#he an entertainer. hes dramatic and theatrical. hes social

[springlock-suits]

Thinking about. Circus William again

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Summary: You beg Bucky for ten more minutes in bed with you. Pairing: Bucky x f!reader Word count : 1.5k Warnings: fluff

This was the exact reason he hadn’t wanted a phone. The infernal sound that was coming out of it often made him regret the need for the obnoxious device.

Bucky moaned as he reached over to snatch the offending gadget from its place on the nightstand to silence the alarm before…

“No,” you begged shamelessly, slipping your arm around his bare torso in a feeble attempt to keep him from climbing out of your shared bed. “Staaay.” This time, your plea was laced with tiny kisses pressed repeatedly against his shoulder blade.

Who was Bucky to say no to such a pretty plea? Normally you were enveloped so far in the arms of Morpheus, that his alarm barely roused you from slumber, but today you were surprisingly determined to keep him in your arms.

Naturally, Bucky let you encircle him, hating that he had to be the responsible voice in the bed that morning. “Doll, I have to-”

He was silenced by your soft fingertip across his lips in an effort to hold his objection had the chance to gain any momentum.

“Come on, Buck. Just this once, pleeeeeease?” you pouted and whined. "Ten minutes."

Bucky rolled his eyes in response to your theatrics and sighed dramatically for your benefit. “I have to go take a shower, or I’ll be late to meet Sam.”

Your arms tightened around him, nuzzling into his ear, unable to hide the grin which had spread across your face. He could feel your cheek rise with your smile against the back of his neck and he could tell how determined you were to keep him exactly where he was. Should he just be resigned to his fate?

“Just ten more minutes, Bucky!”

Wistfully he glanced down at the phone in his hands and then to your arm around his waist. Using the tip of his flesh finger, he delicately traced a line from your elbow down to your wrist and lingered on the back of your hand. His touch tickled your skin, making you wriggle closer towards his back. 

Bucky considered his morning routine, all the tasks that he completed before heading out to save the world with Sam. What surprised him was how much he actually looked forward to the time with a man who he had found extremely irritating. That wasn't to say that Sam was any less irritating now, but he would probably miss being called tin man and cyborg if he stopped hearing them. Not to mention that his mother had taught him the importance of being punctual to meetings, professional or social alike.

His thoughts of Sam were pushed aside as your lips continued their gentle assault on the back of his neck, your sweet voice pleading with him and bribing him with your affections. He made an attempt to rise, but you moved your hand up over his chest, splaying your fingers across his sternum and pressing yourself against his back so that he pulled you up along with him as he sat up in bed.

You continued to litter kisses down his spine, pressing your lips along the bony staircase on his back. An involuntary sigh escaped Bucky’s mouth, reveling in the feeling of your soft plump lips on his skin. Then, to your immense surprise, he gave in to your entreaties.

"Just ten minutes, okay?"

You nodded, your chin tapping his shoulder with each oscillation. He didn't want to spend the next ten minutes checking how long he had, so he delegated the task to the dreaded device which kept him from his best girl. 

10:00

He entered the time on his phone, putting it down as the clock started counting down.

09:59

09:58

09:57

09:56

Bucky lay back down, not daring to entertain sleep, but there was no reason he couldn't be comfortable. He fluffed his pillow before settling back into it, smiling as he felt the weight of your head in his chest. 

Happily, you settled into your favorite place, your spot, snuggled under Bucky's arm. No matter your surroundings, you always felt at home squashed between his arm and chest. Bucky always thought that you were the perfect shape, molded, created just for him. 

He marveled at how your face fit into the hollow of his neck, smiling at the way you ghosted your lips against his Adam's apple, how your abdomen pressed against his side, how you let him curl his vibranium arm around your back and hold you as close as he could. He delighted in the sensation of your thigh on his as you draped your leg over his, then under in a tangled mess until he couldn’t tell where one of you began or the other ended. Not that he wanted to, he was happiest when you were together, unified.

Bucky looked down as you heaved a contented sigh, a rush of warm air blew across his chest. He brushed a few stray strands from your face, fingertips grazing your temple. He waited with bated breath for your reaction, relaxing as you snuggled closer under his touch, urging him to comb his strong fingers through your tresses.

Gods, you were beautiful.

Bucky already knew that, but sometimes it washed over him, bowling him over like a powerful wave. He remembered the first time he had caught a glimpse of your beautiful smile, your luscious locks framing your face with utmost perfection. You were wearing a floral jumpsuit, an item of clothing you'd had to explain to him. Your eyes had sparkled with mirth as you'd regaled him with details of newfangled fashion notions. He saw the passion behind your eyes as they shone with the brightness of a thousand suns. He knew he'd be able to spend hours listening to you talk and laugh about shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. 

It made him smile, picturing the first day of his new life, a life with you where he was begged for an extra ten minutes of his time. You couldn't make it any easier for him, to appreciate everything you offered him. What was ten minutes in return.

Bucky pressed his nose onto the top of your head, getting a whiff of the citrus shampoo you always used, fresh from washing your hair the previous evening. He loved how you would send him off on his missions with a few drops of your favorite perfume on one of his handkerchiefs. It amused you that he kept them, but was glad that you could send him off with something that reminded him of you.

He didn't think it was possible but you wiggled in even closer, your arm pulling on his other side. Carefully, Bucky reached over to cover your bare shoulder with the duvet. Despite the chill in the room, it was you, always you that offered warmth to the depths of his soul.

He noticed how your breath had started evening out, slower, deeper. He could feel your heart beating against his chest, its strong steady rhythm grounded him, kept him from losing himself to the wildness of his wintery thoughts. He felt calm, the morning bird’s chirpy melody seemed to have faded into the distance, your warmth enveloped his being, how…

This reverie was cut short by his alarm going off again.

Devastation could be the only apt way to describe how Bucky felt in that moment. This proved the point he had known about phones.  But what broke his heart the most was the whimper that left your lips as he reached out to stop the antagonizing sound. He knew how much worse your reaction would be when he tried to get out of bed.

Bucky knew that as soon as he left the warmth of your shared bed, you would huddle deeper into it, wrap your arm around his pillow, a poor substitute for his majestic form. He knew what his day had in store for him, the violence he saw, the fear, the depravity of humankind. Every morning he would crave those extra ten minutes before facing the madness the world had to offer. Ten minutes with you in the Elysian Fields would never really be quite enough.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different today. It was an ordinary Tuesday morning. He had done the same for the last few days. There was no reason today should be any different. But it was different. Today's start would have to wait.

“Ten more minutes.”

This time, the words were Bucky's. He held you as though his life depended on it. And in a way it did. He was nothing without you. 

Naturally, you did not object, instead, you tangled yourself back around him even tighter than you had before. Feeling elated by his change of heart, Bucky proceeded to pepper your face and forehead with a storm of sweet kisses, even letting his eyelids flutter shut when you slid hands up his back to bring yourself nearer.

Sam could wait. Ten more minutes with you would be well worth it.

[bosbas]

Chapter 6: you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 4.0k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, miscommunication (ish), lots of feelings in this one, benedict actually being the biggest idiot known to man, slow burn continues to slowly burn

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: kind of a Benedict heavy chapter oops

May 29, 1814 - The Featherington Ball two nights prior proved quite the romantic affair, prompting not one, not two, but three proposals in its aftermath. The inquisitive minds among you may inquire, 'To whom were these proposals directed?' But the more important question, dearest reader, is of the identity of the proposer. The answer is quite simple: it was Mr Nigel Berbrooke on all three occasions. And so, the members of the ton may be unsurprised to find that Mr Berbrooke was met with three swift rejections. One hopes that Mr Berbrooke will have a shift in fortune at the Smythe-Smith musicale tomorrow night. 

Among other news, our esteemed diamond has fled the spotlight. Miss Y/N Beaumont has not been spotted in the ton since the night of the Featherington ball. While Mr. Alexander Beaumont, her brother, cited an awful headache as the reason for her early departure from the ball, this author wonders whether Miss Beaumont was simply through with the social scene. One could certainly not blame her if Nigel Berbrooke is the only man of the ton who has taken romantic action this season. Hopefully, the Smythe-Smith abode will provide a better stage for young love, and if not, then at least the musicale will undoubtedly prove very entertaining. 

As Francesca finished her dramatic reading of the Whistledown column, she was met with resounding laughter from her siblings. Although Nigel Berbrooke's lackluster success in his romantic pursuits was amusing in itself, Lady Whistledown's sharp wit and Francesca's theatrical flare only added to the absurdity of his situation. 

Even Benedict, who was in a disagreeable mood because he hadn't spoken to you since the ball, couldn't help but chuckle. Eloise, breathless from laughter, extended her heartfelt condolences to the three unfortunate ladies who had fallen victim to the decidedly disagreeable Mr. Berbrooke. 

"Three proposals in two days, all met with rejection? Positively ghastly," remarked Anthony, shaking his head in amusement. 

Hyacinth was quick with a playful dig at her older brother. "Bold of you to assume you would be more successful than him, brother," came her retort, met with more giggles from her sisters and a feigned gasp of offense from Anthony.

"I assure you I absolutely would, dear Hyacinth. To start, I would refrain from pursuing three women at once. But you can rest peacefully knowing that whenever I choose to propose, my future wife will say yes in an instant," he drawled, a playful arrogance underscoring his words.

"I'd certainly like to see you try," Ben spoke, a slight edge to his voice. "Proposing to someone, I mean." Anthony turned to face his brother on the couch and raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. 

He retorted with an equally cutting edge to his voice, "In reality, Benedict, it seems that you are in a better position to propose than I am, don't you think?"

As the thick tension in the room became palpable, Francesca, Eloise, and Hyacinth held their breath in anxious anticipation. Though neither brother displayed outward aggression, their words carried an unmistakable undercurrent of intensity.

Benedict's breathing grew heavier, his eyes narrowing. Keeping his temper in check, he shot back sarcastically, "And what, pray tell, gives you that impression, dear brother?" Silent ripples of anger emanated from him, and the Bridgerton sisters felt a rising unease as the dispute seemed on the verge of eruption.

Sharp and deadly, Anthony's voice cut through the charged silence of the sitting room, "The fact that you already have someone to propose to, perhaps."

Anthony had barely finished speaking when Benedict rose abruptly, hands formed into tight fists at his sides. With a murderous look on his face, he ground out, "Actually, I don't believe I do." 

Seeing Anthony open his mouth to respond, Ben cut in quickly, pure poison dripping from his voice, "You are mistaken, Anthony. I have absolutely no one to propose to. There is simply nothing there. Nothing that a marriage can be built on, at least. I am aware that Y/N is looking for a husband, but it will most certainly not be me."

Hyacinth let out a quiet gasp of disbelief, quickly covering her mouth. Benedict swiftly stormed out of the room, leaving his siblings in dumbfounded silence. After a brief pause, Anthony shook his head, cursing under his breath and running after Benedict.

Benedict could barely feel his legs, white-hot anger flooding through him as he made his way to his bedroom. Typically, in such intense moments, he sought solace outdoors or channeled his frustrations into his art. But he had spent too many afternoons watching your nose scrunch as you laughed on the swings with him in the garden, and the walls of his studio were entirely filled with endless incomplete sketches of you, so he found the prospect rather unbearable at the moment. 

But he felt Anthony's firm hand on his shoulder before he could reach the staircase. Rolling his eyes and turning around, Ben spat a callous, "What?"

"Benedict, you are being ridiculous," came Anthony's response, in a tone of voice that was not unkind. "I cannot pretend to understand the inner workings of your friendship with Y/N, but I do know that you are inadvertently distracting her from finding a husband."

Entirely disarmed by his brother's change in tone, Benedict let out a long breath, defeated. He ran his hands through his hair, clearly frustrated by his impossible situation.

"Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to let her go," pressed Anthony carefully, aware of the sensitivity of the topic. "I doubt she is aware of it herself, but the girl clearly has some sort of feelings for you, and you are only leading her on, so to speak."

Benedict could only nod, anxiously chewing at his lower lip. He knew his actions at the Featherington ball were not helping in your search for a husband, but it hurt just as much to stay away. Either way, Ben was desperate to speak with you. He knew he had to give you space, but it had been two days of complete silence from both of you, and he was itching to apologize properly.

