#frank wiles

[sherlockianscholar]

some (a lot of) illustrations from valley of fear by my favorite holmes' artist, frank wiles

[dailyholmes]

"'Cut out the poetry, Watson,' said Holmes severly." The Adventure of the Retired Colourman. Published in The Strand Magazine. Frank Wiles, 1927

Source

[skullislandproductions]

Baby Road Runner watches as baby Wile E. is about to experience the effects of gravity for the first time. “Little Go Beep” poster design by Tim Cahill, painted by Alan Bodner, lettering painted by Bill Franks, on a coffee mug given to the crew.

[incorrectlooneytunesquotes]

A composer is a gent who goes around forcing his will on unsuspecting air molecules, often with the assistance of unsuspecting musicians.

Wile E. Coyote to Carl Stalling

[voncel]

Mac is literally the cleanest of the gang, I don’t care that they dropped his bossiness a bit in later seasons but he was still the one cleaning Charlie and Frank’s apartment in “Mac and Dennis break up”, so I’ll just take that scene as representative of his entire character from now on, thank you very much

But seriously, it makes sense. We’ve seen his mom, how she’s a mess alone (and his father wouldn’t make much of a difference if he was present). Lots of people that grow up in an uncaring and messy environment tend to grow up and take cleaningness very seriously. I speak from personal experience when I say I get anxious when I see a messy bedroom precisely because it brings me back to my early childhood. Mac took the role of “man of the house” very seriously after his father went to jail, it’s very evident his bossiness and need to take care of people came from that. He NEEDS Dennis to need him, because if he doesn’t, what’s preventing him from just leaving?

Speaking of Dennis, I wouldn’t describe him as clean like other people have. He’s not messy, he likes to have things organized, but only to the extent of his own willingness to clean. I actually think Dennis would be very laidback in general, he grew up with maids and butlers and never actually lived on his own. His college dorm must’ve been a hellsite, though the majority of dorms usually are. Mac cleans after Dennis, metaphorically and literally.

This then leads me to think a bit more about their living dynamics (though I dwelve into more headcanon-y territory) like how Dennis probably takes care of the money aspects (tbf Frank’s credit card takes care of it), Mac does grocery shopping because I think if Dennis did it, he’d come back with like 4 protein bars and some apples to last them the whole month. Mac totally cleans Dennis’ room, atleast in minor ways like dusting and taking out the trash, wile Dennis keeps their apartment tidy by decorating shelves or keeping things in their places. It’s a silent part of their living arrangement and the kind of thing they’d never trade off.

[holmesillustrations]

Dogs Bracket is here! It turns out a lot of these dogs are horses, but there was exactly 32, which is perfect for our purposes 🐶🐴🦁

Currently on Semifinals

Most of us are i think familiar enough with the stories that this wont be a surprise, but just in case i do want to warn that a few of these illustrations feature violence against or by the animals in question, i'll tag those specifically when we get to their polls as 'animal violence'

Full list of competitors under cut:

(Illustrations in blue were already out, those in green have been newly eliminated)

[Colliers Cover Illustration] Missing Three-quarter, FD Steele

"On the ledge of rock above this strange couple stood three noble buzzards" Study in Scarlet, Charles Doyle

"He laid his hand upon the glossy neck." Silver Blaze, Sidney Paget

"Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs. Ronder, with the creature squatting and snarling above her." Veiled Lodger, FD Steele

"Silver Blaze" Silver Blaze, Sidney Paget

"Phosphorous!" I said. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"There's our man, Watson! Come along." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"The carriage rattled past." Missing Three-quarter, Sidney Paget

"There in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen" Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"THE DRIVER POINTED WITH HIS WHIP—'BASKERVILLE HALL,' SAID HE" Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"I SAW HIS EYES FIX THEMSELVES OVER MY SHOULDER." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"Holmes crouched behind the bush with the dog as the carriage approached." Shoscombe Old Place, FD Steele

"Running up, I blew its brains out." Copper Beeches, Sidney Paget

"Holmes gazed at it and then passed on." Abbey Grange, Sidney Paget

[Mycroft's brougham] Final Problem, Harry C. Edwards

[Woman with horse] Shoscombe Old Place, FD Steele

"As I slipped the bars it bounded out, and was on me in an instant." Veiled Lodger, FD Steele

"The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street." Missing Three-quarter, Sidney Paget

"Dog and man were rolling on the ground together, the one roaring in rage, the other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto of terror." Creeping Man, HK Elcock

"Holmes darted forward and barred their way." Lady Frances Carfax, Alec Ball

"They bundled him into a cab that was beside the kerb" Red Circle, HM Brock

[The professor and his dog] Creeping Man, FD Steele

"Holmes emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"We got off, paid our fare." Speckled Band, Sidney Paget

"We were to go to the theatre… suddenly he darted away into the fog." Bruce-Partington Plans, FD Steele

[MacPherson's Dog on the beach] Lion's Mane, FD Steele

"THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES." [Frontispiece] Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"How far to Wallington?" Cardboard Box, Sidney Paget

""Too late, Watson; too late!" cried Holmes" Solitary Cyclist, Sidney Paget

[Lion] Veiled Lodger, FD Steele

"At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel." Shoscombe Old Place, Frank Wiles

Full graphic with nothing greyed out:

And finally, i wanted to include every animal illustration, but i did leave out the two from Blue Carbuncle with dead geese, those are not dogs they are ingredience.

Edit: I realised i completely messed up the order of polls in the original bracket, all fine for round 1's results but would have caused problems for round 2. The current one is correct, but obviously had to be shuffled around a lot, so the numbers by each one show their order from round 1 for future reference, sorry bout that!

