these words, the girl reached for her bag. A few seconds later, a thick pile of yellowish sheets appeared on the table, fastened with a black scorpion clip. “At the moment, I'm eighteen years old, two months, three days,” Wednesday glanced at the clock hanging in the Weathervane, “and twenty one hours. I broke the record of Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein at the age of nineteen.” A satisfied smile appeared on the girl's face.

Larissa looked curiously at the first sheet, on which a single word was printed in small typewritten letters — the book.

“What an original title for the first book. It's definitely going to succeed.” The woman said with a hint of sarcasm.

A look of resentment appeared on Wednesday's pale face, quickly replaced by self-confidence.

“This is an ideal title for intellectually developed individuals whose inquisitive mind is not afraid of the unknown. Only the superficial ignoramuses need to chew the essence of the book immediately from the cover.”

“Your words, but in the ears of the classics.” Larissa retorted with an ironic smile. How she missed sparring verbally with Wednesday.

Finishing the remaining espresso in one gulp, the girl slowly pushed the manuscript closer to Larissa, caused slightly confusion in the woman.

“May I ask why did you brought this to me?”

“Before I send the manuscript to the publisher, you must read it.” The girl said in a commanding tone, without taking her black eyes off Larissa.

“Do you really think that the principal of Nevermore Academy has nothing better to do than read the manuscripts of former students?” Larissa tried to hide her growing interest behind her pretended indifference.

“Do you have anything to do? All the Nevermore students went home for the holidays to pay tribute to the silly Christmas tradition. There is no one left in the academy, except for a couple of workaholics like you,” the girl bit her lip thoughtfully, “as for your personal life, as far as I know, you do not have and have not had a woman for a long time, whom you would prefer to fascinating reading of my manuscript,” Wednesday looked intently at Larissa and she added quietly, “your presence at the café on Saturday evening with a former student only confirms this.”

Larissa's cheeks flushed. Fortunately, behind the thick layer of foundation, it was hard to notice Wednesday.

This brazen girl, having not seen a woman for two years, somehow inexplicably managed to sum up her whole boring life to date in a few sentences. The question, which should have slightly pricked the girl, turned against Larissa herself. And if you don't need a lot of intelligence to understand the obvious state of affairs at the academy, then how could Wednesday find out juicy details about a woman's sexual preferences? Had Morticia told her everything? The mere thought made the woman unbearably painful. Morticia was the first to whom Larissa once opened up, and she mercilessly trampled on her love and ran away to Gomez Addams. No, Wednesday can't know that. Wednesday shouldn't be discussing her failed love life with such equanimity at all.

But unfortunately, Wednesday can do anything and Wednesday doesn't owe anyone anything. She has proven this more than once during her studies at Nevermore.

Now, with her straightforwardness and outright tactlessness, the girl has crossed all imaginable and unimaginable boundaries. And if a minute ago Larissa was seriously thinking of acting as a literary critic of Wednesday's debut book, now this is out of the question.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me? Can I go now?” The woman said coldly, getting up from the table and not wanting to continue listening to the humiliating monologue of a young self-taught psychologist.

“No,” grabbing the manuscript, the girl immediately jumped up after her, “even if it contradicts my principles, my phone number is written on the back of the first sheet.” Wednesday handed her book to the woman, as if she sincerely expected her to take it.

Once again, Larissa was surprised by the amazing audacity and self-confidence of the girl. Does Wednesday really think that after saying that she will take the manuscript and then call to give a detailed review?

After taking one last look at the soaked girl with the damn book, Larissa headed for the exit with only one desire — to forget about tonight and about Wednesday.

Torrential rain with sharp gusts of wind greeted the woman warmly on the street. Taking a blue umbrella out of her bag, Larissa regretted that she had agreed to this meeting with Wednesday. But deep-seated guilt and nasty pricks of conscience simply left her no other choice. In her letter, the girl insisted on a personal meeting, the importance of which could change their lives forever.

Taking a deep breath, Larissa opened her umbrella and prepared to meet the nature, as at the same moment the instigator of the ill-fated “date” appeared from the doors of the Weathervane. She slung her bag over her shoulder and looked at the woman helplessly, if such a word can be applied to Wednesday at all.

Larissa Weems has always been famous for her fairness and toughness. But no one would dare to call her cruel. As much as she was offended by Wednesday's words, leaving the girl on the street in such weather is too inhumane.

“Judging by your clothes, you don't have a car or an umbrella. I can give you a ride and then our paths will part.” The woman said dryly.

Assessing the hopelessness of the situation, Wednesday silently climbed under the large umbrella, as far away from the woman as possible. Larissa clearly felt that the girl was uncomfortable, either from a sudden awakening of guilt for what she had said to her, or for some other reason, known only to Addams.