---

As you waited outside of the Bridgerton residence, you shifted on your feet. Usually, you were happy to walk in unannounced, the closeness between your family and the Bridgertons removing the need for formalities. But you were nervous to see Ben. You hadn't seen him in a few days, let alone spoken to him, and you really would rather not have the conversation you were about to have with him. Cass suggested sending him a letter, but you couldn't imagine him opening it alone, reading that you wanted distance from him. It was much better to do this in person, and hopefully, he would understand your situation. He would have to, as the Smythe-Smith musicale was tonight, and both of you would be in attendance. 

Steeling yourself, you opened the front door and walked in, greeting the butler with a smile and a short wave, as you usually did. You practically skipped to the back door, eager to see Benedict despite dreading the difficult conversation ahead. You found him on the swings, staring off into the vast expanse of the Bridgerton garden. As you reached him, you tapped his shoulder three times and uttered a soft "Hi, Ben."

Immediately turning toward you, his face lit up in joy, and he stood up to hug you tight, spinning you around. "Well, hello! It's been far too long. How have you been?" 

As you both settled into the swings, you cleared your throat uncomfortably. "I've been alright. How about you?" 

"I've been alright. Anthony has been as irritating as ever, but unfortunately, there's no cure for that at the minute," he answered, earning a soft laugh from you. 

But your face dropped quickly, and you found yourself anxiously chewing your lip and staring into his perceptive eyes. Wordlessly, he asked you what was wrong with a slight tilt of his head and furrow of his brow. 

You cleared your throat again and spoke, "I apologize for running off the other night. I feel like I should explain myself. I've had some time to think in the past few days, and I do realize that I overreacted a bit, and for that, I am sorry." 

He reached over to grab your hand, rubbing his thumb in a comforting manner. Although it pained you, and you wanted nothing more than to lean into his touch, you carefully took your hand out of his grasp and set it in your own lap. A look of hurt flashed briefly across his eyes, and you felt your throat tighten and your stomach ache. But you had to continue. You had to get it all out now while you still had momentum.

"I just-" you paused. "Um, it might... benefit me... if we took some time apart," you said. You knew Benedict was trying to hide how crestfallen he truly was, but you knew him too well to be oblivious to his pain. 

You quickly jumped into your loosely prepared speech, "I don't mean away completely! And I don't mean forever, of course. I just think I could benefit from us... not acting how we usually do while I am trying to attract suitors."

He let your words hang in the air, fully processing what you were saying. "Of course, whatever you need. I'm sorry if I was distracting you from-"

"No!" you cut in. "Not at all! I think I was more distracting myself. This is not your fault in the least, Ben, and I'm sorry it's affecting you."

With a small smile, he shook his head, "It's quite alright, darling. I understand completely."

Except you really didn't think he understood. At all. 

"Maybe... maybe we could refrain from dancing at future balls? And perhaps it is not the best idea for you to call me darling. Or kiss me on the forehead. And I know I get anxious sometimes, and you really do help me when you hold my hand, but maybe we could refrain from that as well? And I still want to see you loads, obviously, but maybe I won't ignore any potential suitors who come calling in the mornings in favor of coming to see you here."

Benedict was staring at you dumbly. Hearing you say, out loud, everything that needed to change, it was astounding to him how close of a friendship the two of you had. But he understood. Oh, did he understand. And he would do anything for you, even if anything involved giving up ballroom dances, because, let's be honest, who else would he dance with if not you. He realized you were staring at him expectantly, and he nodded quickly.

"Yes, yes, of course, dar-" He cringed internally. Perhaps this would be more challenging than expected. "Yes, of course, Y/N," he finished. 

You smiled back gratefully, responding, "Well, that's settled then."

---

Benedict's earlier confidence in his ability to refrain from touching you was proving to be completely misguided. He had been at the musicale for barely an hour before he felt himself nearly vibrating with the need to be close to you. He had watched as you talked with suitor after suitor, patiently waiting for you to come over when you had a spare moment. But the spare moment never came. You were utterly enthralled in your conversations, not even sparing him a glance. The only time you had spoken to him was a small "Hello!" in passing as you walked across the ballroom holding Lord Egerton's forearm. At least you were not ignoring him purposefully, but he was still moping dejectedly about the ballroom, unable to join in the lively banter his siblings and yours always provided.

His night had not improved much by the time the musicale was over. His mother had pleaded with him to dance with Penelope Featherington, and he had begrudgingly complied. Of course, he usually enjoyed the girl's company, but tonight, he would have preferred to sulk in a corner of the ballroom by himself. Ben had also gone to the terrace with Colin and Alex but quickly opted to go back inside and torture himself by keeping an eye on you. The whole time he observed you, he could feel an unpleasant feeling deep in his stomach that traveled up his torso until it settled uncomfortably in his chest. It was an exercise in masochism, watching you flirt and smile and even giggle with other men. But Ben knew he could do nothing about it, aside from stewing in his own despair, of course. You had explicitly asked him for a chance to properly be courted without his interference, and it would be cruel to disallow you that. 

While Benedict had a relatively uneventful but painful evening, you barely had a moment to yourself. Gentleman after gentleman, followed by mama after mama, came to ask you to dance or talk to you. You smiled through it all, of course, but as the night wore on, you became more and more irritable, finding that you simply wanted to go and chat to Benedict for a few minutes, to take a break from social niceties and have a laugh or two with him, at least. But you needed to stay focused, or your talk with Ben would have been for nothing.

After hours of listening to the grueling sounds of the Smythe-Smiths playing various instruments, you rejoiced when your mother interrupted your conversation with some earl or viscount and his mother. Their names escaped you, but at this point in the night, you were proud of yourself for even giving them more than one-word answers. Politely excusing yourself from the pair, you smiled gratefully at your mother, who only laughed good-naturedly at your distress. 

"I didn't see you talking to Ben much tonight. Is everything alright with the two of you?" 

You looked at your mother, cringing. "That obvious, was it?"

She gave you a questioning look and smiled, answering, "Given that the two of you usually are attached at the hip at every event you attend, yes, it was quite obvious."

You rolled your eyes at her, hiding how truly upset you were that you and Ben had taken some time apart. "We were not that attached! Besides, it's only one ball where I was more focused on finding a husband than my best friend. You should be happy!"

---

It had not, in fact, been only one ball. You had now gone five consecutive balls without dancing with Benedict. Opportunities to talk with you at these events were scarce, and he was lucky if he managed to secure a mere five minutes alone. Colin had noticed him looking dejected and morose at every social event, not that Ben was trying particularly hard to hide it, and asked about you. Benedict's response to his brother's concern was curt and evasive, a gruff "everything is fine." 

Despite the distance, Ben found solace in your afternoons together after you had finished seeing callers. The moment you saw him, you would relax and launch into a lengthy explanation of the latest exciting information you had acquired from the vast library in the Beaumont home since none of the "so-called gentlemen" bothered to listen to you, as you put it. 

He did enjoy your ramblings and appreciated the opportunity to ramble himself, launching into detailed studies of his favorite artists of the time. However, he was finding himself less able to put on a happy front when he barely talked to you for days at a time. At this point, he was not even harboring any negative feelings toward any of your suitors; he just missed you. His days felt empty and long, not having been apart from you for this long since before you could speak, probably. His family had noticed, and he was growing sick of their soft voices and careful treatment of him. He just wanted you back. He wanted to feel your head on his lap again and spend hours by your side in his art studio, painting on a canvas as you sat near him and read. Most of all, he missed the comfortable intimacy that came with your friendship, the quiet understanding that had been feeling out of sorts since you asked him for some space. 

So, when you had bounded into the Bridgerton home this afternoon, carrying a new book in tow, he knew he couldn't go on the way the two of you were right now. You immediately noticed Benedict's tense mood, even more so than usual, and did not relent until he spoke to you about what was bothering him. You had a feeling you knew what he was going to say, having also felt his absence to the point of distraction, and had prepared to have a talk with Ben whenever he was ready. You would usually give in to anything he asked of you, having little to no self-control when it came to Benedict Bridgerton, but you knew you had to be strong today. 

Seeing his bloodshot eyes, you placed a comforting hand on Ben's shoulder, breaking one of your rules but not finding it in you to care. He put his hand over yours, instantly feeling better than he had in over a week.

"It's just hard, isn't it? Have you felt it, too?" he looked at you, feeling a tad vulnerable.

You looked away, unable to meet his eyes for fear that you would start crying. You took a breath before answering, steeling yourself. "I have. It is proving to be quite difficult. But I need to find a husband, Ben," you said, your voice firm. "So, unless you're willing to marry me, it does have to be like this," you tried to make a lighthearted comment, but the crack in your voice gave you away too easily. 

Your words left him speechless, and if he was completely candid, he could have cried right then and there. Benedict understood what you were saying. What you were implying, rather. And he shook his head, voice soft, "I can't do that, Y/N. I'm so sorry."

Of course, you had expected this answer, but it didn't make it any less difficult to know that Ben was still opposed to the idea of marrying you after having experienced the last week or so. So you nodded, finally looking at him, a sad smile gracing your lips. 

"I guess that's our answer, then," you spoke. 

Your words were a complete blow to his chest. He felt like he was going to be sick. Because, of course, this didn't only mean that the two of you would not be married, something Benedict already knew. This meant that your friendship could truly never be the same. The search for a husband you didn't even want was simply an insurmountable obstacle. 

At least for today, he could still pretend things were normal. Your hand was still enclosed in his, and for a moment, he could forget all that had transpired and just enjoy the feel of your skin against his and the promise of an afternoon full of your entertaining and lighthearted literary commentary. 

---

Violet was at her wit's end. She could recognize that her son was being a complete idiot, said with affection, of course. However, Violet would not stand for you, Benedict's best friend, her own best friend's daughter, looking absolutely heartbroken night after night, talking to men who would never understand you in the way that Ben did, and who did not even want to try. She knocked on his studio door and, upon entering, let out a deep sigh at the sheer volume of sketches of your face, your hands, your eyes, and just you in general that adorned her son's art studio. 

The dowager viscountess cleared her throat with an air of authority, ready to give Benedict some much-needed tough love. Once she had made herself comfortable, sitting on the couch facing Ben, Violet clasped her hands in front of her. She could tell Ben was already dreading what she was going to say.

"Benedict, my sweet. You know, when I married your father, I was over the moon to be marrying someone I was not only in love with but also someone I could call my dear friend. In my experience, friendship as the foundation of a marriage creates the best kind of partnership."

Ignoring Benedict's increasingly tense energy, she continued, "I know you have an extraordinary friendship with Y/N. Everyone knows, actually. One can very clearly see that the two of you care for one another, and a friendship as special as that is not easy to come by." 

Seeing her son open his mouth to interject, Violet silenced him with a stern look, not in the mood to be interrupted. "I fear that if you do not take advantage of this wonderful gift you have been given, your best friend will end up married to another man, and your friendship will be lucky to survive."

Benedict had had quite enough already. Anthony, then you, his mother, and even Hyacinth and Colin were all telling him the same thing, clearly not understanding that he simply did. Not. Want. To. Marry. You. 

He was through feeling wounded; his hurt had transformed into full-blown anger. Being mindful to keep his voice in check, he spoke with as loud of a voice as was appropriate, desperate for anyone to actually listen to what he was saying. 

"Mother, I appreciate your concern. But as I have told Anthony, Y/N, Hyacinth, and Colin, I do not wish to marry Y/N. I did not want to marry her two months ago, before her debut, and I do not want to marry her now. I am sick of everyone telling me what I want or what they think I should do. I know that I do not want her, and that will be the end of the discussion, thank you very much."

Benedict barely processed his mother's sympathetic look in response to his declaration, ignoring the hand he felt on his shoulder. Disappointed and a bit sad for your future, Violet walked out of his studio, knowing Ben wouldn't continue the conversation further. 

Of course, what Benedict had told his mother was a lie. A lie so often repeated in his head he had been inclined to believe it for the better part of the last decade of your friendship. But deep down, Benedict knew it wasn't the truth. 

The truth was that marriage was your worst nightmare. He was all too familiar with your grievances toward the institution, having heard you talk about your distaste for having to find a husband since childhood. Ben had spent years by your side, listening to you express your aversion to marriage over and over again. You were convinced you would be miserable after being wed, endlessly searching for something more: a freedom you thought you could never achieve once you were married. 

And so, he could not marry you. It was selfish, to be sure, but he did not want your distaste and displeasure with marriage directed at him. He would give you anything else, but not this. In Benedict's opinion, if he married you, you would grow to dislike him, feeling trapped within the confines of your relationship. 