[homenecromancer]

im midway through rereading God-Emperor of Dune, so here are my reviews of all six Dune books

Dune: this book rules

Dune Messiah: this book also rules, but there are some telltale signs of how the series later goes off the rails

Children of Dune: the point at which i really begin to re-notice Frank Herbert’s deep flaws, but hell, he sure did commit to all his dumb ideas

God-Emperor of Dune: this is the book equivalent of when Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff and holds up a sign that says YIKES - you have not yet hit rock-bottom, but you can see it coming

Heretics of Dune: goddammit, Frank

Chapterhouse: Dune: GODDAMMIT, FRANK

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Ladies Whistledown - chapter ten

Pairing: Eloise x Penelope Rating: T Word Count: 3225

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four | five | six seven | eight | nine

As Marina Thompson, Penelope’s cousin had been a dangerous acquaintance for her to have. As the widowed Lady Crane, she was quite safe, quite respectable, and quite welcome back into the bosom of the Featherington family. It had not taken half a minute for Penelope to see this was not a welcome Marina particularly craved. Certainly, she was not needful of it, not now.

They had come in mourning, of course: Penelope, her mama, and Prudence. Philippa and Mr. Finch had joined them for the funeral, but Philippa had never had their mother’s scheming mind, and so lacked the wiles or inclination to hang about the Crane estate, waiting to see if Marina might find a use for her—and what that use might be worth.

Penelope had never felt so ashamed of her mother as in the first days of their stay. It was all too obvious that the woman who had once treated a young lady in precarious circumstances so shabbily was now attempting, sickeningly, to ingratiate herself with the titled, landed widow Marina had become. Penelope did not blame Marina for her coldness, or think her wicked for failing to shed a tear over her husband’s body in their presence. She owed them nothing, to Penelope’s mind. It was not their business whether Marina’s reserve was due to shock, the absence of grief, or simply not wanting Penelope’s mama to see her cry.

Following a week of nearly threadbare civility, Penelope’s mama took their hostess’s hint and departed with Prudence. Finally, Marina warmed a little. Penelope was there to receive it, and to stoke the faintly glowing embers of the girl she remembered as best she could.

“They are beautiful children,” Penelope praised.

They were in the nursery, watching over Marina’s babbling twins. This had been Penelope’s excuse; she would stay to help with Amanda and Oliver. As she was the younger of the unmarried Featherington daughters, her offer had been a logical one. Her mother did not require her for anything. She was easily spared. Still, Penelope had exhaled in relief when Marina accepted. It did not take long for Penelope to recognize that she had not been kept for her assistance with the children but as a companion for their mother. This was perfectly alright with her. She was only too eager—after she had used Whistledown to decimate her cousin’s marriage prospects, almost ruining her life—to make reparations where she could.

“They are caring and sweet. They are their father’s children,” Marina remarked, and Penelope guessed it was not to the late Sir Phillip her cousin referred.

“Do they…” Penelope bit her tongue, holding herself back from asking the impertinent question which had arisen all too quickly in her mind.

“Please just ask,” Marina said. Her voice was tired, her plea honest in its weariness. This was part of what she had hidden from the rest of the family.

Penelope took a breath.

“Do they miss Sir Phillip, do you think? Do they feel his loss?”

They had been standing, but Penelope’s questions compelled Marina to guide her over to the settee. For a moment, they watched the toddlers play.

“They are young, but they are more sensitive than you might imagine,” Marina explained. “Though his memory will grow a little dimmer for them each day, I do hope they retain something of it. Phillip was always most kind to them.”

Penelope eyed her cousin’s profile cautiously.

“…And to you?” she ventured.

Marina turned to gaze at her straight-on. Her expression was proud, challenging. She would not be pitied.

“As kind as I allowed him to be,” Marina said.

Penelope nodded to acknowledge this. She assumed that was to be the end of the conversation. Though Marina had not volunteered much, she had been frank and patient with Penelope. She did not say, Penelope, you could not understand. You have no husband, you have no children. Your ignorant inquiries are a trial. She did not say, Go home to your mama, little girl. She did not say, Penelope Featherington, what could you know of love?

Penelope did not presume love was their subject—except when Marina spoke of her children. She knew her cousin’s marriage had been pure practicality, and could see easily enough that tenderer feelings did not seem to have blossomed during Marina’s two years with Sir Phillip. She was a little surprised when her cousin spoke again, but not at the practical bent of her words.

“We have a comfortable house,” Marina said, gesturing about them, “and Phillip made provisions to ensure our continued residence. My son is a baronet.”

Smiling, Penelope momentarily bent to stroke the small back of this little baronet as he played with his wooden blocks.

“I am so glad you and the children are secure,” Penelope said. She was—more than Marina would ever know.

“We are deeply fortunate. I should not wish for more.”

“But you do.”

“Is it so easily guessed?” Marina wondered.

The question was not asked harshly. Penelope smiled gently in return.

“I knew you before,” she said.

Before—such a word! Every passing moment became a “before,” and even the “before” to which Penelope referred had not been so very long ago. What she meant by the word was the season Marina had passed with her family at Featherington House. When she said “before,” she knew she conjured for them both nights of secret camaraderie, letters passed between them which amounted to a sustaining correspondence, half-comprehended hints regarding the genesis of Marina’s condition. Sitting with Marina now worked to take Penelope back there, to that bedchamber and time. During that brief period, Marina had come to feel more like a sister to Penelope than Prudence or Philippa ever had. She could not help longing for a renewal of the confidence they had once shared. More than that, she wanted to be worthy of it.

“All I wanted then was my great love story,” Marina said.

“And you had it,” Penelope promised her, reaching for her hand and clutching it hard. “You may yet have another.”

“What if Phillip was the only other chance I will get?”

At last, Marina wept. Penelope held her close and felt the silent tears her cousin cried on her shoulder, the swaying rack of her body. Penelope’s eyes were wide with a mix of confusion and sympathy. She marveled at both Marina’s dread and her huge capacity for love—for these tears were surely for George, Sir Phillip, and herself, all at once. Much as she had done with Oliver, Penelope rubbed Marina’s back and tried to understand. Marriage, love, devotion—all of it was so much more complicated than Lady Whistledown ever properly made it out to be. What of the older eligible ladies, like Cressida Cowper? What of the once-engaged, like Prudence? What of the widows who had tasted love (whether in their marriage or elsewhere) and now stared stoically ahead at a future which seemed to promise only loneliness?

