#honoured delighted overwhelmed

[latecomersprivilege]

Hi, loved your Galex halloween fest fic! I just have one question - maybe I’m too stupid but I didn’t understand the last line and the sent text😭

Hiiiiiii Anon!

Thank you so much for reading my silly little slip of a story.

Just to cut straight to the oozing wound here, you are of course not stupid!

Spoilers, and a teeny bit of filth, below the cut.

The answer to your ask is: I wanted to hint that it might be Alex, real Alex, that meets George in the tyre room. That maybe he left his phone in his own drivers room (I firmly believe the man is a chaotic menace and the lack of pockets in his race suit would scupper him) and responds only later, once he's dodged the carnage in the paddock and made it back to Williams. That he decided to run with George's assumption and take what he could get. Just like George.

But also, maybe not. Maybe it was the shadow, slipping out just as the sun is setting and the curse is over. And George has to live with the knowledge that he's violated Alex without him ever knowing.

Either way, George can't be quite sure, unless he gets up the courage to ask. And his inability to be brave and just ask Alex is kind of the whole reason he's getting sucked off by his best mate/his best mate's cursed shadow self in the tyre room anyway.

But also, I'm new at this, so I probably aimed for ambiguous and landed on vague.

Extra bonus content and a rec to a much better fic: When I first outlined this, I was borrowing heavily - or bouncing off, I guess - @ctimenefic's much much better fic Three's a Crowd, which I'd been lucky enough to be beta-reading. The idea of would you fuck your clone - the eternal question - opened out into, would you fuck the clone of the guy you're in love with? Would it count? What if it did? She does this way better than me - but I had started writing a torturous historical fantasy ghost story set in sixteenth century Europe about puritanism and religious tolerance which I had to abandon for the fest deadline (and for other obvious reasons), so I was hunting around for something I could do quickly. Theft, it turns out, is fast, if shallow.

Also, this is my first ask ever that isn't from my real-life internet friend, who lovingly sends me asks like a parent sending anonymous valentines to her lonely kid (thanks @ctimenefic you'll always be my internet mom) - so instant bonus karma to you, Anon, for making my week on top of reading the fic. Thank you.

[frost-queen]

The moment I knew // part 8 (Reader!Bridgerton x Tewkesbury)

Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly,@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco,@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, 

@panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury,  @imagines-by-her,  @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn, @cayt0123, 

@powwowsworld, @yomamacrusty, @mileyy22, @omgsuperstarg, @helen06dreamer, @misscaller06, @l4venderia, @dracoflaco, @loliakeoghan23, @emotionaldamageemotionaldamage, @reallysparklychaos, @ok-boke, @the-fifth-marauder7, @asgards-princess-of-mischief, @cherrysxuya, @lol6sposts, @cierrajhill, @heheyhey

Summary: During a ball sneaks Tewkesbury his presence more onto you. Almost desperate to be near you. Even so desperate he calls upon your house yet he isn't the only one. [ part 1 & part 2 & part 3& part 4 & part 5 & part 6 & part 7 & part 9 & part 10 ]

Candles were dazzling in the bright room. The walls warmed with the comfort of people. The ton bustled together in a room of delight. Chattering chippering up yet not too loud for the music to be overwhelmed. In a corner was the orchestra. The piano forte, violins, cello’s, enough to make the room dance. In the centre ladies and gents were waltzing. Graceful and delicately.

Each in their own world of slowly falling in love or hoping to be. Benedict appeared from between the crowd holding two lemonade glasses up so they wouldn’t get knocked over. He approached with a heavy exhale. Francesca and you turned more towards him. – “Your drinks sisters.” – he said lowering his hands to offer the glasses. Francesca and you took yours.

Benedict joined Colin’s side behind the two of you. Colin looked at Benedict half disappointed. – “What about me dear brother?” – he asked with pouted lips. – “Go fetch it yourself!” – Benedict replied with a sneer. Colin raised his eyebrows playfully at you when you had turned around to listen in to their conversation. – “I’ll fetch mine all by myself than.” – he exaggerated making Benedict roll his eyes.