Throughout your shared childhood, Ben watched you grow into an incredibly smart woman, and your growth inevitably brought about a growing hostility toward your future as a wife. He was intimately familiar with the fear that brought about this hostility, and he couldn't bring himself to be the person who made these fears come true.

Benedict knew that the two of you could learn to love each other if you were married. This was, of course, assuming that he wasn't already in love with you, which he could not bear to think about properly. He just didn't think he could survive it. Having a front-row seat to the unhappiness you would feel after being married and watching you fall out of love with him because of it. He simply couldn't be the cause of that. He cared about you too much to take that risk. So he chose to stay away instead, even if it meant the end of years of close friendship and love and intimacy. 

—

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[maraschinocheri]

Happy 39th birthday to the London production of Les Misérables (which officially opened on 8 October 1985 at the Barbican Theatre, though previews began at the end of September)! By way of celebrations, scans from the 1985/86 / 1986/87 Royal Shakespeare Company Yearbook, which honoured the success of the Barbican production and its transfer to the Palace Theatre by making Colm Wilkinson and Michael Ball during 'Bring Him Home' its cover stars. The annual RSC Yearbook summarised productions in all of the company's (at the time five) theatres and on tour with production photography and critical commentary from newspapers and other media. Text from the pages above is under the cut below, with bracketed extra information to clarify some references.

Not since Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd back in 1979 has there been a score which soared out of the pit with the blazing theatricality of Les Misérables, and to those of my tabloid colleagues already in print with feeble and fainthearted objections to the show, I have but this to say: remember the demon barber. Sweeney, too, we were once told; was too dark, too savage, too downbeat a theme for a musical. Six years on, that show has won more awards and been acclaimed to more opera houses than any other in the entire history of the American musical. Les Misérables, in a brilliantly intelligent staging by Trevor Nunn and John Caird, will achieve a similar kind of long-term success …

[The Times’/Punch’s Sheridan] Morley went on. ‘… The greatness of Les Misérables is that it starts out, like Sweeney and Peter Grimes, to redefine the limits of music theatre. Like them it is through sung, and like them it tackles universal themes of social and domestic happiness in terms of individual despair.’

[The Financial Times’ Michael] Coveney talked of the allying of ‘Nickleby*-style qualities of ensemble presentation to a piece that really does deserve the label ‘rock opera’, occupying brand new ground somewhere between Verdi and Andrew Lloyd Webber. It was not, he thought, a company celebration like Nickleby, ‘but an appreciation of those values along with the musical experience gathered by the team (Trevor Nunn, John Caird and David Hersey) on Cats and Starlight Express.’ To that extent, he went on, the show was an important one, ‘bridging gaps between musical and opera, and subjecting rock musicians to RSC tutelage while last year’s Clarence [in the RSC 1984 production of Richard III], Roger Allam, is unveiled in the role of Javert as an outstanding performer in the musical idiom.’

[*The RSC's landmark 1980 production of an adaption of Charles Dickens’ The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby]

[The Guardian’s Michael] Billington posited that if you fillet any great nineteenth-century novel, ‘you are left with melodrama.’ Les Misérables, he said, jointly produced by the RSC and Cameron Mackintosh at the Barbican, becomes exactly ‘high class melodrama.’ It was staged ��with breathtaking panache by Trevor Nunn and John Caird. It is impeccably designed by John Napier. It has a lively score by Claude-Michel Schönberg. But it is three-and-a-half hours of fine middlebrow entertainment rather than great art.’ Billington claimed to have ‘conned’ the novel sufficiently ‘to realise that it is a towering masterpiece about social injustice, redemption through love and the power of Providence.’ What the musical offered, he went on, ‘is the hurtling story of Jean Valjean, the paroled prisoner who becomes a provincial mayor, who is relentlessly pursued by the policeman Javert and who achieves heroic feats of self-sacrifice at the 1832 Paris uprising. What you don’t get is the background of moral conflict that makes this more than a classy adventure story.’ In this he thought, Hugo’s novel was infinitely more dramatic than the musical.

[The Times’ Irving] Wardle spoke of the temptation in such circumstances for anyone who has read the novel ‘to quarrel with any adaptation for its omissions and liberties instead of judging the adaptation on its own merits.’ In this instance, he maintained, Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg had done a capable gutting job. ‘They present a clear outline of the epic contest between Jean Valjean, the saintly ex-convict, and his implacable pursuer Javert: including Valjean’s defeated attempt to save the wretched Fantine, and his life-long devotion to her daughter, Cosette, only to lose her to a young love, Marius, amid the Paris barricades of 1832.’

The adapters had cut corners with boldness and ingenuity, Wardle believed, and had found fresh situations where Hugo’s are theatrically unworkable. They had also preserved the essential sense that Valjean and Javert are two of a kind, belonging, as Hugo puts it, to the ‘two classes of men whom society keeps at arms length: those who prey on it and those who protect it.’

Coveney maintained that the organization and placement of the continuously revolving stage was ‘beyond praise’, with John Napier’s design doing as much honour to Hugo’s Paris as he lavished on Dickens’s London [in Nickleby]: ‘Two huge trucks rumble on and form a barricaded wall which, just as Hugo describes, seems to contain a city in itself, a fantastic jumble of chairs, barrels, planks and people, a teeming segment of a revolutionary catacomb.’

This alternative society, Coveney said, was presented without sentiment ‘as indeed are its urchin sentinels, the daughter of Thenardier (a devastating waif performance by Frances Ruffelle) and Gavroche … sweetly and surely sung by an admirable child actor and just when you feel the production is slipping by allowing a [writer of Oliver] Lionel Bart-ish point number, he is shot full of bullets and left to sing plaintively on the wrong side of the barricade.’

The music, [The Sunday Times’ John] Peter though, ‘has a fresh, astringent lyricism and a powerful, ballad-like drive: number after number makes robust contributions to character and drama.’ The best performances, in Peter’s opinion, came from Alun Armstrong and Susan Jane Tanner as the ‘horrible Thenardiers', Patti LuPone (Fantine) and Frances Ruffelle (Eponine). But this was, he pointed out, ‘essentially a company musical rather than a star vehicle. If it transfers to the West End where its masterful theatricality would outshine almost anything else on offer, it might show people that success in this genre doesn’t depend solely on expensive star turns.’ The transfer to the Palace, of course, came swiftly after the Barbican opening.

[The Observer’s Michael] Ratcliffe described Schönberg’s score as ‘all tinselly arpeggios, stabbing staccato, pile-driving trumpets and thinly-disguised hymns.’ In polite terms he said, it was ‘electric, trailing a range of references from high-tech Bizet and Massenet to the air-time acceptable, and Celtic Fringe Folk.’

Some scenes, said Coveney, go straight into operatic form, ‘for example the apprehension by Javert of Valjean at Fantine’s deathbed, or a beautiful garden trio for young lovers in Valjean’s garden hideaway.’ There was also a ‘startling thematic echo of Rigoletto as Valjean ponders the son he might have had.’ Colm Wilkinson’s Valjean was in Coveney’s opinion ‘a remarkable study in impassive acquisition of self-knowledge … He [has] particularly fine and lyrical use of his upper register. Above all he transmits palpable goodness without sounding like a prig or a boar [bore?].’ [The Sunday’s Telegraph’s Francis] King thought Wilkinson not only sang the role with eloquence ‘but – far more difficult – brings out the essential goodness of a much-wronged man.’ The outstanding voice of the evening in King’s opinion, was that of Patti LuPone as Fantine.

The band under the stage and the musical direction of Martin Koch include some rumbling brass premonitions of disaster as well as some very fine work on synthesizers, brass and strings. The score also underpins such exciting production movements as the arrival of the barricade, the suicidal leap (done by the bridge flying up as Mr Allam free falls on the spot) and the descent to the sewers with lots of dry ice and naked banks of light not equalled in impact since Mr Hersey did something similar in Evita.

In short, this is an intriguing and most enjoyable musical, fully justifying the mixing of commercial resources with RSC talent and personnel, even if not all that many RSC actors are involved.* Being now acquainted with the demands of the score, I see why that should be so. [Morley]

[* The RSC members who appeared in the Barbican production were Roger Allam, Alun Armstrong, and Susan Jane Tanner. Other RSC members at this time joined Les Mis in later companies, among them David Delve, who would replace Alun Armstrong as Thenardier.]

[offorestsongs]

Tell me about Rook if you don't mind

I honestly haven't paid much attention to anyone from pomefiore so I have a very basic idea on who Rook is and I would like to read someone's thoughts about him

HI HI THANK YOU I LOVE YOU /P

(also shout out to @natsukishinomiyaswife who asked me to talk about him in the comments of that post 💞)

OKAY SO. THE THING IS. it kinda annoys me when people are like "oh hes weird" "oh hes creepy" and i tend to get a bit defensive about it because YES!! YES HE IS!! AND THAT'S WHY I LIKE HIM!!

hes weird!!! hes weird and hes offputting!!! and he talks too much and hes overly theatrical with his emotions (while still hiding So much) and people think hes annoying!!!! and like- ME TOO!!!

i feel like i see myself a lot in him because im also too loud and too theatrical and too poetic in how i talk and dont always know how to interact with people in a "normal" way and people think im weird and annoying. except Rook is just so?? unashamed about it?? he just does what he wants and doesnt seem to care if people find him weird or creepy — he clearly respects Vil so much and would do So much for him, yet when Vil tells him that he's being weird or annoying Rook just. carries out with his thing. and i kind of love that. its so so very sweet to see somebody who just fully accepts his weirdness and embraces it and doesnt let anybody bully him out of it

kind of on the same topic — he always felt very obviously neurodivergent coded to me?? like he comes off as so obviously autistic that its basically canon to me. like, yes, hes often obvious to social cues but also. theres a moment in his Halloween vignette where he says that as a kid he didn't know how to express his emotions and he had learned it from watching theatre. or in one of his birthday vignettes when he says that once he focuses on something, it seems to consume him completely (not a direct quote but you get the idea shfjshf). and thats another thing that makes me like him more because — again, relatable

and while i do thing that the in-universe explanation for a lot of his more creepy behavior is a mix of him being very passionate about his interest and being obvious to/ignoring social cues (NOT saying that being autistic makes you act like a creep or anything YOU GET WHAT I MEAN). HOWEVER— i dont like him despite his stalker tendencies, i like him BECAUSE of them.

okay. listen. would a lot of the things he does be suuuper creepy irl? yes, obviously. but theres a lot characters that i like even tho i would probably hate them irl (cough, Vil, cough, Riddle, cough). and i do have a thing for characters who tend to get obsessive over other people — its good story potential!! its entertaining!!! i love watching him be a little weirdo and talk about hunting people its simply fun

AND THATS THE THING!! hes just entertaining!!! he has so many moments that are simply funny alright. i love when he's being dramatic when other characters are done with him when hes being so Out There. like,,, everything he did in book 6? peak comedy. that one vignette where he tells Malleus that he has hunted lizards but never caught a dragon? insane thing to do, so fucking funny. also him wanting to drink Vil's poison even tho there was No reason to do so whatsoever? unhinged. i love him so much

another thing (kinda related tho) is that while reducing him to his relationship with Vil would be doing him a HUGE disservice, it IS one of the things that drew me to him. it's just so interesting and tells a lot about who Rook is as a character and i feel like people missinterpret it a lot which is very sad. i love that Rook decided to change dorms simply so he can follow a guy around because he thinks said guy is pretty — again, insane thing to do, so fucking entertaining. i love how he talks So much about Vil and his admiration for Vil. but hes not blind in his devotion!!! hes by Vil's side because he choose to be and he could as well walk away if he choose to, Vil doesn't hold him on a leash. he can be harsh on Vil, criticise him and its BECAUSE he cares so much for Vil. he wants Vil to become even more brilliant, after all!! and Vil knows that!!! Vil knows that Rook is by his side On Conditions, even if he's not always sure what those conditions may be and id say he likes that. i mean, come on that man loves a challenge. and that's what makes their relationship so compelling to me! Rook is not a guard dog, the two of them are equals, theres a back-and-forth between them and yet Rook is always there when Vil needs him. okay i may have gotten off track a bit but i have A Lot of feelings about their relationship and i needed to get it off my chest lmao

ANYWAYS! i love his obsession with beauty and specifically, i love how it manifests. hes not focused on the "conventional" meaning of beauty, but instead hes able to find it anywhere. again — even if some of the things he fawns over others may find weird, it's actually so sweet that he's able to find beauty in things that other people may not even consider.