It seemed to rain even harder, and the thunder, alternating with bright lightning, grew louder by the second.

Gracefully avoiding puddles of liquid mud and finally coming up with a parked car, Larissa opened the passenger door for Wednesday, who climbed inside without further ado.

Once again thinking about how just one letter from an obnoxious girl changed her perfectly planned Saturday night with old movies and a bottle of red wine into a painful reflection on her unenviable life, the woman got behind the wheel.

“I'm staying in an apartment near yours,” the girl began, watching the wipers vigorously struggle with the water on the windshield, “considering that the purpose of my arrival in Jericho was to meet you, this is the most convenient option.”

Not wanting to comment on the practicality of Wednesday, the woman abruptly pressed the gas pedal, and the car roared off.

In the silence that followed, Larissa's thoughts, however, were not silent at all, being replaced by logical questions and unpleasant memories. What was this meeting really so necessary for? Is it really all about Wednesday's simple desire to amuse her ego? And why should Larissa read the manuscript before sending it to the editorial office? None of this made sense. After all, one terrible autumn day, their paths parted forever. Replaying the events leading up to their last meeting in her head, Larissa could not help but feel a disgusting sense of guilt. She had to protect Wednesday from all the dangerous and terrible things that could await her within the walls of the academy. But, unfortunately, Larissa did not succeed. On the other hand, this is also the fault of the girl herself — Wednesday is so on her own mind that she would not listen to woman's instructions anyway. Therefore, succumbing to the persuasions of the girl, who confidently believes that she has finally figured out the true face of Hyde, Larissa, along with Wednesday, went to the Marilyn Thornhill‘s greenhouse. And she couldn't save herself, much less the girl. Being by her nature an invulnerable shapeshifter, the woman could not have imagined that Thornhill would decide to use belladonna — the world's most powerful poison, which is able to temporarily disable even such a poison-resistant organism as Larissa's. The woman woke up in the hospital the day after Wednesday's famous victory over the pilgrim Joseph Crackstone. Although Larissa did not see the hell that the girl had to experience, the woman heard stories one worse than the other. How did Wednesday manage to move on after all this nightmare and even write the book? The girl, despite her young age, was smarter than any adult, with whom Larissa had to communicate on a daily basis in Nevermore. It was thanks to this quality that the girl then became an unexpectedly close and dear person to Larissa. Now Wednesday, who has noticeably honed her sharp mind, has turned into a very beautiful young woman who needed a meeting with Larissa, who was unable to protect her once.

As she approached her street and slowed down a little, the woman looked at the hushed Wednesday and arched an eyebrow questioningly.

“Building 221b,” the girl answered the unspoken question and added, “apartment 27.”

Larissa quietly grinned, in a building with what number could a young Sherlock Holmes stay? And indeed not far from her own.

Deftly maneuvering between huge puddles and finally catching up with the cherished complex of apartment buildings, the woman turned off the car and examined still wet Wednesday.

“You can keep it for yourself.” Larissa handed the umbrella to the girl in another outburst of care, which, by the way, Wednesday did not deserve at all with her behavior today.

“Thank you. “ With sincere gratitude in her eyes, the girl reached for the umbrella, and their fingers touched slightly. Suddenly Wednesday froze. This is how, according to Larissa's memories, the girl always began to have visions.

“Wednesday, is everything okay?” The woman asked anxiously, looking at the girl's changed face.

“Yes.” Snatching the umbrella from Larissa's hands, the girl opened the door and quickly jumped out of the car, not even bothering to say goodbye.

Before she could fully understand what was happening, the woman only saw the front door closing behind Addams.

A sudden flash of lightning, like a powerful searchlight, illuminated the car, and Larissa noticed the manuscript lying on the passenger seat. That's an impudent girl! Nevertheless, she managed to give her book to the woman. Of course, she won't read it, but it can't lie in the car, can it? After a little hesitation, Larissa still put the work of the young writer in her bag and, taking a deep breath with the thoughts that there would be enough adventures for today, the woman went home.

Taking off her shoes and coat, Larissa went straight to the shower to literally and figuratively wash off the remnants of the past day. The hot water made the woman think again about the frozen Wednesday, whom, despite her disgusting behavior, she wanted to warm up. Closing her eyes, Larissa imagined how she hugged a fragile figure, seductively emphasized by wet clothes, pressed closer to her, stroked her wet hair. Every curve of the young sexy body seemed to beg to be caressed. A sudden wave of arousal swept through the woman's heated body, which made her feel both pleasant and sad at the same time. As Wednesday said in her humiliatingly accusatory monologue, Larissa really hadn't had a woman for a long time making her heart beat pleasantly and her mind distract from the affairs of the academy. The only living thing that faithfully waited for Larissa from Nevermore every day was Donut. A black cat with a white breast in the form of a tie followed the woman immediately after being discharged from the hospital. Such a stereotypical life of a single woman over forty, whose entire thoughts and time were occupied the academy. This, in principle, was quite acceptable to Larissa. But after today's meeting with Addams Junior, who so openly threw the truth in her face, the woman realized that her life was not so rainbow. And to be honest, it's not rainbow at all. In frustration, Larissa opened cold water to cool her body from unexpected arousal, and her thoughts from introspection.