The dancers came to a stop as the dance had ended. The room emptied as the orchestra began their next song. The first few notes shot up like a rush. Playful tunes that made you supress a squeal out of excitement. You hastily pushed your glass in Colin’s hands. Startled he nearly spilled some lemonade on his gloves.

“Y/n!” – he groaned out as you grabbed Benedict’s wrist. – “Come brother dance with me!” – you called out. Benedict got pulled with you swept amongst the crowd of joining the dance. Francesca came standing at Colin’s side. – “Now you have your drink.” – she said before taking a serious sip. You came to a stop as Benedict nearly stumbled. You positioned him before you and dove right into the dance that had already begun.

Benedict was a bit slower watching those beside him to what he needed to do. He held his hands up as you clapped your hand against his diagonally. You then clasped your hands together and spun around. Benedict started to catch on clapping his hands against yours at the same time making you laugh. You heard laughter from all around you as this dance was not so stiff.

A pleasant folklore dance with lot’s of spins, hops and fun. Tewkesbury’s eyes widened seeing you amidst them dance with your brother. He knew what kind of dance it was. Gulping nervously he very much wanted to join. Looking quickly around he grabbed the first girl’s wrist he saw near him and pulled her without a word into the dance. He forced his way to be beside you.

The couple that were already dancing near you got stopped in their movement, leaving them confused for a brief moment. They cleared the way as Tewkesbury dove right into the dance. He took the girl’s hands facing your back as he followed the dancers go in a circle forwards.

“What an honour my lord.” – the girl said breathlessly. – “Quiet!” – Tewkesbury said to her trying to focus on you. They came to a stop, changed hands and went back the other way. You furrowed your brows looking at the suspicious back of the person hopping before you. – “Is that?” – you muttered before Benedict pulled you to a halt. Clapping your hands against his again. Benedict let you spin under his arm. Benedict then walked over to you to come at your side.

Tewkesbury’s eyes widened as he hastened himself at your side. Taking your hand before the girl he was with could do so. Feeling the sudden warm grip on your hand made you look up. – “My …” – you wanted to address his presence but got pulled to the centre by your brother and Tewkesbury. Each holding your hands as you had formed a circle with the other dancers. Coming together in the middle to then part back to a full circle.

In a confused haze they pulled at you needing you to follow the direction they were going. The full circle going to the left. There was a brief pause before you were pulled in the other direction. There was another stop as you stood lost when Tewkesbury stood before your brother and you before the girl he danced with. – “What are you doing?” – Benedict shout-whispered, clapping his hands against Tewkesbury’s. – “May I dance with your sister?” – Tewkesbury asked before taking a spin as did Benedict.

You and the girl did the steps in silence and confused as to why you were suddenly dancing with each other. – “Please.” – Tewkesbury pleaded as Benedict sighed deep. Tewkesbury took it as an agreement turning his posture away from Benedict and giving the girl a gentle nudge to get her out of the way. You took each other’s hands hopping to the side and back. 

You watched Benedict leave the dance returning to your siblings. – “You scared my brother away.” – you teased. – “I asked.” – Tewkesbury responded taking you by the waist. You did the same twirling around with him. – “This is more fun isn’t it?” – he said. – “I’ll decide that.” – you responded trying to supress a smile. Tewkesbury saw the mischief in your eyes knowing you weren’t serious.

He let you twirl under his arm before he pressed his hand on your back and pulled you to his chest. He was a bit too eager making you fall against his chest, needed to have pressed your hand to escape a hard bump. – “Where’s your partner?” – you asked glancing to the side. Tewkesbury pulled you back in by your chin, wanting you to look at him. – “Right here.” – he whispered making you look bashful away. – “Don’t be silly.” – you slapped him against his chest. Tewkesbury took a hold of you dancing around with you. Hastened and energetic that you were out of breath. The music slowed, fading out as the two of you were panting.