AND SPEAKING OF THAT — HES ACTUALLY SO SWEET!! like yes alright he can often be too blunt and say things without considering how they may impact other people's feelings, but i dont think hes unkind. there's actually so many moments where he's being sweet. like,, (in the main story at least, cant remember anything about any of the events dhfjsjf) he was basically always nice to Yuu. one of my favorite Rook moments is when he's comforting Deuce in book 5 (comparing him to a chicken in an egg no less which like. amazing). or the way hes always so supportive of Epel? i LOVE the whole part of book 6 when Epel discovered his UM. Rook was so proud of him!! i love that scene where Rook helped Epel with using it, it was so sweet

a smaller thing but his interests are so dear to me. like, yes hes a hunter and an archer but he also likes history!! and historical fashion!! and classical music!! and poetry!! and theatre!! idk there's something very sweet to me here (especially that i do happen to share a lot of his interests shfjshf). ALSO THE FACT THAT HE'S INTERESTED IN ARCHEOLOGY THATS SO SPECIAL TO ME. tho i DO also love that hes an archer, im always weak to archer characters

also hes one of the most queercoded characters in the game imo and as a gay bitch i have to appreciate that

okay i think im done thank you so much for the question writing all that made me feel very normal and sane 🫶

[yupuffin]

Speechless watching Neuvillette's Character Demo.

A nation where trials are publicized and hence the "entertainment" aspect is prioritized over their legal function is already cruel enough. But it gets even more poignant when you consider that the Chief Justice, who presides over all of these trials, who excels at his job due to his sternness and authoritative presence, is actually a highly considerate and sensitive guy, one you might even call soft on the inside, and his work brings so much intense internal tumult--conveyed by the auditory and visual chaos during the trial in the demo--that no one knows about just because he's not very expressive by social conventions. And it's tied back to the in-game lore neatly with the metaphorical bow of the rain imagery: in-game dialogue heavily implies (just one tiny step down from outright states) that Fontaine's rain is the manifestation of Neuvillette's tears, and the loudest and busiest parts of the trial in the demo are accompanied--almost overshadowed--by driving rain and rumbling thunder.

Then the trial ends, and it's finally quiet. Neuvillette has a second or two of tranquility.

And then Furina reminds us again of the true social purpose of court proceedings in Fontaine: trials can't be sufficiently dramatic and entertaining if they're too short!

As if it's not atrocious enough that the most grievous matters of the lives of civilians are made into a public spectacle, the entertainment value of a trial also takes priority over the degree to which it causes the Chief Justice, the one who manages court proceedings for a living, such emotional turmoil that he can barely focus. With trials serving a primarily theatrical function, the very real consequences, emotional and otherwise, whether they're evident in the participants' conduct or not, are effectively reduced to fiction with the sole purpose of engaging the audience.

I don't have a conclusion thought out for this post other than someone elsewhere said they didn't think the demo was very good and I disagree because it made me sad 🤣

[universe-in-the-void-in-the-cube]

@icelandsgirl

Now the Nordc 5 as Gigolos.

Denmark: The Overzealous Charmer

Appearance and Aura: Denmark strides into a room like a peacock, fully aware of his flamboyance. He sports an eye-popping outfit, perhaps a neon-colored suit three sizes too small, with mismatched patterns that clash in the most jarring ways. His hair is tousled in a way that suggests he’s just awoken from a wild party. He wears a grin that’s both inviting and a little too wide, as if he’s perpetually on the lookout for attention. His aura is infectious, yet his boisterousness often borders on obnoxious.

Flamboyant Approach to Gigolo Duties: Denmark's attempts at charm manifest in boisterous and overly theatrical gestures. He flings his arms around, throws back his head with dramatic flair, and delivers incredulous one-liners. "Are you a magician? Because every time I look at you, everyone else disappears!"— he bellows this line like he’s just delivered Shakespeare, unaware that the only response is a raised eyebrow and a polite chuckle.

Outlandish Behavior: His penchant for partying translates poorly into his gigolo experience. During a date, he insists on heavy drinking, claiming it’s essential for creating a “relaxed atmosphere.” As he clinks glasses and throws back shots, he flails passionately, often spilling drinks on himself or, worse, his date. He then slurs through anecdotes of his wild adventures, veering between crude humor and shockingly personal stories that nobody asked to hear.

Initial Interaction: Denmark’s first encounter with female clients is an event in itself. Upon meeting, he bombards her with a barrage of compliments, almost overwhelming in their intensity. “Wow, you have the most incredible smile! It’s brighter than the sun on a summer’s day!” His enthusiasm, coupled with a large grin and extravagant gestures, is designed to impress but often crosses into the realm of discomfort. He holds her hand for an unnecessarily long time, grinning expectantly, oblivious to her bemusement.

Treatment Style: Denmark believes the key to winning over female clients lies in his ability to entertain. He goes above and beyond to create a lively and chaotic atmosphere, thrusting her into a series of impromptu games, fire-eating contests, or karaoke sessions. "Let’s sing your favorite song right here! I need to show you my talents!” His charm is loud, bravado-filled, and rife with enthusiastic antics. He might often try to take selfies at random moments, insisting, “It’s going to be a great memory! Smile!”

Social Dynamics: Female clients often feel a mix of amusement and exhaustion as they navigate Denmark's relentless energy. Her attempts to guide the conversation to more personal, meaningful topics are frequently thwarted by Denmark's comedic monologues and theatrical storytelling. He interrupts with exaggerated tales about his own life, making it difficult for her to share her thoughts. Denmark revels in the role of the entertainer, overshadowing her voice with his constant need for validation and laughter.

The Outcomes: By evening’s end, clients may leave feeling dizzy, not from romance, but from sheer incredulity at the chaotic experience. While some appreciate the humor, others find themselves drained, realizing that what could’ve been a delightful rendezvous turned into a comical circus. They depart without any real connection established—just bewildered memories and a longing for a more grounded interaction.

Finland: The Awkward Wallflower

Appearance and Aura: Finland’s approach is markedly understated, favoring muted colors and practical fabrics that may have been fashionable a decade ago but now just seem tired. He has an unkempt look, as if he just rolled out of bed—hair askew and attire always slightly wrinkled. His demeanor is timid, with nervous glances at his shoes, creating an air of vulnerability that is as endearing as it is disconcerting.

Shy and Reserved Interactions: When a client approaches, Finland’s initial reaction is a deep inhale, his eyes darting to the floor. His attempts at flirting usually include awkward compliments about mundane things, like the way they laugh or how they chosen a lovely drink. “You have… nice taste in… um, drinks?” he stammers, fighting the urge to disappear behind a potted plant.

Awkward Silence and Monologues: As conversation drags on, Finland occasionally manages to let slip personal hobbies—not with enthusiasm, but with a drone-like monotone. “I enjoy knitting. I have a cat.” He then launches into an overly detailed explanation of his last knitting project—a sweater for his cat, naturally. His fascination with mundane details and disinterest in actual interaction makes clients squirm in their seats, unsure of how to escape the painfully stagnant dialogue.

The Results: After an excruciating series of awkward silences filled only with the sound of ice clinking in drinks, clients often leave feeling more like psychological counselors than romantic partners. They question their own sanity for thinking that a gigolo should be engaging. Finland, oblivious to his social failings, typically doesn’t realize his date has left until he sees the bill arrive, prompting a sigh of relief as he retreats to his quiet corner.

Initial Interaction: Finland’s treatment of female clients begins with a mixture of shyness and hesitation. When a female client approaches, he often stutters through a nervous greeting, accompanied by an apologetic demeanor that can confuse her. “Uh, hi… um, you have nice shoes,” he might mumble, avoiding eye contact entirely.

Treatment Style: During their time together, Finland tends to retreat into the background, often allowing conversations to hover awkwardly. His timid nature makes him fail to read social cues, leading to uncomfortable silences where he fidgets nervously. Any attempts at intimacy are stilted and mechanical. If a female client expresses interest, he may freeze up or awkwardly shift the topic to his cats, completely missing any romantic undertones.

The Outcomes: The experience leaves female clients feeling frustrated and disconnected. They may appreciate his gentle nature but find him emotionally unavailable. Most would leave wishing for a deeper connection, feeling that she spent the evening babysitting a blushing wallflower instead of indulging in a meaningful romance.

Iceland: The Detached Overthinker

Appearance and Aura: Iceland stands aloof, dressed in his somber, all-black wardrobe that gives him an air of brooding mystery. His icy blue eyes scan the room, but they seem distant as if he’s contemplating the universe’s next great existential crisis rather than noticing who’s around him. Though his style could be seen as trendy, he often neglects maintenance, leading to a haphazard, unkempt look that allows him to blend into the shadows.

Philosophical Approach to Connections: His interactions are laden with heavy philosophical discourse. When approached by a client, he launches into a rambling analysis of societal norms and their implications. Instead of light banter, he poses questions like, “What is love, really?” and follows it up with an analysis of love in the context of 21st-century capitalism, leaving potential partners bewildered by the depth before they even get to the fun parts.

Emotional Withdrawal and Detachment: When intimacy is on the table, Iceland often shuts down, staring off into the distance as he worries about climate change or the ramifications of selfies on self-image. If asked about desires, he responds with an earnest, “Why desire anything when we are all caught in the loop of temporality?” This grim outlook renders any attempts at romance utterly stagnant.

The Results: Couples who hoped for connection often find themselves feeling profoundly disconnected after an evening with Iceland. They leave feeling as though they were subjected to a therapy session rife with nihilism rather than exploring passion. Even when they try to engage him, he often dismisses the prospect entirely, leaving them wondering if they spent the evening with a romantic partner or a philosophy major on a coffee break.

Initial Interaction: Iceland greets female clients with a cool demeanor, often probing them with profound questions before even introducing himself. “What are your thoughts on the inherent absurdity of love?” might be his opening line, which could either intrigue or bewilder a female client right off the bat.

Treatment Style: Throughout their interaction, he remains unfocused, frequently becoming lost in thought mid-conversation. Female clients might share their interests or feelings, only to have Iceland respond with a distracted nod, quickly transitioning into an existential monologue about the futility of human relationships. His tendency to intellectualize everything often overwhelms any attempts at genuine intimacy.

The Outcomes: Female clients may end up feeling more like philosophical collaborators than romantic partners, thrust into discussing deep themes rather than sharing light, tender moments. After a long evening filled with heavy thoughts and little connection, they might leave perplexed by the lack of warmth and affection. They often question if they had a romantic engagement or simply attended a lecture on life’s dilemmas.

Norway: The Snarky Skeptic

Appearance and Aura: Norway presents himself in an immaculate suit that’s devoid of any flair—a masterclass in Scandinavian minimalism. His cold expression suggests he’s either perpetually unimpressed or slightly disgruntled. He exudes an air of superiority mixed with a palpable disdain for the gigolo life, setting a tone that disarms rather than entices.

Sarcastic Interactions: When clients approach him, they are met with a withering look and a smirk that comes with a legion of sarcastic commentary. “Ah, just what I needed—another person who thinks they can save me from my existential dread.” He relishes in cutting remarks, like dissecting a client’s choice in clothing or mocking their drink choice, thinking this is playful banter when it, in fact, discourages warmth and connection.

Misdirected Wit and Intellectual Games: Norway becomes overly absorbed in proving his intellectual edge, citing obscure literary references and challenging clients to debates they never asked for. Instead of light conversations, he brings up topics like the absurdity of existence or critiques of mainstream media, which completely alienate potential partners.

The Results: Clients often leave feeling thoroughly insulted, wondering if they are supposed to enjoy the date or defend themselves against an unprovoked critique. What could have been a romantic evening devolves into an uncomfortable array of jabs, leading many to rethink their choices upon exiting. Norway, however, begs to differ, believing his ‘witticisms’ to be the height of charm, completely missing the mark.

Initial Interaction: Norway’s approach is often filled with sarcasm from the get-go. He may greet a female client with a dismissive comment like, “So, have you come to save me from my gloomy outlook on life?” This dark humor might catch her off guard, setting an uncomfortable tone for the evening.

Treatment Style: As their time progresses, Norway utilizes biting wit and sardonic humor as tools for conversation. He can dissect a woman’s choice of outfit with a sarcastic jab or cast doubt on her interests, all while thinking he’s engaging her in playful banter. When she seeks warmth or compliments, he may deflect with cynical remarks, refusing to divulge authentic feelings.

The Outcomes: By the end of the date, female clients often feel belittled and defensive rather than cherished. They leave feeling like they’ve been through a series of tests instead of a romantic rendezvous, disheartened by the lack of empathy. Norway’s dismissive approach might lead them to doubt their own self-worth, leaving them reluctant to revisit any romantic pursuits after such a grueling experience.