Wrapped in a snow-white bathrobe, the woman got out of the shower and went to the living room. After pouring the food to the cat, which immediately began to devour it appetizingly, Larissa took out a bottle of red wine and went to the sofa next to the fireplace. The only thing the woman wanted right now was not to think about anything or anyone. Quickly disposing of the wine stopper, Larissa poured the ruby liquid into a glass and took the first sip. A pleasant warmth instantly spread through her body, slowly leaving behind the worries of the past day.

Suddenly, the woman's gaze caught on the bag lying on the chair, from which the sheets of Wednesday's manuscript were treacherously sticking out. Deciding that today couldn't get any worse, the woman took the ill-fated manuscript out of her bag and returned to the sofa, where her furry friend was already waiting for her. Putting Donut on her lap, Larissa turned over the first sheet of the manuscript, on which, as promised Wednesday, her number was neatly written in Gothic numerals. Who would have thought that such an opponent of modern technology would ever have a phone. Without hesitation, the woman reached for her iPhone. Of course, she will not call or write to the girl. But just in case, there should be her number. Larissa quickly wrote down the numbers on her phone. For some reason she didn't want to write the obvious name Wednesday at all.

“Donut, how do we call the obnoxious girl?” Larissa gently stroked the soft fur of the cat, remembering how once, when coming up with a name for him, she longed for her favorite donuts, which she is strictly forbidden to eat in order to preserve her perfect figure.

Turning the first sheet of the manuscript in her hands once more, Larissa finally signed the soulless numbers with a playful smile and put the phone aside.

Going to the fireplace, the woman threw several small logs into it and, striking a match, lit a fire. Watching the dancing flames, Larissa turned her gaze back to the manuscript. After taking another sip of wine, the woman took the girl's work and, opening the black scorpion clip, pulled out several sheets from the pile. Wednesday will never know about it anyway. The woman was possessed by a simple human interest. After all, the girl was right that the book with such a title could really intrigue.

After reading the first two pages of the manuscript, Larissa grinned. How did Wednesday, with such an unconventional mindset, decide to go such a banal way and turn herself into a “precocious and fearless detective girl”, and Nevermore into a “closed private university for gifted students”?

“How ordinary, don't you think?” The woman stroked the satisfied Donut behind the ear and took the next sheet.

Knowing firsthand about Wednesday's magnificent fantasy, Larissa nevertheless decided not to jump to conclusions from reading several sheets and continued to plunge further into the fictional world of the girl.

***

As soon as the heavy door had closed, Wednesday Addams exhaled either with relief or disappointment. The sky-blue umbrella, exactly matching Larissa's eyes, was the only bright object in the dark and gloomy corridor of the old building. When her heart slowed down its unusually frantic rhythm a little, the girl wearily wandered up the spiral staircase to the third floor. Carefully holding the umbrella like the most expensive jewel in the world, Wednesday took a curly key out of her bag and opened the front door.

A small apartment with a bunch of antique furniture and rare collectibles seemed to have stepped off the pages of vintage magazines. To the left of the narrow hallway was a living room with a kitchen and a tiny oak bar counter, on which was a worn porcelain vase with snow-white roses, carefully left as a welcome gesture. Which, in Wednesday's opinion, was not necessary at all, because the obvious passion of the owner of the apartment, in addition to collecting antiques, were flowers. They were everywhere: clay pots stood on window sills, wicker planters hung from the walls, and the largest exhibits filled the unfurnished space on the floor. Which meant that the main condition for the girl's stay in this botanical garden was taking care of green “pets”. And Wednesday, without hesitation, volunteered to act as a diligent florist, because the wall-to-wall library of books with disheveled spines and a nearby record player with a huge collection of retro recordings simply melted the girl's cold heart. The only modern item in this antique shop was a television, staring lifelessly with its black screen at a soft ivory sofa.

Opening Larissa's umbrella and carefully placing it on the parquet floor in the hallway, Wednesday took off her soaked shoes and headed to a second and last room — the bedroom.

The bedroom was also small: a single bed, an antique desk-secretary and a double wardrobe — everything that could fit in it. But all this tiny constraint simply ceased to exist against the background of the stunning view of the majestic trees, their green crowns smoothly disappearing into the distance and finally completely merging with the horizon.