Tewkesbury bowed before you as you took a hold of your dress and curtsied. The two of you moved to the side allowing other dancers to join the next dance. – “May I see your hand?” – Tewkesbury asked. – “Wha--- why?” – you responded confused. Cheeks flushed from the heat. – “May I see it?” – he pressed on. You moved your hand up with a taunting smile. Your dance card dangled on the cord around your wrist. – “Perfect.” – He mumbled pulling at the  cord. – “Hey!” – you called out as it snapped, dance card now in his hands. – “That’s mine!” – you called out wanting to grab for it. Yet he was faster pulling it back out of your reach. – “I’ll keep this.” – he showed you the card with a smirk.

“If you think you are being charming, you are wrong silly boy.” – you answered crossing your arms. Tewkesbury shrugged his shoulders. – “You can have it back when I’ve claimed all my dances.” – he replied finding it cute how angry you were trying to look. – “You see it has my name on it.” – he continued as you puffed loud. – “Where? I don’t see your name.” – you said tauntingly back looking closer at your dance card just for the dramatics. – “Right here.” – he began moving his gloved finger down your entire card. – “Tewkesbury.” – he spoke slowly as his finger went down.

“It’s in invisible ink.” – he added jokingly.  You punched him in the armpit just to stop him from laughing at his own smoothness. – “Au!” – he called out, rubbing the pain area. You stuck your tongue out to him as Tewkesbury did the same just to play with you. He dangled your dance card happily up to tease you even more. – “Stealing girl’s dance cards are we now?” – you heard as Tewkesbury stiffened. He turned, dropping down into a bow at the presence of his grandmother. – “I…I was just…” – Tewkesbury began as his grandmother shushed him.

“Who are you girl?” – she asked narrowing her eyes at you. You dropped into a curtsy. – “Miss Y/n Bridgerton, My lady.” – you introduced yourself. She only hummed intrigued. – “I hope my grandson has his manners.” – she shot him a glare making him swallow nervously. You stepped up, coming a bit in between him and his grandmother. – “He has been more than polite, My lady. A dream as to say.” – you spoke to her. His grandmother hummed intriguingly again before taking her leave. Tewkesbury exhaled relieved once she had gone. The dance card was for your plucking as you took it from him. – “I’ll have this back now.” – you laughed out backing up.

Tewkesbury smiled widely following you trying to take it back from you. You kept backing up till you bumped against someone. It made you gasp, turning round quickly to apologize. – “Enola!” – you blurted out upon seeing it was her you had bumped into. She furrowed her brows. – “You know my name?” – she then looked beyond you putting on a smile to Tewkesbury. – “Viscount.” – she addressed as Tewkesbury smiled nervously back at her. Then the two dots connected. – “Ah you must be the girl.” - she spoke with a giggle at Tewkesbury.

“I can see why he likes you.” – she spoke as Tewkesbury was waving his arms across behind you. - “What was I not to say that?” – Enola said dumbfound just to tease him more. Tewkesbury slapped his palm against his face in agony. You looked back to Tewkesbury who nervously rubbed his hand to the back of his head. – “Y/n!” – you heard, drawing your attention away from him. Francesca appeared from between the crowd making her way over to you. She eyed Enola and Tewkesbury before coming to take you away from them.

You brushed past Tewkesbury letting your hand brush against his. His eyes slightly widened feeling the card being forced into his hand. He closed his hand keeping the dance card by him. Enola came at his side as they watched you leave. Tewkesbury opened his hand and held the dance card up. Letting it twirl in the air by it’s snapped cord. – “You are so in on her.” – Enola teased with a comforting pat on his shoulder. Tewkesbury looked from the dance card to where you had gone.