Sweden: The Rigid Perfectionist

Appearance and Aura: Sweden is the epitome of fashion meets functionality, donned in tailored suits that scream sophistication minus the playfulness. His structured wardrobe reflects a life lived by strict schedules; everything he wears is impeccably ironed and tasteful, leaving no room for spontaneity or flair, which contributes to an overall sterile presence.

Meticulous Planning and Structure: Every date with Sweden comes with a detailed itinerary—dinner at 7, a museum visit at 8:30, and a quiet reflection period at 9:45. His excessively planned interactions snuff out any vein of spontaneity. “I hope you’ll enjoy the cherry blossom exhibit, it starts promptly at 8:00 sharp,” he declares, making it abundantly clear that there’s no room for deviation.

Emotional Sterility: During intimate moments, if they ever arise, Sweden carefully evaluates every angle and position, treating it like a task to be accomplished rather than a shared experience. He details every move, commenting on posture and ensuring everything aligns with his personal “values of efficiency.” Romance dissolves into a series of awkwardly precise moments lacking genuine warmth.

The Results: By the end of the evening, clients often leave feeling drained and bewildered, overwhelmed by a rigid schedule that killed any spark of passion. They question whether they even went on a romantic date or attended a workshop on platonic interaction. Sweden typically reflects on how well the evening went, believing his structure adds to the experience, entirely oblivious to the cacophony of frustration he leaves in his wake.

Initial Interaction: Sweden introduces himself with formal politeness, perhaps remapping the encounter in his mind as a well-ordered business meeting. “Thank you for being on time,” he starts, outlining the evening’s itinerary, ensuring she knows the schedule. His approach may come off as cool and collected, yet it lacks any semblance of warmth or genuine excitement.

Treatment Style: As the evening progresses, Sweden’s insistence on itinerary leads to a sterile atmosphere devoid of spontaneity. Rather than engaging in organic conversations, he tends to follow a script he’s developed, frequently interrupting the flow of laughter with calculated remarks. Should a conversation drift into emotional territory, he redirects it toward efficiency; if she opens up about her day, he promptly replies, “That’s interesting. Let’s move on to the next agenda point.” This approach undercuts any attempts at building intimacy.

Social Dynamics: Female clients often find themselves frustrated, trying to ignite some playful energy. Many attempts at humor are stifled by Sweden’s unyielding seriousness, who maintains that emotional ebbs and flows are inefficient. As they navigate the rigid structure of their evening, many clients may feel as though they’re participating in a clinical evaluation rather than a romantic escapade. Even attempts to engage him in light, flirty banter are met with a polite smile and a reshaping of the conversation back to logistics.

The Outcomes: More often than not, female clients exit feeling satisfied in terms of logistics but yearning for emotional depth. They leave having experienced a caricature of what romance should be—well-ordered but utterly soulless. Sweden’s focus on structure creates a hollow experience, leading most to reflect on the disconnection they felt even amidst the polish. In pursuit of the perfect evening, they instead find themselves missing the thrill of spontaneity and emotional connection, realizing that meticulous planning didn’t account for the unpredictable nature of genuine human interaction.

[pearlescent-soda]

🎨//A Sample of My Headcanons on the Dragon Daddies (Artisans Edition):

Alban:

The ill-tempered scribe of the Artisan Realms. Infinitely skeptical and standoffish towards most, getting past his cold exterior will take a tremendous amount of willpower. He's straightforward, despising small talk, preferring to 'get on with it' rather than fumbling around a pointless conversation. He's got no tolerance for foolishness of any kind, especially from his inner circle in Dark Hollow. 

His duties consist of keeping historical records and the creation of books. Centuries prior, he kept business, judicial, and court records. Nowadays, he focuses on making books and taking dragon population surveys across the realms. For a few extra gems, he can even be a book editor at his client's request, but they should expect to be put on a lengthy waiting list because Alban is highly sought-after dragon.

Him and Spyro have a strained relationship stemming from an incident from a few years back. When Spyro was younger, he'd stay after his writing lessons to read the historical records with Alban. He'd practice writing through a journal given by Alban, but the scribe was appalled by a passage written on the Sorceress.  He reprimanded the boy for swearing to defeat her, but Spyro said he was overreacting. Hurtful words were exchanged, and their relationship was never the same.

He utterly dreads receiving written reports from the other realms, something always goes awry during delivery. Peace Keepers scrolls are full of sand or burned, Magic Crafters use a different alphabet per realm, Dream Weavers are too cryptic, and the Beast Makers' parchment has water damage. He may seem fine on the outside, but the veins on his hands due to his death grip on the scrolls say otherwise.

He'll spend days at a time in his study just writing. Oswin is the one who delivers food and water to him, often giving updates about the outside world to him, while Darius is the one to get physical and drag him to bed if he's in there for more than three days straight. Argus jokes that the dragon wrote more in a week than the scholar could in a millennium.

After the dragons were exiled to the Dragon Realms a thousand years ago, Alban, Darius, and Oswin were the only dragons of their generation to be fully literate at four years old. They assisted Thor and Astor with teaching the other young dragons how to read and write. Darius and Oswin love to teach, while Alban, well...His perfectionism makes him excruciatingly hard to please.

He'd never admit it, but he cares deeply for those closest to him. He will always stand up for them when they need it. This protective nature extends to the youngest Artisan and his glowing dragonfly's wellbeing. He simply doesn't get along with a lot of people because of his 'unfriendly' personality and he doesn't want it to be that way, but his pride makes apologizing hard and his less than stellar social skills are great at worsening the situation.

Darius:

The theatrics never end with him, he's so dramatic in a way that's just entertaining to watch. There's always anticipation for what his answers are going to be on... anything. He thrives off the attention of a large audience on the stage but not so much off the stage. Without a crowd to listen to him blabber out his lines, he gets time to breathe, and returns to library to try to find inspiration for his next major production.

Actor, director, producer, he can assume any role he needs to. He's strict, but fair with his performers. If their mistakes are not corrected, he'll give them two chances to get it together. So far, he's found six talented dragons to be a part of his Dark Hollow troupe, not including Oswin and Alban. Watching them perform is like an otherworldly experience, it's impossible to recognize them once they're in character.

Using Spyro in a production is not a very good idea, and Darius learned this the hard way. Sparx had to remind him of which lines to say and, after he altered his costume and lines without permission, Spyro tried to 'save the play' by making everything 'action packed'. The staff and actors adjust well enough to the 'new and improved' story from the little dragon, but just want it to be over quickly so that they can harshly scold him behind the curtains. The audience left the stands confused on how their historical reenactment became a high fantasy action-adventure feature.

He gets intense when writing his characters, three or more trips to the library, a pile of crumpled drafts, and several empty inkwells. Any disturbance in his office will be removed immediately, or else a death glare to end all death glares will be thrown at any intruders. He's taken Gnorc armor before because he felt that it suited one of his characters far better than a 'bumbling oaf masquerading as a soldier'.

The Dark Hollow dragons are the only living souls allowed to go over his rough drafts. He trusts them to edit and rearrange, with his supervision, scripts for upcoming productions. This leaves Darius with enough time to set up props and finish costumes.

He reaches out for a majority of the props used in his plays, but the costumes are made by him and him only. His craftmanship is undeniably excellent, requests come from realms out of the Artisan Realms. Every Artisan owns one or more pieces of clothing crafted by his hands, the ones who purchase his pieces are the Magic Crafters.

The skull he holds is a prop carved from a stone he discovered in his rose bushes. He paid Nils to carve identical stones to use as decorations for his rose garden. The Artisans find them to be highly disturbing, some outright saying it to his face, still, Darius argues that it gives the scenery 'personality'.

Oswin:

The excitable dragon whose face is perpetually hidden behind a book. Getting his attention is like trying to put shoes on field mice, doable, but not for the weak-willed. To get him to pay attention, as rude as it is, take the book from his hands and make eye contact with him.  Be quick with the topic, because then he'll start trying to find different subjects to educate on, which, as predicted, usually has little relevancy to the original topic in any way. Give him time, he's a sweet, sweet dragon with his head in the clouds, or, realistically, a puddle of water.

This librarian is a night owl through and through, he's awake from eleven in the morning to eleven at night. He'll spend entire days rearranging books, updating and making catalogues for what books are on what shelves, and reading over books before making them available to the public. The residents of Dark Hollow are unsure of how he pulls such a feat without the use of caffeine, but his energy output continues to be chipper, no matter the situation thrown at him.

He personally keeps records of book fines and adds 5 gems per day after the return date. The highest fine ever paid for an overdue book was 150 gems by an infamous young dragon. He gave him a serious lecture for keeping a book a month after it was supposed to be returned. Spyro, worried that Oswin would go berserk if he didn't do something, offered to help him organize the bottom shelves to calm him down. Now on Wednesdays, the boy organizes returned books with Oswin which the older dragon is very, very happy with.

He'll know when a book is missing or overdue, and he'll be fidgety until it's returned. This is especially the truth if the book is approaching its due date. He once showed up to Alvar's quarters in Town Square at midnight to get a cookbook returned on its exact due date. The chef said that he felt a chill travel from head to tail at the look he was given.

He's written a handful of books, fiction, meant for all audiences. 'The Dragon's Rainbow' is moderately popular and letters asking about the future installments are frequent. Gnorcs are his largest demographic, but Oswin doesn't see it as concerning. Anyone is welcome to read his fantasy novels, as long as they return them on time, which the Gnorcs never fail to do.

The genre he's spotted reading the most are fairytales and fables, because he believes the lessons taught are invaluable. Oswin is not picky about reading materials in the slightest, he'll read instruction manuals, tabloids, poetry, and biographies. If it's got words on pages, he wants it. 'Oh, can I have that when you're done with it? I don't think I've read that one before'.

The hazardous placement of candles inside of the library has been a topic of intense debate between him, Darius, and Alban. Oswin insists the candles stay as they are, Darius wants the ones on the shelves removed, and Alban is ready to install electric lamps around Dark Hollow. The librarian won't budge, promising the books will always be safe under his supervision. The pools of water on the other hand, he's still thinking about that one. He's found himself dropping books in the pools of water in the library several times since the library became his, and it's never not embarrassing. Fishing the soggy book out of the water and making a trip to Alban's study, swiftly being lambasted by the scribe as soon as he sees the pages ink smeared across the pages. Sometimes, when a story is especially enthralling, and he can't bring himself to watch where he's going, the books take him with them and, SPLASH, now they're both drenched.

[nsfwhiphop]

Part 7 - Incoming Text for Marco Perego Saldana (@pirateyadimar): “An Idea Worth 500 Million Dollars”

Question:

Could you explain to Marco that for his upcoming "Top Secret" film project, I advise him to collaborate with talented screenwriters Helen Fielding and Rowan Sebastian Atkinson? Please highlight why they are the ideal choice to bring his new "Top Secret" film franchise to life, considering their unique writing styles and experiences in crafting engaging narratives.

Here are the clean Wikipedia links for Helen Fielding and Rowan Atkinson:

Helen Fielding: Helen Fielding - Wikipedia (click on the blue link)

Rowan Atkinson: Rowan Atkinson - Wikipedia (click on the blue link)

ChatGPT Answer:

Here’s a detailed, point-by-point explanation of Helen Fielding and Rowan Atkinson, covering their backgrounds, careers, and contributions to literature and entertainment.

Helen Fielding

Background and Education

Birth and Early Life: Helen Fielding was born on February 19, 1958, in Morley, West Yorkshire, England. She was raised in a middle-class family and has three siblings.

Education: Fielding attended St. Anne’s College, Oxford, where she studied English literature. Her education at one of the UK’s prestigious universities laid the groundwork for her future writing career.

Career Beginnings

Journalism: After graduating, Fielding began her career as a journalist. She worked for various publications, including The Independent and The Sunday Times, where she honed her writing skills and gained insight into contemporary social issues.

Television Work: Fielding also ventured into television, writing for shows such as BBC’s “Not the Nine O'Clock News”, which showcased her comedic talent and ability to engage with topical humor.

Bridget Jones Phenomenon

Creation of Bridget Jones: In 1996, Fielding published her first novel, Bridget Jones’s Diary, which presented the life of a single woman in her thirties struggling with her weight, career, and romantic life. This novel, written in a diary format, resonated with many readers and became a cultural touchstone.