“I shall love you,” Penelope avowed fiercely. “Whatever else may happen, you shall have me.”

Though it was likely not enough, it was the truth, and for once, it was a truth that would not do Marina harm.

—

With one thing and another, and with not being in Mayfair, Penelope and Eloise did not see each other for a while, and in the meantime, summer fell deeper and deeper into autumn until a day came when the breeze no longer bore the heady scent of flowers. The breeze was no longer warm either. The days grew steadily shorter, and more and more often brought rain, October’s purplish-grey clouds swaying across the sky like windswept violets of May.

Penelope did not mind this dark, wet weather in the slightest as it was the perfect weather for writing. Her mama did not make her go out, rather bemoaning the lashing rain herself and shutting herself up with Varley to confront the family accounts instead of sashaying her way to teas and bridge parties, which would only have risked the ruin of her fascinators and silks. Prudence—staying with the Finches for a spell—was likewise occupied, so Penelope felt quite free to sit at her desk and scribble the hours away. There was nothing so pleasant, in her opinion, as the certitude of not being interrupted.

She put to paper idle thoughts and organized bits of gossip about unsavory gentlemen. She was compiling an account on each one; none of it need be published, unless a man should attempt to take in a debutante and her relations—at which point, Lady Whistledown would reveal all. This act of preparation was a satisfaction in itself, and one of the items Penelope made sure to keep Eloise apprised of in their frequent letters. Letters to Eloise were, naturally, Penelope’s very favourite things to write.

However, Eloise’s replies were not always wholly pleasing. There was nothing so awful as a portent of another violent rending of their friendship. No, their friendship was as firm as ever it had been, for which fact Penelope remained grateful every day. Unfortunately, Eloise’s generous and forgiving heart seemed to have lately made room for another—not another best friend, not a rival, but another. Penelope might not have been so troubled by the connection had it not been with Cressida Cowper.

Not unpleasant—that was how Eloise had described an afternoon recently spent in Cressida’s presence. Evidently, they had not come together by design, but found themselves neglected in the same drawing room corner. A conversation that had been struck up for perfunctory politeness had unexpectedly, Eloise had written, become almost delightful after she had made a dry joke which provoked an unexpected laugh from Cressida. Penelope had frowned reading this. Did she want Eloise to be lonely? No. Did she wish for Cressida’s misery? Rarely! But Penelope could not help it, she did not like the thought of Eloise and Cressida becoming friends. It gave her a sick feeling she quickly recognized as jealousy.

But as the letters continued to come, Penelope learned to endure mention of Cressida. It was Penelope Eloise was writing to, Penelope with whom Eloise shared her feelings and impressions. There could be no doubt that they remained first in one another’s thoughts. This cheered Penelope through every thunderstorm, her nib scratching across yet another page of their rich correspondence.

Penelope grew so used to her solitude that she was surprised the day Varley poked her head through the door to announce a visitor. She wondered if it might be Marina, though she could not imagine her cousin returning to this house with much eagerness, or shepherding the twins hither. Perhaps something else had happened and necessity compelled her to come, putting Oliver and Amanda’s wellbeing above her own feelings. Perhaps they were to be turned out of the Crane estate! It had not been terribly long since Featherington House had nearly been snatched from Penelope’s family as easily as a dollhouse from three garishly-dressed dolls; she remembered very well thinking she had been about to lose her home right after losing her papa. She remembered the fear.

Coming out from behind her desk, Penelope hurried to the door of her bedchamber, but Varley blocked her way. She touched Penelope’s arm and spoke softly: “It is Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Colin?”

Varley nodded.

Well, that was… Penelope was glad it was not an emergency. She presumed it was not, though it was odd of Colin to visit her. Here. Alone. For the briefest moment, as Penelope strode to the drawing room, she suspected Eloise must be with him. But no, she knew Varley would have said.

Sure enough, Colin stood alone in the room. Penelope felt deeply relieved that, for once, her mother had ventured out, despite the rain. When she entered, Colin turned and greeted her with a smile. Penelope returned it, then looked back at Varley.

“It is only Colin,” she said.

“Yes, Miss.”

It took no more than that to convince Varley to leave them unchaperoned, even closing the door on her way out. Penelope had never found Varley to be an unkind creature, but the woman certainly thought very much as Penelope’s mama did on most subjects, not excluding the eligibility of a certain youngest daughter. Colin was no danger to her, they clearly believed, and this was because she was not the sort of young lady he would be dangerous with should they find themselves shut in a room together. Penelope would not dwell on it. She received her visitor with pleasure.

“Shall I call for tea?” she offered.

“No, thank you,” Colin said. “I would prefer we remain undisturbed.”

He took a seat on the chaise and looked expectantly at her. As Penelope moved to join him, she felt a soft flutter in her chest. It was not the butterfly sensation she had once experienced when he made her laugh or pressed her hand or caught her eye with a certain mischief in his. It felt more like that sensation’s echo. She had not thought about his words to the other gentlemen about her in some time. When she prodded the memory now, Penelope discovered it did not ache the way it used to, and her image of Colin, while no longer the faultless golden portrait it had been, had not been razed. It was simply more complete.

“I am surprised by your visit,” she confessed once seated. “Your sister mentioned you were to embark on your travels.”

“Eloise does not mislead you.” Colin smiled.

“I imagined you might already be away.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully and said, “I meant to be. My plans… changed.”

“Do you now not intend to go? You once expressed such a desire to see Spain!”

Penelope could recall that particular conversation almost in full; the special affection she had held for Colin previously had seemed to make her memory of each encounter brighter than other memories. And what she had most loved to hear him speak of had been his travels—past and intended. It had not only been his vivid descriptions of places, foods, and peoples she had enjoyed, but how his face lit up when he was speaking of them.

“I do,” Colin assured her eagerly. “I will. It is only a delay—but, I believe, a significant one.”