The next day you were in the Parlor with mama, Francesca, Hyacinth and Gregory. Your brothers had gone out. Just a boring midday. Mama was knitting. Francesca reading a book with less interest. Hyacinth and Gregory playing a game of cards. You sat near your sister, head laid back to stare bored at the ceiling. These calling hours could be so dreadfully boring someday. The time of the day where anyone without an invitation could announce themselves at the house.

Mama had let her calling card known with who would be at home. The door opened as it barely made any of you move. – “Is that how you all spend the day?” – your eyes widened at the voice of your sister. – “Daphne!” – Hyacinth shouted loud dropping her cards immediately. All of you jumped awake getting up to greet your sister. You were hugging her when the duke dropped in with Augie. Augie now at the age of three he held Simon’s hand.

“Ladies.” – Simon greeted. Hyacinth and Gregory rushed up to him to hug him. Simon let go of Augie’s hand and hugged them tightly back. Francesca picked Augie up to play with him. You hugged your sister tightly as you had missed her dearly. – “You must come more often.” – you told her. – “I know.” – Daphne responded giving you a tight squeeze.

Daphne took your hand and led you to the armchairs. – “Now you must tell me all.” – she spoke. – “There is not much to say.” – you told her. – “Now that is a lie.” – Francesca pitched in as Augie bounced on her knee. – “Is that so?” – Daphne asked intrigued. – “There’s this Viscount.” – Francesca went on. – “Viscount? What Viscount?” – Daphne wanted to know looking curiously and eagerly at you. – “It’s… it’s… not like that…” – you told her a bit unsure of what was happening between the two of you.

Would this simply grow into a friendship or was there room for more from both sides. To be honest Tewkesbury have been giving you mixed signals. All with the whole Enola thing going on. – “Then what is it like?” – Daphne wanted to know more. The door opened once more, this time the doorman entered. He cleared his throat before speaking. – “A visitor for Miss Y/n Bridgerton.” – he called out. – “Me?” – you said confused getting up. – “Well who is it?” – Daphne asked. The doorman cleared his throat again. – “He said Miss Y/n Bridgerton could guess.”

You already had a clue so you left the Parlor to head into the hallway. Your idea had been right. Tewkesbury stood by the door waiting for you. – “Miss Y/n.” – he spoke dropping into a bow. – “What are you doing here?” – you shout-whispered at him. Tewkesbury got startled a bit by the tone of your voice. – “I…I came for you.” – he said. – “My sister is inside.” – you told him a bit panicking. – “Francesca?” – he guessed. – “Daphne!” – you told him. – “I…I just wanted to see you.” – he responded as you kept looking frantically over your shoulder.

“I hope my grandmother had not scared you away.” – he asked when you gave him a gentle nudge back towards the door. You stopped furrowing your brows. – “I…you needn’t be frightened of her. She’s all bark but no bite.” – he told you taking a hold of your hand. – “I promise you.” – he continued as you got lost in his eyes.

Forgetting about your surroundings and only thinking of him. You were so deep into his eyes that you didn’t hear the door open. Till you heard a voice. – “You must be the Viscount?” – Daphne spoke. You jumped out of your skin, pushing Tewkesbury behind you.

“I am.” – Tewkesbury replied politely, moving a bit from behind you. – “And he is just leaving.” – you said pushing him back. – “Wha…no… no Miss Y/n.” – Tewkesbury whispered at you holding you by your wrist as you pushed him back. – “Come back another time.” – you whispered back to him. Desperate to get him away from Daphne yet he stood his ground, not moving quick enough. – “I still have your dance card.” – he whispered back making you look panicking over your shoulder.

Daphne watching the whole display. Tewkesbury holding you by the wrist trying to stay close as you tried to push him out of the house. She tilted her head with an intriguing hum. – “A cup of tea Viscount?” – Daphne called out. – “Yes!” – Tewkesbury called out letting go of you and stepping to the side. Daphne gestured to the Parlor. Tewkesbury went in as you followed behind. In the door opening plucked Daphne at your cheek with one of her glances. The one you feared the most. The one that stated that she knew more than you could see.