Wednesday froze in front of the window, in which now only the black blurred silhouettes of something gloomy and unknown could be distinguished. This picture was as if copied from her soul, with the only exception that until now the girl had not allowed wet tears to gush out from overflowing feelings. Feelings. Those damn feelings again! The girl recalled with pleasant nostalgia what she was like before that fateful day when Joseph Crackstone almost killed her, and the principal Weems almost died at the hands of Marilyn Thornhill. Almost. Of all the shocks in such a short Wednesday's life, death of Larissa can rightfully be called the most terrible and traumatic event. Even the death of her faithful scorpion friend Nero could not be compared in terms of the strength of emotional experiences. How could she, with her excellent analytical thinking, calculating everything in advance, not have foreseen a possible catastrophe? How could she, a misanthrope by nature with an overwhelming sense of justice, put the only person in the damn academy, who deserved her respect, in potential danger? And the main question that torments Wednesday is how she, the most insensitive of the entire Addams family, managed to fall in love with Larissa Weems so much?

In another bout of painful reflection that has become an integral part of her life, Wednesday pulled off her wet turtleneck and jeans and headed for the bathroom. Squeezing vanilla shower gel into her hand, the girl began to slowly massage her frozen body, washing away the traces of the passing day. But it was impossible to wash her away from either thoughts or memory. Only she, coming in dreams, and now in visions, is able to awaken in Wednesday such emotions and feelings, the existence of which the girl did not even suspect. What happened in the car was just a climax that miraculously did not cause a heart attack. When their fingers touched, Wednesday's eyes instantly flashed to alabaster skin with snow-white curls flowing over her shoulders, red lips parted in a sweet moan, naked breasts, heaving with every touch of the girl. Turning into the very quintessence of love, Wednesday and Larissa got to know each other's bodies, getting incomparable pleasure.

Putting her head under the water in a futile attempt to erase such pleasant, and at the same time such unreal memories, the girl instead of the desired relief felt only increasing arousal. With a disappointed sigh, turning off the faucet, Wednesday got out of the shower and looked at herself carefully in the mirror. There was a real blush on her dead white cheeks now, and her usually brown eyes had turned into huge black holes. It seems that the sex hormones that have been dormant for so long have finally woken up without even bothering to ask permission from Wednesday.

It all started with a nasty feeling of guilt, which gradually turned into a real fear: just when the girl had already come to terms with the nasty thought that she would never see Larissa in this world again, excited Enid announced that Weems had been taken by ambulance to Jericho Hospital. Then, inside Wednesday, there was almost a hysterics, masterfully hidden behind an expressionless face. Having mastered her unusual feelings a little, the girl decided to go to Larissa in the hospital and ask her for forgiveness. But the fear that the woman would blame her for the death for the rest of her life turned out to be stronger than the desire to clear her conscience. As a result, Wednesday just cowardly ran away from Jericho, from Nevermore and, most importantly, from Larissa's life.

However, the seemingly life-saving strategy failed to the nines. The more she tried to forget that fateful night and the dying Weems, the more she thought about it. Wednesday's entire existence was reduced to running in a closed sadomasochistic circle, in which she, like a squirrel in a wheel, ran for the long-awaited liberation, and it mercilessly fled from her.

This went on for almost a year, during which the girl managed, in infrequent breaks from the pangs of conscience, to deal with other areas of life that really require her close attention.

Wednesday categorically did not want to go to another school, but the prospect of being left without basic education was not encouraging at all. Having convinced her parents, not without problems, that she would certainly graduate, but at home schooling, the girl sat down to books and textbooks, sometimes even distracting from painful memories of Larissa. And already at the age of seventeen, Wednesday passed all the final exams necessary for obtaining a high school diploma, causing the envy of her peers who had never seen her and who were forced to sit at a desk for another year.

Wednesday naturally did not succumb to the persuasions of her parents to get a higher education right after school and decided to devote the next year to finding what she really wants to do. The girl had three outlets in her life: music, mysteries and books.

Playing the cello was rather a pleasant hobby, allowing at least to abstract from the unbearable thoughts about Larissa in her head. After the events in Nevermore, the girl could only imagine herself as a real detective, investigating mysterious crimes, on the pages of her exciting stories. But writing has been Wednesday's strongest and abiding passion since she learned to hold a pen.

With her boundless imagination, she will definitely become the greatest writer. Therefore, before her admission to Harvard University, and the girl had no doubt about it, she had to write a book. And not just a book. But something so brilliant that it would excite anyone who dared to touch her masterpiece.