“Whatever could you mean?” Penelope wondered.

She had spoken slightly woodenly. Between Colin’s words and his look, something alarmed her. If things had been different, if they had retained the closeness Colin might not yet be fully aware they had lost, she might have suspected the next words from her guest would be a proposal.

“May I tell you something, Pen?” he inquired earnestly. At Penelope’s faint nod, Colin revealed, “I mean to see Marina—Lady Crane.”

“Oh.”

She was still digesting this news when he went on, “Needless to say, I will need to allow some more time to pass, for propriety’s sake. Her husband’s death was so sudden—”

“You mean to ask Marina to marry you?” Penelope fairly blurted the question, and it was hardly a question, more a rush of understanding that escaped her brain through her mouth.

If the question was rude, Colin did not show it. He appeared far too caught up in his own plans, anxious and awkward, and yet determined—determined as Penelope felt she had never seen him before.

Indeed, he was blushing as he confirmed, “Yes, I think I do.”

“But why do you speak to me about it?” Penelope cried out.

She could not help her heightened emotional state. Here was Colin, who she had once wanted for herself, who had himself once wanted her cousin, whose chances Penelope had dashed in Whistledown. And now—and now!—Penelope no longer dreamed of being his wife, but she had seen Marina’s loneliness, and now saw before her Colin’s fervour for exactly the second chance for which Marina had seemed to pine. It was almost overwhelming. A feeling rose in Penelope which reminded her of how she had felt when Colin had been on the brink of proposing to Marina before. But it was only a memory of a feeling, and it subsided after a moment, and Penelope was able to avert her eyes from Colin’s face; she feared she may have been regarding him with something like horror.

“I suppose I thought…” Colin trailed off. “I…”

“Please, Colin.” Penelope heard herself, and thought it sounded like a plea for mercy for her younger self.

“I felt I had to come to you to… check it is alright before I proceed. I cannot quite explain, but I feel… I feel I need your blessing.” Penelope looked up at him then. His eyes implored her. “Do you know, I don’t believe I can do this without you.”

Penelope took a deep breath.

When she spoke, she said, “Of course you can.”

“Then perhaps I do not want to.”

“I think your pursuit of Marina would be most natural,” Penelope granted. “Circumstances”—me, she thought—“were against you in the past. If Marina is truly who you want, then you must try for her.”

“I have wanted no other,” Colin said. “Except…”

He looked Penelope in the eye for a moment then. She saw their shared history, and how, for one of them, a childhood of laughter and closeness had matured into dearer feelings. For the other, this had not happened, but the friendship had been rewarding nonetheless, the trust never knowingly breached. There was a flicker in Colin’s eyes that suggested there might have been a time—or even just a moment, a moment like this one—when he had seen what else they might have been to one another. Penelope blinked and Colin smiled at her in nothing more than friendship.

“I wish I knew if I had any chance,” he said. “Nothing is ever sure.”

“No,” Penelope agreed, “but it is not hopeless. Far from it. I think Marina will be most happy to see you.”

“And to receive my suit?”

Penelope smiled.

“I cannot speak for her.”

“If she does not discourage me—and I shall know at once; your cousin can be quite blunt—I will make Marina a promise before I go abroad. Our engagement may begin upon my return, when she is out of her mourning period. Does that seem…?”

“Entirely appropriate,” Penelope promised.

“Good. Thank you, Pen.” He put out his hand to her and they shook. When their hands dropped, Colin gave her a very serious look. “If I can ever do anything for you, you need only ask.”

“I ask only that you write to me during your travels. I do enjoy your letters.”

“That I can readily agree to, as I believe your enjoyment in reading them is surpassed only by my enjoyment in writing.”

Penelope understood this completely. The ink stains between her fingers and on the side of her hand were testaments to her own love of writing. While her pages did not contain adventurous tales of far-flung locales, they probed the human heart and mind, attempting to puzzle out some of their complexities. This study was a great undertaking in its own right.

When Colin departed to speak with Marina, Penelope returned to composing her latest letter to Eloise.

[swamprats4077]

Favorite Moments & Quotes ➡ 1.24 - Showtime

↪ Frank pranks Hawkeye.

This like if Wile E. Coyote caught the Road Runner. Of course Hawkeye gets Frank back in the end. 😄

[little-wicked10]

My Sultan (Nandor the Relentless x ofc🥵)

Summary: While the boys are away, Nadja and Nandor’s human lover have a girls night in of swapping juicy secrets. Nadja reveals to her mortal friend that Nandor gets a hard on when being called “sultan”, the ultimate position of power and dominance for a once great and aspiring Ottoman general. Nadja, and the whole house, will soon realize what Nandor is capable of.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (EXPLICIT!!! Seriously) and cursing

( // means it cuts to, from, or between interviews, documentary/not documentary footage, and perspective)

——

It was odd that Nadja had not joined the boys on a hunt. She loved the thrill of a good feeding followed by feral lovemaking with her husband. Regardless of the reason behind her staying put, I was happy to have my friend in the house to keep me company. “Come, little one, let us indulge in a, as you humans say, girls night,” she smiled giddily as she led me to the fancy room. It was strange to hear her say it, but I was all for her enthusiasm.

//

“Nandor and I met when he approached me on the street claiming I was some Greek princess or goddess,” I said crossing my legs as I sat across from the camera crew.

“Did you find that strange?” a crewman asks.

I laughed, “Of course I did. I thought he was one of those weird LARPing guys or an Emo kid that never grew out of that phase. His approach was definitely random and odd.”

//

“The night I met my mortal lover, Laszlo had pointed her out as a potential meal. An easy on-the-go snack,” Nandor admitted while seated in an ornate chair in the library, “I approached her to hypnotize her, but instead she bewitched me with her feminine wiles….not my proudest moment as a warrior.”

//

“I thought him mad when my great warrior friend nearly fell to his knees for some woman. A mortal one at that. Then I found it quite funny,” Laszlo complained.