“The Viscount!” – Francesca pointed out teasingly. Simon turned his head looking the boy up and down. – “Isn’t it wonderful that he came to visit.” – Daphne said. Tewkesbury glanced over to you, catching your gaze. You held it still for a moment, for a longing moment where you stared into his eyes. Daphne looking between the two of you. – “Y/n tea!” – Francesca called out making you hum loud. You took your leave to set some tea.

Tewkesbury came to sit down in the armchair as Daphne had offered to him to sit. Both Simon and Gregory got up, coming to sit at each his side. Tewkesbury swallowed nervously at the stare Simon was giving him. Gregory smiled rather teasingly at him yet it uneased him a bit. – “You were at the opera.” – Gregory stated. – “I…I was…” – he replied. You returned to give him his tea. Taking a seat by your sisters across from him.

Tewkesbury drank his tea nervously hoping his hands weren’t shaking too much. – “Are you nervous boy?” – Simon asked. – “Simon!” – Daphne hissed at him for trying to intimidate him. Tewkesbury nearly spilled some tea. – “No…no your grace.” – Tewkesbury answered. You smiled sheepishly at Tewkesbury feeling a bit embarrassed by your own family.

“He’s very handsome.” – Hyacinth sitting on the ground in front of him. Staring dreamingly at him. Tewkesbury smiled. – “If you do not marry him then I want to marry him.” – Hyacinth said to you. – “Hyacinth!” – you shout-whispered at her to stop embarrassing you. Francesca snorted loud. – “Alright I believe calling hours are ending.” – you had jumped up, wanting to end the attention on you. – “Are you perhaps feeling shy sister?” – Francesca asked as you slapped a pillow at her head.

You gestured for the door as Tewkesbury followed. In the hallway you waited with him as the doorman opened the door. – “Have a good day my lord.” – you told him pushing him a bit to the door. Tewkesbury stood in the door opening turning back to you. – “Your family is lovely… please do not fear mine.” – he said almost desperately. As if he wanted you to know his rather cold grandmother could do you no harm.

You leaned against the door with your head, curling up a smile. – “I am not afraid.” – you answered. Tewkesbury took your hand and kissed the back of your hand. – “Till our next meeting.” – he told you taking his leave with a bow. – “For that I cannot wait.” – you spoke out of reach for his ears, watching him get in the carriage.

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Read more of my fics on my Masterlists! 

[soulofapatrick]

The Art of Seduction - Kol Mikaelson x female reader 

Summary: 𝘒𝘰𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘢𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘢𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘔𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘍𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴

Words: 2k

Warnings: none really

Y/N’s POV

I feel like a fish out of water walking into the grand Mikaelson Mansion, the opulence of the place is overwhelming, a stark contrast to my usual surroundings. My fingers graze the silky fabric of my deep crimson gown, a dress I’d never have chosen for myself but had been insisted on by Caroline Forbes—my well-meaning but sometimes bossy best friend. The material clings to my body, making me acutely aware of the unfamiliar sensation of wearing such an elegant form-fitting garment. 

A delicate mask rests upon my face, concealing my identity and adding a layer of mystique. I run my fingers over the ornate design, feeling the cool touch of the silver and the softness of the lace that borders it. It’s a mask that was meant to make me blend in with the other masquerade attendees, but instead, it adds to my unease. 

My hair, intricately woven into an undo, feels heavy and foreign on my head. It’s a stark departure from my usual casual, tousled locks. I resist the urge to pull the pins out but I know Caroline would yell at me if she saw as it would be an act that would defy the careful preparation that has gone int my transformation tonight. 