The plan for the coming months has been determined. Now there was nothing to stop Wednesday from finally starting to put it into practice. The girl did not take into account only one and the most important thing — she cannot write about what did not touch her heart, and she tried to forget what really touched her heart in all ways.

Being introverted to the core, Wednesday did not want to discuss her innermost thoughts and experiences with anyone. But simply unable to deal with her worries and doubts on her own, the girl finally decided to talk to the only suitable candidate — Enid. For some reason, she wasn't so afraid to open up to her. And so one July evening, against all her rules, the girl took the phone, Xavier had given her, and called from it for the first time. There were the expected squeaks and squeals on the other end of the line, but after calming down a little, Enid still listened in silence to everything that had accumulated in Wednesday's soul. Her friend's only advice was the most obvious one — to talk about everything with Weems. To the categorical denial that followed the advice, Enid offered to write a letter, to which the girl also refused. To some extent, talking to the rainbow werewolf helped at least by the fact that now not only Wednesday was the keeper of a heavy burden, but the long-awaited relief still did not come. Until one terrible and at the same time beautiful dream, when her subconscious apparently decided to take pity on the girl and radically turned Wednesday's view of the situation.

The girl always arrogantly laughed at her classmates in love and was cynical about any manifestation of raging teenage hormones. After all, she knew for sure that she would die alone, having experienced neither love, nor tenderness, nor affection. And she didn't regret it at all. Even Jericho's most prominent boys couldn't make her heart beat faster. The girl just accepted that she was not born for feelings, emotions and love. But one single dream made the girl reconsider her well-established ideas about herself. Once again, she found herself in Weems' office and wanted to apologize to her, but instead of an unpleasant conversation, Larissa took the girl's hand with an encouraging smile on her face. At that moment, Wednesday's heart began to beat at the speed of light, and her stomach began to twist pleasantly. That's probably how people feel when they talk about butterflies. The warmth that spread through my body instantly calmed her thoughts, destroyed her fears and defeated her anxiety. She didn't want to do anything, but just hold Larissa's hand and look into her bottomless blue eyes. Clearly feeling that the limit of her emotions did not end there, the girl tore herself away from the woman's hand and touched her red lips with her fingers, and at that moment Wednesday realized what arousal was. Real sexual arousal.

When she woke up, she just couldn't believe that she could really feel this. But a surprising relief finally appeared in Wednesday's soul. As if now she understood the real reason why Larissa constantly owns her thoughts. These are exactly the experiences that classics wrote so beautifully about in their novels, and classmates discussed so vulgarly in class. The fact that the first time the girl had experienced such feelings for a woman twice her age and the former principal did not bother her at all. Wednesday was only bothered by the very presence of these feelings. Is a cold heart really not that cold? While the girl digested the sudden discovery, dreams with Larissa became more and more explicit and intimate: sometimes they are in Weems’ office and chatting sweetly about some nonsense in chairs in front of the fireplace, then the blonde gently strokes her hair, telling the girl how special she is, then Wednesday, sitting on Larissa's lap, whispers vanilla, for God’s sake, words, hot breath blowing over alabaster skin. The kiss that followed all this obscurantism just knocked the girl out of her rut. Her only real kiss with Tyler was nothing compared to it. With him, Wednesday kissed the wall. Cold and rough. The kiss with Larissa made the girl experience the whole range of unusual, but terribly pleasant emotions in seconds: from incredible tenderness to animal arousal. And now Wednesday finally began to understand her parents, who kissed each other nonstop for days on end. After all, she also wanted to kiss Larissa all day long.

After another such dream, Wednesday clearly understood two things: besides hatred in all living things, she has other feelings, and she was in love with Larissa Weems.

This realization only complicated the girl's already difficult life. Work on the book has never started, because all Wednesday could think about now was the beautiful Larissa with her seductive red lips and insanely delicate alabaster skin. So soft and warm. The very thought caused cognitive dissonance in the girl. How could she, who loves cold so passionately, want human warmth with the same passion? But not any warmth. But only Larissa's warmth. Her hot lips and kisses.

And finally, one rainy evening, remembering a conversation with Enid, it dawned on Wednesday how her two problems could be solved at once. She will apologize to Weems and tell her about her emotions in great detail, describing everything she has lived, without saying anything. And Larissa will definitely listen to her, even without listening to the girl. The main thing is to think through the sequence of actions correctly.

Now it was just a small matter to start writing the book, and with the successful implementation of her plan, all the problems would be left behind, and she could safely pack up at Harvard University, where Wednesday would show all the narrow-minded teachers what it means to be a truly talented writer.