“I myself was not surprised,” Nadja added, “I’ve had a great many mortal lovers in my time. And to be frank, Nandor does not have a good reputation among lady vampires.”

Both husband and wife laugh, clearly remembering the blunders of Nandor’s string of failed attempts at finding a partner.

“Though mortal, I do admire the young lady,” Laszlo adds once through laughing, “She’s got moxie, as the Americans say. And she makes sure the bloody oaf blows out the candles so he won’t burn the fucking house down.”

“Yes, that is a plus,” Nadja chimes in, “Also, I don’t have many ‘girl’ friends. It’s exciting to have another woman to talk to. At least one who understand trying to be in a relationship with an idiot vampire.”

//

Nadja and I had decided to drink. She opted for her stash of wino’s blood while I took advantage of my own bottle of red wine. After each drinking two glasses and feeling a wonderful buzz, we decided to rummage through the boys’ clothes. Laszlo was forever stuck in the Victorian era. “Oh try this one on!” Nadja threw a puffy pirate shirt at me and a scarf with some garish and dark pattern. I giggled and threw the shirt over my clothes before Nadja came to my aid to tie the scarf around my neck.

“Did he steal all this from a homosexual pirate?”

Nadja, with blood alcohol on her breath, laughed as she finished the knot, “A…a homosexual pirate!”

Her laughter made me laugh even more as I gave my best pirate Laszlo impression, “Argh! I’m Laszlo Cravensworth! I’ve come for yer booty!”

Nadja stumbled a bit as she laughed and returned to the closet door way, sipping on her third glass of blood to find her something to scrutinize. She put on ANOTHER of his pirate shirts and a waist coat before we both began acting like pirate Laszlo.

“We should see what Nandor has!” I said as the idea popped into my buzzed brain.

“You are so brilliant, little mortal!” Nadja said as she lightly smacked her head wishing she had thought of it.

We both scurried out to the bedroom of my boyfriend. After another glass for each of us and throwing on Nandor’s strange Persian hats and his fur-lined cloaks, we sat in the fancy room talking about the men whose entire wardrobe we ransacked.

“Ok, ok. What does Laszlo like to be called in bed…or coffin I guess,” I asked very bubbly.

“His highness,” Nadja replied with a regal tone in her voice.

“You’re kidding? His highness?” I giggled as I leaned back against the couch.

“The second I call him that,” she snaps her fingers, “straight at attention.”

We both knew the camera crew was having a hay day with us spilling dirty secrets about our love and sex lives in front of them. I doubt it wasn’t anything the vampires haven’t overshared already. “What about donkey dick, hm?” Nadja asked.

“Besides that he has one?” I smirked and held my hands up to show, exaggeratedly, the size of my man’s dick.

Nadja made a face of disgust before repeating her question, “No, no. Ew. What does Nandor like to be called when making love?”

“I don’t call him anything. Just his name,” I answered truthfully.

Nadja’s face suddenly became very mischievous. Her red lips turned up into a playful smirk making the tips of her fangs appear, “Oh, he hasn’t told you yet?”

I looked at her curiously. She studied my face before gasping and rushing to my side and sitting beside me on the couch. “You must know what I’m about to tell you!” She exclaimed grabbing my shoulders.

I glanced at the camera before looking back to her, “Should I be scared?”

She smirked, “No, but I believe you will thank me once you realize the power this secret has.”

Now I’m interested.

//

The men returned from their hunt expecting to hear their women chatting away or waiting for them naked and willing (at least that’s what they kept hoping for). “I say a good hunt, old sport. You’ve not lost your ways of the warrior,” Laszlo complimented as he took off his hat to give to Guillermo.

“Thank you, Laszlo. You did very well in selecting our prey,” Nandor complimented in return.

After removing his coat and patting the pockets of his waist coat, Laszlo looked around, “Now where is my darling succubus of a wife? That feeding has me in the mood to storm the castle, if you catch my drift, Nandy.”

“I too wish to engage in the sexy times with my love,” Nandor admits.

Both men call out to their women with no answer. They both sniff the air and begin to follow the smell of wine and blood. Their noses lead them to the Fancy Room and Laszlo pulls back the curtain to reveal a funny sight. Both women are dressed in a strange assortment of each of their clothings and spooning, Nadja obviously being the big spoon, on the couch using one of Nandor’s cloaks as a blanket.

“I say, old chap, I have no fucking clue what happened here, but I’m slightly aroused by it,” Laszlo admits.

“Why are they wearing our clothes?” Nandor asks.

//

“What’s sex like with Nandor?” a producer asks.

I sigh and think a moment, “Sex with Nandor is wonderful. A lot better than with a human man. We’ve yet to have rough sex just, as he and everyone in this house says, make love. But that might change after what Nadja told me last night.”

//

“My darling human loves our lovemaking. I’ve yet to not satisfy her,” Nandor brags, “And I am very satisfied with her as well.”

“She said that you’ve not had rough sex yet. Why’s that?” producer asks.

“I don’t think my little human is interested in such things. Plus my vampire strength could kill her if I am not careful,” Nandor admits, “so there is that.”

//

I had it planned perfectly. Nadja and I had talked about it at length until we passed out.

I sat in the library with Laszlo and Nadja. Nandor and Guillermo were about to return from going to the store, and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. I’m not ashamed of my sex life with Nandor. In this house, it wasn’t hard to get familiar with the vampires and their sexual proclivities. Nadja and Laszlo certainly weren’t quiet about any of it.

The front door opened then closed, and I could hear Nandor and Guillermo talking. I glanced over at Nadja who gave me a knowing look and I adjusted the black silk robe I wore. Not uncommon for me to wear around the house since Nandor could be insatiable at times. If I’m being honest, Nadja looked just as excited as I felt. “Good evening, everyone. My darling,” Nandor greeted leaning down and kissing my head.

“Laszlo, I picked up new ascot for you since I accidentally used your other one as a napkin,” Nandor apologized handing Laszlo a little black box.

“I’m going to my crypt to watch Guillermo reorganize my closet,” Nandor gave Nadja a sideways glance before turning to retreat down the hall.