As I look around the Mikaelson Mansion, I can’t help but feel like an outsider. The grandeur of the place is staggering, with its high ceilings adorned with chandeliers, ornate tapestries, and gilded accents. It’s a world of elegance and extravagance, a stark reminder of my humble roots in Mystic Falls. The guests, their faces concealed behind their own masks, move gracefully through the spacious hall, their laughter and conversation creating an enchanting hum in the air. 

As I take a deep breath to gather my courage, I step further into the crowds of people mingling at the ball. The sound of hushed conversations, laughter, and the gentle rustle of expensive fabrics fills the air. My heart beats faster as I weave my way through the masked guests, feeling like a small fish in a vast and unfamiliar sea. 

Suddenly, a hand, warm and firm, gently grasp my wrist. Startled, I turn to see a tall, enigmatic figure standing before me. It’s Kol Mikaelson, his deep blue eyes studying me with a hint of curiosity, as if he’s trying to unravel the mystery of my identity concealed behind the mask. His voice, laced with a seductive charm, breaks the silence between us, “Well, well, who do we have here?” He says, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips, “You look positively capturing, darling, but I can’t seem to place your face. What’s your name?”

My heart flutters in my chest as I maintain my composure, trying to conceal the nervousness that threatens to surface, “The allure of anonymity is a gift of masquerade, don’t you think?” 

Kol's close proximity makes my heart race as I continue to meet his penetrating gaze. His eyes, a shade of blue that feels like a deep ocean, shimmer with an intensity that threatens to unravel my secrets. The corners of his lips curl into a sly smile, and his breath against my ear sends a delightful shiver down my spine, “Ah, a woman of mystery, I like that.” He murmurs, his voice laced with a seductive allure that makes my pulse quicken. His lips, tantalisingly close to my ear, evoke a thrilling sense of danger and desire. It's impossible to deny the magnetic pull he exerts. 

Kol takes a step back, but his hand remains on my wrist as he extends his other hand towards me. "Would you do me the honour of a dance, my mysterious enchantress?" he asks, a playful glint in his eyes

A flush of nervousness courses through me as I hesitate. I’m not a skilled dancer, and I fear making a fool of myself in front of the Mikaelson crowd. But the way Kol looks at me, the way he makes me feel, is impossible to resist. With a soft smile, I nod and allow him to draw me to the dance floor. 

As we start to move together, I can feel his strong, sure hand at my waist, guiding me with confidence. His proximity is intoxicating, and I can’t help but steal glances at his striking appearance. Kol is a vision of impeccable charm. His dark hair is artfully disheveled, his suit fits him like a second skin, accentuating his lean and elegant frame. The scent of his cologne, a rich and masculine fragrance, surrounds me, adding to the allure of the moment. The way he moves, the way his eyes never leave mine, is a dance in itself. With each graceful step, the world around us blurs, and it’s just Kol and me, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of the music and the unspoken connections that grows between us. 

The song begins to come to an end and instead of letting me go, a gas is drawn from em when Kol’s grip on my waist tightens a little, pulling me closer to him. My heart races as I can feel the solid strength of his chest against mine, and his touch becomes even more intimate. 

He moves my hand, which was in his before, to his shoulder, allowing his fingers to gently caress my cheek. His gaze, intense and unwavering, searches my eyes for a deeper connection. The world around us disappears entirely, and its as if we exist in a realm of our own creation, where the seductive allure of the Mikaelson Ball and the enigmatic man holding me becomes the only reality. His thumb brushes the edge of my mask, silently asking for permission to lift it and reveal my identity. But my heart clenches with fear. I can't help but turn my head away, my hesitation clear in the way I avoid his gaze. I'm afraid that if he discovers who I really am, he might pull away, and this intoxicating dance of desire and intrigue might come to an abrupt end. 

Kol's eyes, still filled with curiosity, search my face for answers. He doesn't press the matter further, and I sense a growing mystery in his own demeanour. We continue to dance, but the unspoken question lingers in the air, a silent plea for trust and vulnerability and suddenly, almost too quiet for me to hear, “Shall we step outside?” 