Sequel and Adaptations: The success of the first book led to a sequel, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, published in 1999. Both novels were adapted into successful films starring Renée Zellweger as Bridget Jones, further popularizing the character and Fielding's work.

Cultural Impact: Fielding’s portrayal of a flawed, relatable female protagonist contributed significantly to discussions about women’s issues, body image, and modern relationships in literature and film.

Subsequent Works

Later Novels: Fielding continued to develop Bridget Jones's character with Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (2013) and has worked on other literary projects, including screenwriting and television.

Themes and Style: Fielding's writing often combines humor with a candid exploration of personal and societal challenges faced by women, making her a prominent voice in contemporary fiction.

Awards and Recognition

Literary Awards: Fielding has received numerous awards for her writing, including the British Book Award for Author of the Year. Her work has been recognized for its humor, depth, and ability to resonate with readers.

Rowan Atkinson

Background and Education

Birth and Early Life: Rowan Atkinson was born on January 6, 1955, in England’s County Durham. He is the youngest of three brothers and was educated in a middle-class family.

Education: Atkinson attended The Queen's College, Oxford, where he studied Electrical Engineering, and later earned a Master’s degree in the same field. His academic background is interesting given his later career in comedy.

Career Beginnings

Comedy and Performance: Atkinson’s interest in comedy developed during his university years, where he began performing in various theatrical productions. He became involved with the Oxford University Dramatic Society, gaining valuable experience in acting and writing.

Television Debut: His first major television appearance was in the sketch show Not the Nine O'Clock News (1979-1982), where he showcased his unique comedic style and talent for physical comedy.

Iconic Characters

Mr. Bean: Atkinson created the character of Mr. Bean in the late 1980s, a nearly mute character known for his slapstick humor and misadventures. The character became a global sensation, leading to a successful television series (1990-1995) and subsequent films.

Blackadder Series: Another notable project was the historical sitcom Blackadder (1983-1989), where Atkinson played the scheming Edmund Blackadder. This series is celebrated for its clever writing and Atkinson's performance, highlighting his versatility as a comedic actor.

Film and Stage Work

Film Appearances: Atkinson has starred in numerous films, including Johnny English (2003), Mr. Bean’s Holiday (2007), and sequels. His work in these films often emphasizes physical comedy and the appeal of his iconic characters.

Theatrical Performances: Atkinson has also performed in live theater, including the stage adaptation of The Lion King, where he voiced Zazu, demonstrating his range beyond television and film.

Awards and Recognition

Awards: Atkinson has received multiple awards for his contributions to comedy, including BAFTA Awards and recognition from the British Comedy Awards. He is considered one of the greatest comedians of his generation and is often praised for his inventive approach to comedy.

Cultural Impact

Influence on Comedy: Rowan Atkinson’s work, particularly Mr. Bean, has had a lasting influence on visual comedy worldwide. His ability to convey humor without extensive dialogue has inspired countless comedians and filmmakers.

Global Recognition: Mr. Bean has become a beloved character across various cultures, with the show being translated into multiple languages and adapted for different audiences, showcasing Atkinson's universal appeal.

Conclusion

In summary, both Helen Fielding and Rowan Atkinson have made significant contributions to literature and entertainment, albeit in different domains. Fielding’s relatable characters and social commentary have enriched contemporary literature, while Atkinson’s unique comedic style and memorable characters have left an indelible mark on global comedy. Their careers illustrate the power of storytelling and humor in addressing the complexities of human experience, making them prominent figures in their respective fields.

[just-kit-ink]

✨Kitty Entertainment Headcanons🎇

Dancing

•Kitty's a huge lover of dance either for fun or to express mood and narrative.

•She used to take dance lessons when she was six years old at one of Santa Monica's junior dance troops. She stuck out like a sore thumb due to her hair and build and even though she desperately wanted to wear a tutu, she looked the most uncomfortable. The other girls would make fun of her because her movements weren't as dainty or refined and her teacher could sometimes be harsher with her.

•Despite her hatred for the lessons she continued to dance at home in front of the TV when the late show bands came on and to old records her father kept (and the new releases.)

•She would dance to Disney's releases too. One of her best memories is dancing to songs from The Jungle Book around the living room with her Dad.

•By the time the 80s rolled around she went out to dance clubs in the city that played Disco music (and didn't require any ID)

•She dances around her room to The Clash and other forms of Brit-Pop when she's feeling energised or needs to blow off steam.

• Her favourite dances are dramatic, modern and contemporary, musical theatre and street but she has a real fondness for ballet.

Movies

•Well she's a big animation fan but that's pretty obvious! Disney, the Looney Tunes and 80s cartoons.

•Kitty likes her horror, especially old monster movies like the Hammer House films. But she also loves the frightening psychological fare with or without the gore.

•She likes fantasy and is a big sci-fi fan. She loves Star Wars, Dune and Alien. I think Sigourney Weaver and Winona Ryder would be two of her favourite actresses. Anything with deep space exploration, strange characters, funky aliens she really likes.

•She likes the kind of fantasies by Ralph Bakshi and Rankin Bass as well as beautiful tragedies like Ladyhawke.

•She loves to laugh and will not only watch old toon shorts but also whatever snappy comedy that's in the cinema. She's not really a big fan of comedies that has emphasis on gross out and anything set in a high school puts her off instantly...unless it's Heathers.

•Roger and her watch old movies together. She's seen some that her Mum watched with her like The Wizard of Oz, It's a Wonderful Life and the old live action Disney films but doesn't know much about them. He introduces her to Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Jimmy Cagney and Lauren Bacall. While she's a bit more of a modern gal she thinks Humphrey Bogart is cool.

Music

•As a little girl she loved nursury rhymes, lullabies and old comedy songs her Dad heard in the army.

•She loved old Disney package-film ditties her mother used to teach her, as well as the old tunes of the shorts from Maroon Studios where her parents used to work.

•As she matured so did her tastes. To express the onset of teenage-to-young adult anger she turned to punk rock and if she was really mad the occasional heavy metal. The sound offered a release from all the post-grief pain of her mother's death.

•Her Dad collects records so she's heard Buddy Holly, Chet Baker and Bing Crosby.

•She enjoys pop music, theatrical stage numbers and has a soft spot for blues and jazz.

Art

•She draws a lot of cartoon and comic art.

•She agrees with livening up a place with art, the brighter and bolder the better. Doesn't matter if it's a new apartment, a city centre or a back alley, art should cheer people up and make them think. As controversial as people find it she's into the political/social graffiti scene.

•She likes going to art galleries if there's an exhibition on that she likes. But she's more likely to attend studio tours to see animator's art.

•She thinks art therapy is a grand tool and likes the idea of throwing paint, like physically throwing it at the canvas. And then peppering it was flecks to make stars or surf or light etc

•Has sent her art into TV shows for kids before but didn't hear much back.

Rollerblading

•Kitty goes down to the roller rink down by the pier to either hang out by herself or with a buddy and is really good at it. She's been doing it since she was five and can now practically dance-skate to the rhythm.

•She also uses the other facilities like bowling, pool and those machines that eat your money.

•She often buys herself a nice shake and fast food to go with it (though not while skating.)

•She knows some of the staff and they know her but it's not always mutual respect. They're often underpaid male employees close to her age who like to whisper. Or just roll their eyes when you ask if a game is working. She despises their snarky comments and can make some back but at the end of the day she knows their managers are worse.

•She's good at those dance games, quick on her feet and does the stomp parts very well.

•Once played so much she lost track of time and used up all her coins so she couldn't get the bus home and ended up asking a random stranger for money for the pay phone so her Dad could pick her up.

•After that embarrassing moment, she started saving up for a bike. Her Dad bought her one anyway. She was elated and now rides places everywhere.

[celebsnetworthbio]

Dennis Franz Net Worth 2023, Biography, Age, Birthday 🌟

We will see What is Dennis Franz Net Worth 2023, Biography, Age, Birthday Dennis Franz, an accomplished actor, has made a lasting impact on the world of entertainment with his exceptional performances. 

Throughout his career, he has received widespread recognition for his talent and versatility as an actor. In this article, we will delve into Dennis Franz's net worth in 2023, his age, height, weight, and explore key highlights from his intriguing biography.

Who is Dennis Franz?

Dennis Franz is a male actor from the United States, known for his captivating portrayals in film and television. With his remarkable acting skills and dedication to his craft, Franz has carved a niche for himself in the hearts of audiences worldwide.

Dennis Franz Net Worth in 2023

As of 2023, Dennis Franz's net worth is estimated to be $35 million. His successful career in acting, combined with his notable contributions to the entertainment industry, has significantly contributed to his financial success.

Dennis Franz's Age

Born on October 28th, 1944, Dennis Franz is [insert age based on the current date]. Despite the passage of time, his commitment to his profession and passion for acting remain as evident as ever.

Dennis Franz's Height and Weight

Dennis Franz stands at [insert height in feet and inches], presenting a commanding presence on screen. While information about his weight may not be publicly disclosed, it is evident that his physical appearance has been well-suited for the diverse roles he has undertaken throughout his career.

Dennis Franz's Biography

Dennis Franz's journey into acting began with theatrical performances, eventually leading him to make his mark in the world of television and film.

He gained significant acclaim for his role as Detective Andy Sipowicz in the hit TV series "NYPD Blue," which earned him four Emmy Awards for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series.

Throughout his career, Franz has showcased his versatility by taking on various characters in both dramatic and comedic roles. 

Some of his other notable works include "Hill Street Blues," "Die Hard 2," and "City of Angels." His dedication to his craft and his ability to portray complex and relatable characters have earned him a dedicated fan following and critical acclaim.

Social Media

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LinkedIn

Pinterest

Conclusion

In conclusion, Dennis Franz's net worth in 2023 is an impressive $35 million, reflecting his successful career and lasting impact in the entertainment industry. 

With his exceptional acting skills, dedication, and numerous accolades, Franz remains a respected figure in Hollywood. As he continues to leave a mark on the world of acting, fans eagerly anticipate his future projects and celebrate the contributions he has made to the world of entertainment.

FAQs

1. What is Dennis Franz's current net worth?

As of 2023, Dennis Franz's net worth is $35 million.

2. When was Dennis Franz born?

Dennis Franz was born on October 28th, 1944.

3. Where was Dennis Franz born?

Dennis Franz was born in Maywood, USA.

4. What is Dennis Franz's profession?

Dennis Franz is a renowned actor known for his captivating performances on film and television.

6. What are some of Dennis Franz's notable achievements?

Dennis Franz is best known for his role as Detective Andy Sipowicz in the TV series "NYPD Blue," which earned him four Emmy Awards for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series. His diverse range of roles and exceptional acting skills have made him a respected figure in the entertainment industry.

Know About More visit Celebrity's Net Worth Biography'S

[heronchild-haven]

Hi! Ik you must be super busy, but could you please delight us all with an angsty/bitter heronchild drabble with the prompts "believe me, it was a struggle" and "would you please just kiss me?" I feel like that may be a bit challenging but you're super creative and I'm excited to see what you come up with!

First of all, thank you for the faith. And yes, *ugh* it was a bit challenging and turned out longer than I think drabbles are supposed to be? But I still had fun writing it, as much as exploring Matthew's extreme inner angst can be fun. 🙃 You asked for it.

It was almost midnight when James finally managed to pry himself away from the institute and make it to Whitby Mansions. The mundane porter eyed him disapprovingly when he let him in in, but still waved him through to the elevator, already used to his visits at all kinds of ungodly hours. 

Although, this time, James wasn’t entirely sure if Matthew wanted to see him. He’d disappeared from the ball shortly after another confrontation with Grace. And James didn’t need to search half the institute to know he was gone. He could sense when Matthew was out of his reach, and when he was distressed. In this case it had been both. 

He stopped at flat 6 and knocked. It didn’t take long before he heard footsteps approaching, and then the door flew open, revealing Matthew. He was still in his stunning evening suit, though he’d gotten rid of his jacket and cuffs, and looked a little disheveled, with his tie coming loose and the upper buttons of his shirt open. His eyes were gleaming with a painfully familiar, hazy brightness. 

“Jamie,“ he drawled, and stepped aside immediately to beckon James inside with an overly elaborate gesture. “I’m a little surprised to be receiving you here so late.” He didn’t sound surprised. At all. 

“And I was a little surprised to find you gone all of a sudden.” James replied, while following him through the foyer into the drawing room. Matthew waved a hand dismissively. His movements were definitely exaggerated, and a little slower than usual. “The atmosphere was too stale for my taste. And as you’re aware, I detest waltzing. Did you know that Oscar Wilde’s half-sisters tragically burned to death, on an occasion not unlike tonight’s?”