I jumped up to sit on my knees and lean against the back of the couch before calling to him, “Should I join you, my sultan?”

Nandor froze in his tracks. Laszlo choked on his pipe. I smirked playfully at Nandor’s back, “Or will you not be need my services tonight?”

I heard Nadja giggle with delight as Laszlo continued to choke, “S-Sultan?” Nandor slowly turned around and the look on his face was strange, intense. He suddenly rushed toward me, his boots echoing on the wood floor. When he stood before me, he made me look up at him with a finger under my chin, “What did you say?”

“Oh shit,” Laszlo said before Nadja shushed him. I could feel both of them staring at us intensely.

“Will you not be needing my services tonight, my sultan?” I batted my eyelashes innocently with a smirk still on my lips.

Laszlo whispered, “Why the fuck does she keep calling him that?”

Nandor barred his fangs a bit, “Crypt. Now.”

I guess he decided I wasn’t going to be fast enough because he had me thrown over his shoulder. I shrieked and laughed as my warrior carried me off. “Do not disturb us for we will be engaging in sexy times,” Nandor shouted. He slammed the door of his crypt shut and locked it before tossing me on his couch layered with furs. I watched as he threw off his over coat. His red and gold tunic just made him look all the more powerful for some reason.

“Where did you learn to call me that?” he asks stepping towards me.

“A woman has her ways,” I began untying the belt of my robe, “Does it not please you, my sultan?”

Nandor growled and rolled his neck at the name, “You have no idea how much it does.”

I opened my robe to reveal my naked body to him, rubbing my thighs together, “Show me. Take what you want then, great warrior.”

Nandor pounced on me like a beast. He held my neck firmly in one hand and claimed my lips in a bruising kiss, pinning me beneath him. His hips shoved against mine making me gasp and roll mine for friction. He bit my bottom lip and I felt his fang puncture it and cause the taste of blood to fill both our mouths. Nandor groaned and he pulled away, sitting up enough to rip my robe to shreds as he licked my blood from his lips, “Your Sultan wants to taste more than blood tonight, my desert flower.” He leant down and trailed his lips along my jaw, down my neck, towards my chest, letting his fangs graze the swell of my breasts and making me shiver. The heat was rising and twisting in my body from watching him change so quickly and give into something more dominant. It felt like I was going to explode with anticipation.

I grasped the arm of the couch above my head with both hands and prepared as he reached the apex of my thighs, spreading my legs roughly and digging his strong fingers into my thighs. “I will have my fill of you, and you will not push me away,” he ordered.

“Yes, my sultan,” the smirk forming on my lips changed into an ‘o’ as he devoured my cunt. I felt his tongue enter me and his nose press into my swollen clit. “Na-Nandor!” I cried which spurred him to fuck me with his mouth even more. I rolled my hips into his mouth and held the arm of the couch with one hand while the other tangled into his hair. Nandor moved his mouth to suck on my clit and shoved two thick fingers inside me and curled them. I keened and arched my back off the couch, grasping his head with both hands.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Nandor!” These words were like a song and the only ones my mind could form.

I was sped towards the edge so quickly that I crashed over the edge before I knew it, my whole body shaking. Nandor didn’t stop as he replaced his fingers with his tongue and threw my legs over his shoulders. My obscene cries and moans increased as I pushed on his shoulders to slow down but that only resulted in him taking my hands and pinning them to my sides. Tears pricked my eyes as I was at the mercy of his overstimulating, delicious torture. I held on to his hands for dear life as the feeling of his tongue fucking me and his fangs slightly grazing against me became too much, “T-too m-much! Nandor!”

His only response was to growl and reach up and pinch my clit between his fingers. Something snapped inside me and my vision went black around the edges.

//

There was suddenly a loud scream full of ecstasy echoing from Nandor’s room. Laszlo didn’t even look up from his book, “Well done, old chap.”

//

It felt like the aftershocks of having electricity running through my body. I trembled with a wonderful euphoric feeling as Nandor released me to collapse back onto the couch so he could crawl up my body. When I opened my eyes, I saw Nandor’s handsome face completely soaked. “We are not finished yet, my mortal concubine,” he smirks, lust having blown his pupils.

“Yes,” I gasped, “Yes, sultan.”

“Let your sultan conquer every part of you,” he growled, and before I knew it, he was completely undressed, cold body against mine.

He threw my legs around his waist and pinned my hands to the couch arm before spearing me with his cock. I cried and moaned as he stretched me. Nandor fucked me at a brutal pace that had my eyes rolling to the back of my head and my toes curling.

//

Laszlo and Nadja were both huddled by Nandor’s door. After that last orgasm, neither could resist trying to see what was going on. Nadja had her ear pressed to the door while Laszlo was kneeled down trying to look through the peephole. “I’m so proud of our little human. Very much being the seductress I knew she was,” Nadja smiled.

“I’ll be honest, I never thought Nandor could fuck like that,” Laszlo admitted, “Why hasn’t he fucked us like that in our orgies?”

“My darling, there’s ‘orgy’ sex and then there’s ‘making love to your love’ sex,” Nadja explained.

Both husband and wife were jolted away from the door when two bodies slammed against the other side of it.

//

Nandor had thrown my legs over his shoulders and was fucking me into the door. His mouth was only an inch from mine, breathing each others air while ravishing one another like we will die tomorrow. The door creaked every time he thrust into me and all I could do was hold on to his neck as he took what he wanted. “The whole house will know who rules over this body,” Nandor grunted, “Tell me who does.”

“Y-you do! Y-ou! Fuck you feel so good in-inside me!” I panted like a bitch in heat.

“Your sweet cunt keeps pulling me back in,” Nandor growled before he moved my legs to wrap around his waist and sunk his fangs into my neck.

I moaned and gripped his black hair tightly as an overwhelming feeling of euphoria spread throughout my body. This was the first time he had ever fed on me while fucking, and I now know why Nadja went on and on about it last night. It felt like the pleasure was in my veins and effecting every single sense. It felt so intimate and raw. I couldn’t describe it with the right words if I wanted to.