His question takes me by surprise, but the allure of the enigmatic Kol proves irresistible. Without a word, I nod, and Kol takes my hand, leading me through the maze of masked guests. His hand fits perfectly in mine, and his touch sends a thrilling pulse of anticipation through my body. 

We navigate the grand mansion, leaving behind the music and revelry of the masquerade, stepping out into the gardens. The cool night air envelopes us, a welcome respite from the charged atmosphere within. The distant sound of laughter and music carries on the breeze, but out here, the world is a serene oasis cloaked in moonlight. 

I turn my gaze to the gardens that sprawl before us, their beauty magnified in the soft evening light. The meticulously manicured hedges, the delicate play of shadows on the path, and the scent of blooming flowers blend together to create a landscape that’s nothing short of breathtaking. The enchanting aura of the Mikaelson Mansion extends seamlessly to the outdoors, where secrets and desires seem to take root in the very earth. 

Suddenly, Kol’s fingertips brush over my shoulders, his touch as gentle as a whisper. A thrill of sensation courses through me as he traces a featherlight path down my arms, leaving a tingling warmth in his wake. The moonlight bathes us in a silvery glow casting an almost otherworldly sheen on the scene. He appears lost in thought as his fingers continue to trace down my shoulders and down my arms. His brows furrow slightly, as if he’s trying to piece together the puzzle of my identity. I watch his eyes, searching for any hint of recognition in the depths of their blue depths. 

But then, something shifts. Kol stops trying to decipher who I might be and, instead, he gazes intently at my face. It feels like a moment of revelation, as if something has finally clicked in his mind. Without a word, he reaches over and begins to pull the pins that hold my hair in place. A sigh of relief escapes me as each pin releases its grip. They had been starting to dig into my scalp and were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Kol’s touch, as he frees my hair, is gentle and considerate, a stark contrast to the wild dance of desire and intrigue that had been weaving its way through the night. 

With the final pin removed, my hair tumbles down freely, cascading around my shoulders like a waterfall of silk. Kol’s gaze lingers on my unveiled appearance, his eyes capturing the transformation before him. His gaze lingers on my unveiled appearance, capturing the transformation that has taken place. The moonlight continues to cast its enchanting glow upon us, highlighting the moment of vulnerability and intimacy. 

Kol, his eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and desire, takes hold of my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He turns my face and body to squarely face him, ensuring there are no secrets or barriers between us. His eyes search my face, exploring every contour and shadow, as if he's trying to etch this moment into his memory.

A soft hum escapes his lips, a sound that reverberates with a blend of approval and something deeper. In the next heartbeat, he leans in, closing the space between us. His lips meet mine in a gentle, almost reverent kiss. The sensation is electric, a blend of tenderness and desire that courses through my body. Kol's lips are soft and warm against mine, and they move with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His kiss is an invitation, an unspoken promise of connection and intimacy. I can feel his breath mingling with mine, our heartbeats in synchrony, as we share this moment of profound connection.

As Kol eventually pulls away, the moment lingers, and the air is charged with anticipation. This time, when he reaches for the mask, I let him. My cheeks heating up and I can’t meet his gaze, bracing myself for the initial revelation as I’m not as pretty as Caroline or sweet as Elena. But, instead of disappointment or detachment, Kol’s fingers brush my cheek and he sweeps me up in another breathtaking kiss. The passion and desire in this kiss intensify, as if he’s determined to show me he likes me. 

The kiss is an intoxicating blend of passion and desire that leaves me breathless. Kol's strong arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I can feel the heat of his body against mine. His lips are demanding, and they taste of a tantalising blend of desire and urgency. His hands roam my body, exploring and igniting a fiery desire within me. My hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his suit as I hold onto him, lost in the sensation of the moment.

In the midst of this intoxicating moment , Kol eventually pulls away, his gaze intense and filled with a mixture of longing and satisfaction, “I was hoping it was you, Y/N.” He murmurs, his voice soft and filled with warmth. 