The main plot of Wednesday's book was built around Nevermore Academy and the events experienced there. Of course, it was not possible to describe everything realistically using real names, appearances and passwords. After all, the entire academy with its inhabitants was a sealed secret for ordinary Normies. If a pretentious inscription appears on the cover — “based on real events” — this, without any doubt, will bring great popularity to the debut work. But the girl never looked for easy ways. Therefore, revealing the true state of affairs in the academy for the sake of the success of the book is definitely not her way. Having slightly changed the names, the whole story, nevertheless, has retained its primeval, atmospheric and original plot.

A typewriter, a stack of sheets of paper, melancholic music and a huge mug of quadruple espresso have become Wednesday's loyal friends for the coming months. Exhausted both physically and mentally, the girl, however, was already anticipating the approaching relief, which did not come because of the last chapter. Unfortunately, she can’t to come up with anything. A bunch of denouement options through critical reading an hour later suffered death in the form of crumpled paper lumps in the trash: either the ending seemed too implausible to her, then it became too vulgar, then, for God’s sake, too vanilla-snotty. Having already despaired of writing the last chapter, Wednesday finally realized how her book would end.

Satisfied with a sudden enlightenment, the girl began to engage in her second, no less interesting hobby — investigation. With good wit, and the girl has plenty of that, and a competent comparison of facts, you can find out about anyone anything.

The plan to investigate Larissa Weems' personal life has officially begun.

The fact that Larissa preferred the fairer sex was beyond doubt for anyone. Everyone subconsciously felt that she just couldn't have a man. Any man would feel like the most worthless and helpless creature on the planet next to such a powerful woman. Wednesday was sure that despite her magnetic beauty and sexuality, none of the men even dared to ask Weems out on a date. And Larissa obviously didn't need it. The problem with procreation for a woman was not a problem at all: her whole life revolved around the academy with a bunch of “children”, and there was no point in having her own child, so that he would constantly sit with nannies while the workaholic Larissa once again pacifies a raging werewolf or saves a victim of his own powers from accidentally petrifying — a gorgon.

To back up the obvious facts, the first thing that came under the distribution, of course, was Wednesday's mom. With whom the girl, surprisingly, became very close. Apparently, love really changes people and makes them behave atypically. And so, having chosen the perfect moment, Wednesday herself made Morticia to tell the story of Weems' life. According to mom, after graduating from Nevermore, Larissa was in a relationship with a hippie girl from France for a long time. But, in the end, the freedom-loving nature of the Frenchwoman and the windy character took their toll, and the girl drove off with her friends to surf the vast expanses of America.

However, Wednesday clearly felt that Morticia was not telling her something, but she was afraid to even ask, because she was sure that she would hear confirmation of her own guesses.

The second in this detective game was Uncle Fester. He was the only family member who never asked questions, thanks to seven lobotomy sessions. A day later, there was already a stack on Wednesday's desk with the address of Larissa's apartment, the state of current affairs at the academy, and even a list of the best Nevermore students. The woman's minute-by-minute daily routine simply screamed about the absence of any love interest in her life.

Everything was going perfectly and according to plan. Having collected everything necessary and most importantly — her book — Wednesday, accompanied by Larch, headed to the train station to finally meet the ghosts of the past and finally make peace with them. Or completely quarrel

So far, it looked more like the latter option. Wednesday looked at herself in the mirror once again and took a deep breath. Her nervousness and, as a result, inability to use tactful phrases, almost immediately crossed out the opportunities for a normal dialogue. Who pulled her tongue to say that Larissa is lonely, and her whole life revolves exclusively around the academy? It was cruel by all standards. Reflection, love, pity. How many more hidden feelings can the fatal Larissa Weems reveal in her?

Splashing icy water on her face, Wednesday turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom. What to do now — the girl did not come up with. But a small hope that Larissa would read her book nevertheless warmed her soul. Pulling on her underwear, barely covering her rounded charms, Wednesday lay down in bed and stared out the huge window, which was now black. As if hypnotized, Wednesday peered into the darkness of the night to quickly find herself in the long-awaited embrace of Morpheus, but for some reason immediately found herself in the warm embrace of beautiful Larissa Weems.

#larissa weems #gwendoline christie #wednesday addams #jenna ortega #love #fluff #cat #happy ending #christmas

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tempulian · 5 months ago

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Hi, so I'm wondering what exactly the Illusionist's powers are? Like electrokensis or eldritch ink manipulation?

Is the woman she haunts actually the woman she eventually possesses as her vessel?

For her comedy mask, is she also a theatre nerd and I wonder what her and King Midas' relationship is like?