Before I could blink, we had moved off the door and back on the couch. I was bent over the arm with Nandor’s chest pressed to my back and his hips thrusting deep and hard as he licked away the blood around the puncture wounds. He jerked my head back by my hair so his mouth was near to my ear, “You’re blood drives me mad, my dearest. Just as my cock does you.” His other hand snaked around to grip tightly on one of my breasts, tweaking my nipple and slapping the sensitive flesh. I could only moan as my answer. It truly felt like I was being conquered by a warrior, and I loved being at his mercy.

Every time I tried to speak, it came out as gibberish mixed with moans and whines. My mind was fuzzy and only focused on the feeling of his cock pushing me closer and closer to another orgasm. Nandor pushed my shoulders down to the couch with the hand in my hair allowing him to thrust directly into my g-spot. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, and I screamed his praises as I felt a gushing explosion around his cock. He shoved himself as deep as he could inside me and released his seed with a mighty roar as my vision blacked out.

Nandor fell on top of me, his forehead resting against my temple. All was silent except for his feral panting and my quiet whimpers. I felt his fingers untangle from my hair and his hands wonder along my convulsing body in an attempt to bring me back to reality. “Sssh, my darling,” he whispered in my ear as he left gentle kisses along my face and neck. I suddenly felt the weight of his body begin to leave mine and his cock being removed from inside me. I whined desperately and grabbed his neck to keep him from disappearing. I could still feel him throbbing inside me and my body wasn’t ready to feel empty just yet. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, worry laced in his words. I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, my love. I was too rough with you. And I did not ask permissions to feed on you,” he chided himself. My man had returned from being a conquering sultan.

“N-no. No, Nandor. J-just need a m-moment. P-please d-don’t leave,” I managed to stutter.

Nandor seemed to understand, and he began to delicately change our position. I felt him move us to be laying on our sides with my back to his chest, never once disconnecting us. He wrapped his arms around me and comforted me until my body stopped shaking. “I must leave your insides before you arouse me for another round of sexy times,” he whispered. I nodded my head, whimpering as I felt him gently slip out of me and a rush of our releases spilled out with an obscene sound.

“Was it as satisfactory for you as it was me?” he asked.

“More than satisfactory, my love,” I smiled as I took his hand to kiss the back of it.

“Mm good because I will be ready to go again in a few minutes,” he admitted.

“Really?” I asked shocked, “Nandor, I need to recoup for a minute.”

Suddenly, I felt him harden against my back as he gripped me tighter, “I still have more conquering to do.”

[dailyholmes]

"Holmes sat upon the floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the books all round him, and one open upon his knees." The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger. Published in The Strand Magazine. Frank Wiles, 1927

Source

[skullislandproductions]

The “wet cement” image, from my previous post, here, painted by Craig Kelly, as it appears in the credits for “Little Go Beep,” with the list of animators, as well as an acknowledgment to the great Chuck Jones.

[incorrectlooneytunesquotes]

Putting on the spectacles of science in expectation of finding an answer to everything looked at signifies inner blindness.

Wile E. Coyote 

[lexie-squirrel]

The Valley of Fear illustration by Frank Wiles (1914)

[pinkacadessays]

Jackie, Marilyn, and Elle: Comparing and Contrasting two ICONS to remind us that Warner was WRONG

Too BLONDE?? An Introuction

Elle Woods’ iconic journey in Legally Blonde is prompted by Warner Huntington III breaking up with her.The comments made are how Warner needs to be “serious,” and the deep blow of how if he’s to be a senator, he needs to marry “a Jackie, not a Marilyn.”

While in the musical, the scene adds an implication that Warner thinks Elle is “tacky,” Elle’s thought process leads her to summarise Warner’s viewpoint as being that Elle is “too blonde.”

Warner sees Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy as being two polar opposites- one the sultry actress knows for ‘bimbo’ film roles, and the other the respectable wife of the President of the United States.

But Elle can’t fathom differences between these women aside from their appearance.

Let us analyse what can be compared and contrasted between two iconic women.

In the climax of Legally Blonde, Elle discovers that Chutney Wyndham is the real perpetrator due to her knowledge of hair care. As Elle notes, “any Cosmo girl would’ve known.” It is Elle’s feminine knowledge that guides her to victory in her very first trial. With that in mind, let us examine the feminine knowledge of Marilyn and Jackie as our real-life role models to Elle Woods, and uncover just why she sees so little difference between these fascinating women.

A note before we begin: this is not a competition. But Warner sees it that way, and the purpose therefore is to remind him just how wrong he is.

Marilyn Monroe: Political Powerhouse

Firstly, Marilyn Monroe is known to most as either the glamorous actress of 1950s films- such as the notorious Gentlemen Prefer blondes, which certainly could have influenced Elle’s mindset, especially with the pink drama of the Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend sequence. Others may know her from regularly recreated images, such as her holding her blowing-up skirt from The Seven Year Itch, or the pop art portrait by Andy Warhol.

Either way, the most prominent images in the heads of many in regards to Marilyn Monroe are glamorous, sexy, feminine- and blonde and pink, of course.

Famously, like Elle, Marilyn’s femininity and sex appeal lead her to being boxed into roles of the comedic blonde bombshell, though the fought to be out of her typecasting.

After the success of “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” and “How to Marry a Millionaire,” Marilyn was offered what would have been a third ‘dumb blonde’ in “The Girl in Pink Tights,” she not only refused, but CNN’s article ‘How Marlyn took the male-led film industry and flipped it on its head” notes that she reportedly labelled it “Trash.”

In that same article, Mira Sorvino is quoted. “She was the main attraction,” the actress notes, saying “she was the reason people flocked to the theatre. So it was insane that she wasn’t in a more powerful position in terms of salary.” The reference here is to Marilyn’s discovery that Frank Sinatra, her would-be co-star in “The Girl in Pink Tights” was offered $5000, while Marilyn was offered $1,500- a third of Frank’s pay.