James didn’t comment on that. “You could’ve at least informed us that you were leaving early. Anna was dismayed to find herself attending to the fair ladies of the enclave all on her own.”

“I’m sure you were able to help her out.” Matthew replied sharply, and the accusatory tone in his voice made James flinch. It was true that he had been trying desperately to live up to the social expectations of the enclave, entertaining all kinds of attentions from London’s most eligible daughters. But only because he knew how quick people were to start whispering and speculating, as they already did with Matthew. And that was the last thing they needed. 

At heart, he only wished to be alone with his friends. And with Matthew. “I would’ve preferred to have you there.”

“You didn’t seem to want me there when Grace came to talk to you,” said Matthew.

“To prevent a social calamity. It looked like you were barely holding back from scratching her eyes out.” 

Matthew let out a short, brittle laugh. “Oh, believe me,” he said bitterly. “It was a struggle.”

„Congratulations, then.” James muttered through clenched teeth. “For not attempting homicide in front of the entire enclave.“ Matthew, apparently determined to continue his theatrics, made a dramatic bow- and almost fell over his own feet as he lost balance, leaning on the settee to keep himself upright. 

“You’re drunk,” said James, and Matthew rolled his eyes. “You have been saying that rather often lately. It has become repetitive. Really very dull topic of conversation, Jamie.”

“That it because, lately, you have been noticeably drunk rather often.” James replied dryly.

“Well, what is a lad to do to entertain himself, all alone for the night,” said Matthew, raising his chin defiantly. 

“You could’ve stayed.”

“And watch you pine over Grace for the rest of the evening, waiting for her to come back over and rope you in again with some nonsense about her mother or Charles?” The truth was, he’d only let James out of his sight once the Blackthorns had left. Matthew would never allow an opportunity for Grace to sink her claws into him again.

“I am not pining over Grace, and you know that,” James snapped. He brushed a hand through his wild hair in exasperation, then took a deep breath, regaining his composure. “You can try to vex me all you want. Don't think I wouldn’t notice that you’re avoiding the real issue.”

Matthew swallowed down a dry throat. “Which is?”

“You’re hurting. I can feel it.” James stepped closer, reaching out a hand to touch Matthew’s cheek, gently. The light of the fire was dancing over his face, illuminating his beautiful, golden eyes. 

“Math, I’ve said this before. You can be entirely honest with me.”

Oh, how he wished that James was right. But under all the jealousy and bitterness, Matthew knew that he was being selfish. He wanted James for himself, even though he didn’t deserve him. Even though, every time they gave into their true desires, they were risking their continued existence as members of shadowhunter society. Matthew of course had never belonged there in the first place, not the way James did. It was becoming more and more clear to him that he wasn’t meant to be part of any lasting happiness James could build for himself in London. And besides, he’d forfeited that right long ago when he’d murdered his own sister. But no matter how often the subject came up or how much James pleaded for it, Matthew could never bring himself to tell his parabatai what he’d done.

He swallowed, searching for words. The impulse to give a snark or humorous reply had left him. James came even closer, silently, and maybe subconsciously, seeking out the comfort of their closeness, craving it as much as Matthew did. “At the very least, tell me what you need now. How can I restore your faith in me?”

It’s not you I lack faith in. He wanted to say. But the words got stuck in his throat. James brought up his other hand up to cup his face. “Math…” he whispered. 

Matthew leaned into the touch. Because as unworthy as he was of it, he couldn’t help taking everything that James offered him, couldn’t help asking for more. And he needed to forget. 

“Would you please just kiss me?”

James complied. He kissed him like he was everything in the world that mattered. And Matthew gave himself to the illusion of it. For another night, he could forget everything that was wrong with him. And that, when it came down to it, he would never be James’ first choice. He would always be in the sidelines, the parabatai who looked on proudly as his friend would one day get married and build a life and bring pride to his family's name. While he himself would fade into the shadows, once James finally grew tired of him and he inevitably got himself ejected from the clave, to die somewhere alone and in disgrace, just like his greatest idol. 

Maybe that was precisely what he deserved, after all.

[sugar-petals]

Kibbe Body Typing Tips

12 bits of advice covering type distinctions, signature characteristics, subtypes, yin-yang balance, typing men, first impressions, bones vs flesh, kibbegories in specific social realms, and proportions.

- every type immediately shows their signature characteristics when you put them in classic clothing (since it’s the most neutral style). say, a minimal, long-sleeved shirt that hugs the body with a round neckline. the tautness/asymmetry and long bones of dramatics will show, the dynamic bulkiness and athletic body of naturals will show, the petiteness and square body of gamine will show, the extreme curviness and short limbs of romantic will show. except classics: they blend in perfectly, you seemingly can’t point out anything at all.

- naturals appear top-heavy (wide shoulders and chest/ribcage) while dramatics can actually have broader hips and thighs — seemingly. in fact it’s just because their shoulders and torso are so narrow and their proportions always have some kind of asymmetry. in fact, their hips and thighs are rather small, it’s just the contrast to the even narrower torso. that’s how you can tell them from classics whose shoulders and hips line up very evenly.

- what you see first determines the subtype. see the bone structure first (e.g. fingers)? yang subtype or pure yang. see the flesh first (e.g. cheeks)? yin subtype or pure yin. what other people tell you as a first impression is the surefire way to know. do they point out your long legs right away? that’s bone structure, you have a more dramatic slant, so D/FN/DC/FG. 

- don’t forget that gamine is never pure yang. there will always be yin features in the mix, like soft upper arms or an hourglass figure. the important part is that these features are random and you’re perceived as very small, compact.  

- typing guys becomes easier when you use the type-casting method rather than relying on the scarce male kibbe type material that’s out there. what type of movie would he be perfect for? if he could easily be an elf, rocker, or a villain, dramatic (lee pace, keanu reeves). if he’s great in action or medieval genres, natural (pedro pascal, idris elba, c. hemsworth). if he’s a perfect heartthrob, romantic (mb jordan, rob lowe, jimin). if he’d fit any teen comedy, gamine (zac efron, tom holland). if you could put him in a suit and he’d do anything, classic.

- the current worldwide trend and style era in terms of clothes you can buy in your local stores is soft natural. if you have that type, you likely didn’t run into any problems yet, fitting and budget-wise. the more experimental fashion caters toward flamboyant gamine. the types that will struggle the most with what’s available are dramatics and romantics with their subtypes. you end up in very specialized stores or needing to look toward high fashion.

- type facial features last rather than first, and not entirely up close. what’s more important is seeing whether the head is smaller by proportion (dramatic and natural), sort of indistinguishable (classic), or slightly larger (romantic and gamine). the head in and of itself might not be out of the ordinary, it’s about how the torso and the vertical line relate to it.

- naturals appear to have wide bones because there are no sharp points creating the illusion of slimness. that’s why dramatics often have V-shaped jaws where the chin is the farthest point while the chin area of flamboyant naturals appears much flatter from below, making the face seem wide. you look toward either side rather than to the middle which is the fundamental difference between blunt yang and sharp yang.

- dramatics and flamboyant naturals meddle on the runways of the world. meanwhile, instagram favors theatrical romantics. which world you’d rather be able to sort of blend into tells you a lot about your yin/yang amount or someone you’re typing. if you don’t fit into either realm completely no matter what you did, you’re a classic or gamine. classics would blend more into a circle of royals or socialites, and gamines literally every subculture or non-hollywood industry (see k-pop or british punk, yungblud is a perfect example). 

- the exception is soft dramatic. they’re not stark- and straight-looking like a model, not athletic nor curvy/small enough for instagram, too tall and mature-looking for subcultures/alternative entertainment, and often too sensual for royalty. the place where they fit in the most is any red carpet by far. soft dramatics do expressive ball gowns like no other type.

- soft gamines have a more boxy shape overall, romantics on the other hand have extreme differences between shoulders, waist, hips. romantics look delicate, soft gamines are sturdy. you immediately look at their huge eyes and unique face. meanwhile, romantics draw instant attention to the waist as their signature element. while their face is perceived as more uniform, everything being so soft. soft gamines could have strong chins and more chiseled noses, strong calves, wider palms. with a romantic, you rather see how short and small the bones are, even if soft gamines can be much more petite!

- perceived age is also a dead giveaway. classics and especially dramatics always look more mature, with soft classic being the only exception. naturals appear sort of in between, refreshing but also grounded. gamines and romantics always look younger. especially gamines, they’re the peter pan of the kibbe system. 

[jayamalprints]

shop now - https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/95375731?asc=u

All Too Well: The Short Film is an American romantic drama short film written and directed by American singer-songwriter Taylor Swift. It was produced by Saul Projects and Taylor Swift Productions, and distributed by PolyGram Entertainment, Republic Records, and Universal Pictures. Titled after Swift's 2012 song "All Too Well", the film is based on the premise of the song's 10-minute version and stars Sadie Sink and Dylan O'Brien as a romantic couple whose up-and-down relationship ultimately falls apart, with a brief appearance by Swift at the end. It was released to YouTube on November 12, 2021, alongside Swift's second re-recorded album, Red (Taylor's Version).

The film premiered at the AMC Theatres at Lincoln Square, New York City, on November 12 as well, and received a limited theatrical release in major cities. It opened to positive reviews from critics, who praised the direction, cinematography, and Sink's performance.

Synopsis

All Too Well: The Short Film opens with a literary quote from Chilean poet Pablo Neruda: "Love is so short, forgetting is so long". The film chronicles the relationship of two doomed lovers, Her and Him, compounded by an age gap. American singer-songwriter Taylor Swift's 2021 song "All Too Well (10 Minute Version)" plays throughout the film, except during a dialogued conflict between Her and Him.The 15-minute film is divided into seven chapters—"An Upstate Escape", "The First Crack In The Glass", "Are You Real?", "The Breaking Point", "The Reeling", "The Remembering" and the epilogue "Thirteen Years Gone"—each of which represent a formative period in the relationship of Her and Him.

Plot

The story starts with the couple lying in bed together, Her mesmerized by Him. They travel to upstate New York, where she leaves her red scarf at a house belonging to his sister. Their relationship takes a turn at a dinner party, where Him ignores his girlfriend as he is busy catching up with his friends. They fight afterwards; Him is arrogant and dismissive, while a distraught Her is heartbroken but still wants to stay with Him. He apologizes and kisses her to end the argument, and they dance in the refrigerator light. Him starts to distance himself from Her when she needs him, eventually breaking up with Her. A devastated Her weeps in bed, ignoring his phone calls. A montage shows Her alone at parties and miserable on her 21st birthday. Him's life carries on as he walks alone down a Brooklyn street, recalling some of the happier moments in his relationship with Her. The film then jumps 13 years into the future. She has become an author and is celebrating the release of her novel All Too Well, presumably detailing the heartache of her early twenties, reading it out to an audience of fans in a packed bookstore. Outside, an older Him watches Her through the window, wearing the same scarf she had abandoned 13 years ago.

Background and production

Swift announced her second re-recorded album, Red (Taylor's Version), a re-recording of Swift's fourth studio album Red (2012), for release on November 12, 2021. It contains both the re-recorded version of the fan-favorite track "All Too Well" and its 10-minute-long, uncut version as a bonus track "from the vault".All Too Well: The Short Film is a dramatized account of the incidents and dynamics of the relationship described in the song. Swift said the film was an expression of her gratitude to her fans for their reception to the song over the years.