First question: At the height of Illusionist's power, she could do quite a bit, but the general "thesis", is that she's a ghost that can influence the minds of others. She's not entirely corporeal (to her dismay), can disguise herself as others, walk through people's dreams, and trap people in nightmares of her own design. In the animatic, she is trapped in an incorporeal realm that she can influence, so she has a humanoid form that resembles how she appeared when she was alive, and the green magic on display is a mix of sending out her nightmares, but also her own theatrics... which I guess, in turn, would make her a theatrical person, but I wouldn't go as far as to call her a theater nerd. However, I did get a kick out of that :]

Second question: Oh boy. this one has a surprisingly long answer, but I'll give you the super short one for the sake of brevity: The woman the Illusionist haunts, Aine, is not her vessel, and she never possesses her. If the Illusionist ever could, half of her problems would be dealt with. Unfortunately, Aine is in Illusionist's body, and the Illusionist just wants it back. (if you want the longer explanation, just let me know, I'm working on a way to explain these two somewhat succinctly </3)

Third question: Imma be so honest, I designed her with the comedy-adjacent mask because I thought it looked creepy as hell, and was the vibe I wanted for an unnerving villain. The retroactive, diegetic explanation is when trying to find a way to hide her ghastly lack of face, a younger Midas grabbed a porcelain mask from an old stash of costumes and called it a day.

Fourth question: A direct quote from @peitalo ; "their relationship is like. Um,". A translation; Midas and the Illusionist bring out the worst in each other, but it works for them..? They both have an affinity for power, revenge, and bloodlust, and that - I guess - means they have romantic inclinations and are horrifyingly loyal to one another. It also is not helped by the fact that the Illusionist was lonely for a long time before meeting Midas. Being seen, helped, and heard is an easy recipe for attaching yourself to someone, especially when he does care about you.. in his fucked-up-evil-agenda kind of way. It's romantic in some ways, and disgusting in most other scenarios. They are not good people, and their relationship - on all accounts - is not good either. It is fun to put under a microscope though. Rattle them around in a jar and go "what the fuck".

#tempui asks #kingdomsmp #long post

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breadvidence · 3 months ago

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Okay finally getting around to the prompting:

I think about Valjean/Myriel a lot, but I can’t quite get it to work, and I also get overwhelmed thinking about the amount of work it would take to somehow wrangle that into a healthy (even just for LM/canon era standards) power dynamic, and also the religious aspects, and—

Maybe if you go to the other extreme and write <1000k in isolation, you can get around that? (… and maybe I should also give myself permission to do that, tbh)

(I wouldn’t judge if someone did write the pairing with a fucked up dynamic, but I don’t personally want to read that with this pairing.)

As with anything else I prompt: brick or whatever adaptation is fine, canon or modern era is fine, I trust your Skills! Only request is Not Excessively Sad

((You troublemaker! This was never gonna be only 1k. I came—closer than far?))

Late in the year 1817, a letter was delivered to the house of the Bishop of Digne in the evening, which his sister read to him, his eyes having already begun their decline, such that not two days prior while trying to decipher a note under uncertain candlelight he was heard to comment to the housekeeper, madam, it is even bets whether it’s games [jeux] on the page and eyes [yeux] in my head or the opposite.

The letter originated with a woman who made her home in Étaples—his connection with whom might have caused them some embarrassment in their youth, but which had become in the passage of fifty years quite tender—and detailed the conduct of a local businessman, charitable, of great faithfulness, with a certain skittishness about women, which limited his use to her, and to her pet causes, which proved most unfortunate, the businessman's pockets being very deep, to have sewn up their mouths against her elegant little fingers. Her attempts to leverage her local men to confer with the fellow had proved fruitless. Would sweet Myriel perhaps exert himself, as being both impressively holy for the good man’s sake and coltishly free with women on her behalf, in extending the influence of the crook?

He wrote to Madeleine, and received back in short order a letter of which his sister commented, This fellow has a palsy, I think. Look how the trembling of his hand shows in his writing. For all its brevity, it struck him with a humbleness sweet and unaffected, a sincerity of thanks, and he dictated to his sister a response which redoubled the respect shown to him, though the letter ended with Madeleine urging Monseigneur, you need not concern yourself with the pleasantries you opened your letter with, which are meant for someone much different than this simple man, who is pleased simply to be called ‘monsieur’, and given direct instruction, as a good farmer might direct his day-laborer in the field, who needs wisdom to know where the soil should be amended, or tilled, or left to rest, or planted with cover, or browsed over by the livestock.

The next day, with a very bright sun and clear skies to aid him, Myriel looked over the letter in the garden, and saw what Baptistine politely declined to describe: that, in addition to the wavering of his pen, this Madeleine wrote with the large and uneven hand of a man come to literacy late in life, with an uncertain orthography to match. He recognized by some of those peculiarities that the author spoke with a Brie accent, of the rural type. Two years near after that moment of contemplation, he asked Baptistine to find the first letter from Madeleine in his effects, and had it folded, and put into a kind of medallion, which he wore about his neck. She did not question this; she did not question her brother much; and in any case, she had read two years of many letters aloud, and taken in dictation her brother’s half of the correspondence.