The article points out that Marilyn’s contract was changed after the snub, showing Marilyn to be valuing her feminine charm and wiles that made her studio so much money and garnered them so much attention. Is this why Warner does not wish for Elle to see Marilyn as aspirational, given she was something of an upstart?

Not to mention, Warner doesn’t seem like the biggest advocate for equal pay…

A lesser-known contribution that Marilyn made to her society was in the civil rights movement, drawing attention to Ella Fitzgerald.

The Biography article by Sara Kettler titled “Ella Fitzgerald and Marilyn Monroe: Inside Their Surprising Friendship” opens with a photo of the songstress and the starlet smiling together in conversation. Kettler notes how Marilyn helped Ella get a gig in Mocambo, the famous LA nightclub. Marilyn “promised to come every night” that Ella was booked, and to “bring along other celebrities.” With this promise of publicity, Ella was granted several weeks employment at the famous club.

Kettler also notes that, despite Ella’s success, some clubs would hire Ella, but still have her enter through the side door “due to the colour of her skin.” In order to combat such prejudice, Marilyn “refused to go inside unless both she and Fitzgerald were allowed through the front doors.

Marilyn may not have been dying on the front lines of the civil rights movement, but she was using her status to forward the career of someone directly affected by said movement.

Marilyn used a name built as a blonde bombshell in order to be an influential activist, just as Elle Woods being a Cosmo girl is what won her her first legal trial.

Have we emphasised enough that Warner doesn’t know his rear end from his elbow when it comes to powerful women? Perhaps Warner doesn’t want a Marilyn, not because she’s blonde, but because she was an upstart who knew her own mind and fought to make her own way in the world. Is that just too much for him to handle?

Jackie Kenney: First Lady of Fashion

On the side of Jackie Kennedy, later Jackie Onassis, she is of course best known due to her time as First Lady of the United States. She was from a respectable family, studied French literature in university, and is perceived largely as classy, elegant, and educated. To this day, she is cited as an image of grace, with This week in Libraries magazine writing “In the realms of elegance, poise, and grace, one name reigns supreme- Jackie Kennedy.”

While Jackie’s other accomplishments are not to be overlooked, let us focus on traditionally feminine aspects of life that she has embodied to remember the value of both aspects of her, and of Elle.

As Vogue writes, “Before Jackie graced the halls of the White House, she trod those of this very magazine,” referring to her job as junior editor of Vogue, immediately showing that, like Elle, Jackie not only had political potential, but fashion icon potential early on in her life.

It should be noted that Jackie “quit by mid-morning,” as the environment was not suited to her goals, however, she is still heavily associated with the magazine as she contributed to salvaging the Temple of Dendur, which has played host to the Met Gala, as noted by Vogue.

This Week in Libraries also notes Jackie as a “Style Icon,” praising her boucle suits, pearls, and, of course, her pillbox hats- the latter being described as “synonymous  with her name.”

It’s also not just her connection with Vogue that cements Jackie’s name in the world of fashion, as countless articles have addressed her style as “timeless” or “iconic,” so why exactly does Warner have such an issue with committing to a woman with a degree in fashion merchandising?

Town and Country’s list “11 Brands Jackie Kennedy Loved” notes how Gucci named the Jackie bag after her, and I wish for that kind of influence for Elle Woods, which I thibk highlights just how much of an influence that Jackie would have potentially had on Elle.

Warner, your Jackie was in front of you all along.

And of course, while steeped in tragedy, it is nonetheless fair to say that one of the most iconic images of Jackie is of her pink suit on the day of her husband’s assassination. Loathe to overlook the horrors of such an event, but be that as it may, it emphasises that Jackie Kennedy is just as pink and pretty as Marilyn Monroe.

In the Legally Blonde sequel Red, White, and Blonde, Elle even sports a tribute to this suit, which really sends home how far Warner is from the mark.

On that note, let us now discuss beautiful pink outfits worn by Jackie to intensify how connected Jackie can be to Elle. Firstly, the aforementioned suit became an iconic moment of defiance as Jackie bore the bloodstains, cited as saying “let them see what they’ve done.”

She also had a similar sleeveless suit designed by Oleg Cassini, as well as a matching coat and hat worn in New Delhi.

One of her other beautiful pink moments was a floor length, strapless Dior gown worn with white opera gloves. Other pink outfits include a dress with a unique pink bow detail by Joan Morse, and a high-collared suit by Oleg Cassini. The point here is not to simply list pink outfits, but to remind us that a woman- such as Elle- can be fashionable, elegant, and bright pink, AND be a force of change.

Elle Woods knows that Marilyn and Jackie had it all: fashion girl status, and cultural and political know-how; and frankly, it’s lucky for her that Warner knew less about these iconic women than she did.

Always have Faith in Yourself

And to my masculine girls, you’re the real winners here, because Warner would probably be threatened by your vibes. Not only are you valid, but take comfort in not attracting Warner Huntington III.

Let us remember to value our own self worth, just as Elle did when she shows us all how valuable she could be- and she did it in a playboy costume.

WE DID IT!! To Conclude

In conclusion, my place is not to overlook one woman, or pit her against another; it is not to overlook one woman’s achievements and put them against the achievements of another woman; it is not even to claim traditional femininity as a pinnacle of achievement, or to explore what it means to be a feminist, or anything so grandiose.

My intention here is just to remind us all, whether we relate more to the story of a Marilyn or a Jackie, to always have faith in ourselves, and to always remember that the Warner Huntington III we have in our own lives is a bonehead.

[holmesillustrations]

Left: “Sherlock Holmes shot his long, thin, nervous arm out of the sheets and drew an envelope from the inside pocket of the coat which hung beside him.” Illustrious Client, HK Elcock, The Strand Feb-Mar 1925 Characters: Watson, Holmes

Right: “"Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely.” Retired Colourman, Frank Wiles, The Strand Jan 1927 Characters: Watson, Holmes