On November 11, 2021, Swift revealed via her social media accounts that All Too Well: The Short Film was shot in 35 mm film format by cinematographer Rina Yang.On a Late Night with Seth Meyers episode on November 12, Swift stated she cast Sink and O'Brien because they were the only two people she imagined playing the roles. Swift added that she is a huge fan of O'Brien's works and that she would not have proceeded with making the film had Sink turned down the offer. Swift explained, "I like working with friends or people who I think would be excited about working with me. I've never made a short film before. I needed to reach out to people who would maybe believe that I was capable with it. I'm just blown away by what [Sink and O'Brien] did—they went out and left it all on the field". Swift further revealed that Sink and O'Brien "were so electric and [improvising] a lot of what they were doing that we just couldn't take the camera off [them]".

lyrics

I walked through the door with you The air was cold But something about it felt like home somehow And I, left my scarf there at your sister's house And you've still got it in your drawer even nowOh, your sweet disposition And my wide-eyed gaze We're singing in the car, getting lost upstate Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place And I can picture it after all these daysAnd I know it's long gone and that magic's not here no more And I might be okay but I'm not fine at all'Cause there we are again on that little town street You almost ran the red 'cause you were lookin' over at me Wind in my hair, I was there I remember it all too wellPhoto album on the counter Your cheeks were turning red You used to be a little kid with glasses in a twin-sized bed And your mother's telling stories 'bout you on the tee-ball team You told me 'bout your past thinking your future was meAnd I know it's long gone and there was nothing else I could do And I forget about you long enough to forget why I needed to'Cause there we are again in the middle of the night We're dancing 'round the kitchen in the refrigerator light Down the stairs, I was there I remember it all too well, yeahAnd maybe we got lost in translation Maybe I asked for too much But maybe this thing was a masterpiece 'til you tore it all up Running scared, I was there I remember it all too wellAnd you call me up again just to break me like a promise So casually cruel in the name of being honest I'm a crumpled up piece of paper lying here 'Cause I remember it all, all, all Too wellTime won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it I'd like to be my old self again But I'm still trying to find it After plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own Now you mail back my things and I walk home alone But you keep my old scarf from that very first week 'Cause it reminds you of innocence And it smells like me You can't get rid of it 'Cause you remember it all too well, yeah'Cause there we are again when I loved you so Back before you lost the one real thing you've ever known It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too wellWind in my hair, you were there, you remember it all Down the stairs, you were there, you remember it all It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well

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[scotianostra]

The Gaelic singer Calum Kennedy was born on June 2nd 1928 at Orosay, Isle of Lewis. Kennedy became an acclaimed singer and was dubbed King of the Highlands Calum spent his early years in a remote community without electricity or running water. But music and dancing were strong features of his upbringing with villagers regularly converging for ceilidhs and informal music sessions. His father ran a bus service to and from Stornoway and the family became quite a focal point of the local community and not merely for the sound of melodeon and fiddles regularly heard in their home. When Calum was 10 they acquired a radio - “the first in our village” - a novelty that attracted many visitors and opened his ears to the wider musical world around him. He regularly sang in church, but attributed his unusual range and powers of projection to wandering on the moors near his home and singing to the cows and sheep as a way of calling them home from the hill. At this time he had no thoughts of a career in entertainment and moved to Glasgow to work on Clydeside as an apprentice plater. He didn’t last long there and went through a series of abortive careers, including a brief period training to be a doctor, a spell as an accountant and three and a half years in the Army. His sister then suggested he try his luck singing at the Glasgow Mod, a competition-based annual festival of Gaelic arts. Victory qualified him to compete in the National Mod held in Dunoon. He didn’t win that year but it inspired him to take his singing much more seriously and resurrect the songs of his childhood, which he performed with rare zeal and passion. In 1953 he met and married Anne Gillies, herself a fine Gaelic singer, and they started performing together. Calum took the gold medal at the National Mod in Aberdeen in 1955. It was a triumph that launched him to stardom. Concerts followed in London and elsewhere, and his first recordings. He broadened his repertoire from Gaelic ballads and mouth music to incorporate English-language material and, with his mop of curly hair, boyish looks and dramatic sense of delivery, he caught the imagination of the public at large. In 1957 he travelled by train to Moscow with another would-be singer and actor, Richard Harris, to compete in the World Ballad Championship, during which the two became good friends and Kennedy acquired a taste for drink and a reputation as a party animal. It proved to be a momentous trip as Kennedy beat 500 singers from all over the world, was presented with a gold medal by the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev and got to perform at the Bolshoi Theatre.He returned a hero and his subsequent recording career included many orchestrated populist songs, with material ranging from “The Skye Boat Song”, “Bluebells of Scotland”, “The Whistling Gypsy”, “Ae Fond Kiss” and “Amazing Grace” to “Keep Right on to the End of the Road” and “Donald Where’s Yer Troosers”? His most famous and most acclaimed interpretations, though, were the Gaelic love song “Peigi a Ghraidh” and Byron’s tribute to his childhood in Aberdeen, “Dark Lochnagar”. Later he composed his own material, like “No No Geordie Munro” and “The Skyline of Skye”, though the best-loved was probably the sentimental evocation of his own roots on “Lovely Stornoway”.

As powerfully emotive a singer as he was, however, it was his engagingly forceful personality that won the hearts of the public and his escalating fame throughout the Sixties was largely built on regular television appearances. He hosted the first live show on Grampian Television and also starred in his own variety show on STV, almost inventing the template for the archetype Scottish performer of the day with his quips, kilt and irrepressible beam presenting long-running series Calum’s Celidh and Round at Calum’s. He lived an expansive life, making big money selling out venues all over the country with his own travelling show, while also leading a busy social and family life, with five daughters. Anne and the girls all featured in his television show Meet the Kennedys and for a while performed on stage as a family group, the Singing Kennedys. However, luck turned against him in the Seventies. His wife died suddenly in 1974 at the age of 40 after being admitted to hospital for a routine operation. AIt him him really hard and about the same time he was afflicted by throat problems, he didn’t sing for two years and when he did return he found that his theatrical approach had lost favour with a public that now saw his robust, kilted persona and sentimental singing as representative of a one-dimensional, stereotypical image of Scottishness. He diversified and became an impresario, buying Dundee Palace and Aberdeen’s Tivoli Theatre, bringing Shirley Bassey, Frankie Vaughan and the Billy Cotton Band Show to Scotland. He was never again to recapture his glories of the Fifties and Sixties, but continued to perform. In 1985 he was the subject of an unintentionally funny BBC documentary, Calum Kennedy’s Commando Course, which followed him on a disastrous variety tour through the north of Scotland. In 1986 he married his second wife, Christine, and they had a daughter together, but divorced. Despite persistent health problems that resulted in a heart bypass operation, he made a stage comeback in the 1990s and was still performing at the age of 70. He suffered a stroke in 2005 but there was a continuing awareness of his work through a couple of compilation CDs, The King of the Highlands and Sailing up the Clyde, of tracks recorded in his heyday. His eldest daughter, Fiona Kennedy, has taken on his mantle as a television presenter and singer of Gaelic songs, she continues to tour and sing, her latest album coming last year.

[justforbooks]

Perhaps the single most lucid, succinct, and profoundly terrifying analysis of social media ever created for mass consumption, Jeff Orlowski’s “The Social Dilemma” does for Facebook what his previous documentaries “Chasing Ice” and “Chasing Coral” did for climate change (read: bring compelling new insight to a familiar topic while also scaring the absolute shit out of you). And while the film covers — and somehow manages to contain — a staggering breadth of topics and ramifications, one little sentence is all it takes to lay out the means and ends of the crisis at hand: Russia didn’t hack Facebook, Russia used Facebook.

That may not be a mind-blowing idea for anyone who’s been raised on the internet, but it would be wrong to think that Orlowski’s film is only speaking to the back of the class. While “The Social Dilemma” is relevant to every person on the planet, and should be legible enough to even the most technologically oblivious types (the Amish, the U.S. Senate, and so forth), its target demographic is very online types who think they understand the information age too well to be taken advantage of. That’s zoomers, millennials, and screen junkies of any stripe who wouldn’t have the faintest interest in a finger-wagging documentary about how they should spend more time outside.

Taking a top-down, inside out approach to the basic nature of the social media experiment, Orlowski’s film doesn’t waste any time in proving its bonafides (and using them to strike fear into your heart). It begins with an ominous nugget of wisdom from Sophocles, who would have crushed it on Twitter: “Nothing vast enters the life of mortals without a curse.” From there, Orlowski introduces viewers to some of the most worried-looking white people you’re likely to find these days: The designers, engineers, and executives who invented social media, and then quit when they began to understand the existential threat it posed to all civilization. The guy who invented the “like” button. An ex-department head at Instagram. Even one of the techies responsible for Gmail and Google Drive. As annoying as it can be when someone tells you to quit Facebook, it’s hard to ignore someone who’s actually quit Facebook.

Orlowski’s star interviewee, however, is a guy who’s often referred to as “Silicon Valley’s conscience.” His name is Tristan Harris, he’s the co-founder of the Center for Humane Technology, and his measured alarmism serves as a worried voice of reason throughout the film as “The Social Dilemma” strives to bridge the gap between abstract threats and direct consequences. The most overarching of those macro concerns is a free-to-use business model that coerces people into betraying their own value. As the saying goes (and is quoted here): “If you’re not paying for the product, you are the product.”

With the help of articulate testimony, illuminating visual aids, and a well-crafted thesis that elegantly articulates the relationship between persuasive technology and human behavior, Orlowski fortifies the familiar argument that addiction isn’t a side effect of social media, but rather the industry’s business model. Our data is used as a currency for these companies, but our time is a far more precious commodity — how much of our lives can they get us to forfeit over to them?

The more time we spend on social media, the more valuable our human futures become; the more valuable our human futures become, the more that advertisers are willing to pay for them. And how does a company like Facebook or YouTube (which is technically Google) convince us to spend more time on their platforms? They change our fundamental perception of reality, as The Algorithm is designed to populate things into our feeds and queues that will excite/agitate us towards engagement, pull us deeper into our respective rabbit holes, and silo us all into our separate realities. It’s surveillance capitalism run amok, as well as a peerlessly effective recipe for extremism.

Orlowski, recognizing that diagnosing the problem on such a profound scale is enough to make even the most rational of people sound like they’re suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, devises a bold and semi-successful way of making these enormous concepts feel more life-sized. Every so often, Orlowski cuts away to the scripted tale of an average, middle-class American family in order to more practically illustrate the effect that social media has on our lives. And by “our lives,” this critic means to stress that “The Social Dilemma” is more interested in Facebook’s impact on the average teenager than it is in — say — Facebook’s impact on the genocidal violence against Muslim Rohyingas in Myanmar. But Orlowski knows his audience.

“Booksmart” actor Skyler Gisondo plays a high school kid named Ben who’s addicted to his phone, “Moonrise Kingdom” breakout Kara Hayward is his concerned older sister, and — in a touch of absolute genius — “Mad Men” star Vincent Kartheiser plays several human manifestations of The Algorithm itself, selling Ben reasons to stay on his phone like some kind of dystopian Pete Campbell. These sequences first arrive with the queasy awkwardness of an after school special, and seem determined to make teenagers roll their eyeballs right out of their heads. But if these dramatizations can be more than a bit too on the nose, they’re redeemed by an emergent — and very amusing — self-awareness that reflects our own; a certain level of irony is required to get through to people who regularly tweet about how much they hate Twitter (aka “this website” aka “this hellsite”).

The least effective of these moments can make it feel as though “The Social Dilemma” underestimates the persuasiveness of its own arguments, but the most valuable passages help to illustrate one particularly alarming sound byte from elsewhere in the film: “We’re so worried about tech overpowering human strength that we don’t pay attention to tech overpowering human weakness.” It’s helpful to see how social media can inflame our inherent need for approval, and discourage people from taking risks that might alienate the online community. It’s convincing to see The Algorithm alert Ben to his ex-girlfriend’s new relationship so that he’ll spend more time sifting through her photos, and — in a frustratingly reductive way — watch The Algorithm populate Ben’s feed with videos that radicalize him into the fold of a political movement called “The Extreme Center,” a cute touch that nevertheless draws a false equivalency between left and right.

Is “The Social Dilemma” persuasive enough to convince a MAGA zealot to stop binge-watching Ben Shapiro nonsense and buy a subscription to a newspaper? It’s hard to say. But the film will definitely make you more cognizant of your own behavior — not just of how you use the internet, but how the internet uses you. And it will do so in a way that feels less like an intervention than it does a wake-up call; Orlowski and his subjects recognize how the internet has created a simultaneous utopia and dystopia, and they aren’t under any delusions that we’re able to wish it away. Their documentary isn’t instructive so much as directional, and thereby most fascinating for the implications it leaves you to consider on your own time.

How has social media shaped the way we think about (overlapping) things like politics, race, and entertainment? What impact does siloing people into their own realities have on our faith in empathy, objective truth, and some kind of shared understanding? And does the isolated and algorithmically-programmed nature of streaming video make it less of an alternative to the theatrical experience than its antithesis? As human futures become human presents, these questions will only grow more urgent. In the meantime: Quit Facebook, don’t click on Instagram ads, and — for the love of God — make sure that your Twitter feed is set to chronological order instead of “showing you the best tweets first,” because the only hope we have left lies in the difference between what you and The Algorithm consider to be good content.

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