She asked, once, Would you not caution M. Madeleine against committing such passion to the page?, in a tone of mercy, as the untouched address those afflicted by a great and hideous illness.

In the matter of schools for little children I think him quite incorrigible, he replied, for he wishes he had his own children, and must find some outlet. Tell him, will you, that I sign this letter with a kiss—and bring it to me, that I might not make a liar of myself.

Madame Magloire, much laid up in those days with gout, said from her warm corner by the fire, She means the talk of embracing in dreams, monseigneur, with the strong loins pressing close and such.

He cannot help, said Myriel, having dreams, or loins.

One matter created obscurity in the correspondence, and for Myriel, doubt: Madeleine could not be found in Montreuil-sur-Mer at those times when the Bishop of Digne might have taken leave of his duties to visit. These unhappy coincidences, the urgent nature of what called him away in each instance, did not convince—but the anguish expressed over the unavoidable separation did so. This obscurity became illuminated, and the shadowy worm within it therefore prompted into pupation as when Spring reminds what crawls of its potential for wings, in the year 1821, when Myriel dictated, The doctor here says I would be quite better served at lower elevation, where it is less cold in winters.

Come, then, Madeleine returned. Baptistine apostrophized on this, He is very bold in tone, but—poor, darling man—his hand shakes worse now than it did even at the start.

On his arrival in Montreuil-sur-Mer, helped down from the diligence, Myriel understood at once: he had met Madeleine before, under circumstances that Madeleine did not wish known, for he had set aside his old cassock for a modest gentleman’s outfit, and had never described his countenance, but quicker than Baptistine could have made a sign, there came a glad cry of greeting, stifled too late, and when he opened his arms, a close embrace. His hands, which sometimes grew troubled with heat and soreness, were kind to him that day: he clutched at strong shoulders, unashamed of what another man might call weakness of the knees, and he knew to be the dizzy transportation of love. Where before did this strong body present itself to him? He cared not, in the moment, though his agile mind would seize upon the mystery again.

They toured the town, Myriel’s hand in the crook of Madeleine’s elbow to guide him, and his voice to keep him here, a puddle—here, a child, oh, let me give him a coin, a moment, monsieur—and in the space between their bodies a heat that decades’ clerical chastity on the one hand and a lifetime of abnegation on the other could not suffice to snuff. Madeleine’s voice, low and sweet, grew rough in its weariness, unused to so much exercise, and persisted, and he said of himself, I am sorry, monseigneur, that you cannot see the smile that I wear for you, which has so shocked Widow Firmin. There is no sadness in it.

Myriel asked of him, Are we alone?

But for your sister, Madeleine returned, cautious.

And Myriel reached out, and traced his lips, and said, You have lied to me. There’s some sadness yet. It is very precious to me, to feel you, but where does this sorrow come from?

Madeleine kissed the fingertips offered to him, and did not answer, but directed their attention to some other matter, the school for the children of abandoned women, which had been Myriel’s first influence upon him, through the request of the friend in Étaples. He had detailed before by letter the story of a factory woman fallen far by his inattentiveness, his guilts moderated by Myriel’s response, and now said shyly that he would like to introduce them, Fantine being dear to him as a daughter might be, and her little girl—he spoke of the child with awe, like a mother with a newborn in her arms. An excellent distraction, for love finds joy in the loves of the one whom it adores.

Not until night fell, and Myriel had been given a bed all heaped with blankets and unwonted luxuries to which he submitted with fond grace, did the final banishment of doubt come. He said to the near-silent shadow: “I hear you, monsieur. A blind man’s ears ought to be pointed, to warn everyone of their sharpness.”

“The moon shone on you thus before,” Madeleine replied, in a rough Brie peasant’s tones, “but this is not how my body urged me to touch you, then.”

Myriel felt breath upon his forehead, and then the press of lips, soft and firm. Madeleine was not a man who hesitated, when he had finished with doubting.

Heat on his cheek, the words, “I still have your silver, monseigneur.”

“Sit beside me, my heart,” replied Myriel, who understood at last which sin his lover feared, and that it was not he, and forgave him his hesitations, his imperfect understandings, his haltings—of course; for they were both of them men, no more, and no less.

“I feel I should kneel,” Jean Valjean replied, in a tone of confusion. “Once, I would have knelt.” Instead, he sat, and reached out his hand to rest over a heart that beat steady and sure and quickening. As we draw breath to speak of what followed, we hear in our ears, gentle, a voice behind which is the rustle of wings, hush, that bids us to silence.

#fanfic (mine)#prompt fic

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