A rush of relief washes over me as I meet his gaze, searching for any sign of doubt or regret, “You were?” I reply, my voice quivering with anticipation and a hint of vulnerability. 

“I wouldn’t have asked you to dance if I didn’t think it was you.” He confirms. 

Kol's eyes sparkle with a newfound understanding, and instead of answering, he leans in for another lingering kiss, a promise of secrets and seduction that bind us together in a night filled with intrigue and desire. The enigmatic allure of the Mikaelson Ball has led us to the precipice of a passionate and dangerous affair, and the unspoken promises of the night continue to unfold in a dance that defies explanation. 

Vampire Diaries Universe Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[honeycollectswhump]

i want to see ashtray get a pat on the head 🥰 and maybe a burn at the back of his throat. you know. for fun! - @whumpcloud

im very sorry it took me literal AGES to write this! at least you get some angst now :D

Smoke in His Lungs

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, burns (cigarette & other), dehumanisation, conditioning

Being used is his greatest wish, his only purpose, the one thing Ashtray knows without a doubt how to do. The months –months? he can’t remember anymore– of relentless training prepared him, made a truly polished Ashtray out of the senseless Shape he was before.  

Now, he gets rewarded with the highest honour anyone could bestow upon him: kneeling at the feet of his first and only Mistress, the one who owns his body, mind, and soul, and Ashtray couldn’t be more grateful for it. For a short moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and let himself drift in the unintelligible drift of conversation and the comforting smell of smoke.

Not for too long though.

Ashtray blinks himself to awareness again and swallows with difficulty, the tender flesh of his throat still aching with the memory of the scorching wave. Yet he knows not to flinch. Instead, he wills himself to focus on the fresh burn on his left palm, the red, inflamed blister feeling hard against the bare skin of his thigh. It burns, of course, a rush of delight coursing through him. 

Burning means he is being useful. Burning means he is a Good Ashtray and, perhaps even, a Good Boy. 

There is an ugly feeling in his stomach though, sticking to him and turning the wafting voice of his Mistress into a minefield he has no choice but to cross. Ashtray knows he is dumb, his only purpose is to serve, to obey, he doesn’t need to think. But unlike his blunt Handlers during training, his Mistress’ silky voice remains incomprehensible to him. 

It should be a fatal flaw, and maybe it eventually will be, but right now his Mistress shows endless compassion, graceful mercy, seemingly knowing her Ashtray’s limited capabilities, despite his price point. She speaks slowly, gesturing kindly to whatever area she demands of her Ashtray. And he complies –of course–, always eager to serve, and hopes that maybe one day he will memorise the meaning of her words.

This time, his Mistress elegantly points to her mouth with one slender finger, perfectly manicured, her nails sharp and red like wine. Ashtray straightens up towards her, opening his mouth, eyes closed, waiting for how he will be used this time.

Suddenly, his Mistress’ hand is in his mouth, violating, and it takes all of his training not to gag then and there, as he inhales fumes and soot. Burning engulfs his throat like a forest fire, sizzling in a place not made for it. 

Calming breaths do nothing against the threat of smoke filling his lungs. Ashtray freezes, his nails digging into his thighs like claws, tries to stop moving, stop thinking, stop breathing, until the colourful spots in his vision make room for a flurrying blur of white static. 

Then, almost as abruptly, his Mistress removes the cigarette again, leaving him only with the overwhelming taste of ash seeping into his blood and soul. 

He wants to gag. Heave. Retch. 

Ashtray waits a moment, then two, until he allows himself calm yet stuttering breaths against the fumes. In his early training that alone seemed like an impossible task, going against instincts he couldn’t explain to himself. It feels good to have his training reinforced, to show –even if only to himself– that it was worth it, that he worked hard to become the perfect luxury product for his beloved Mistress. 

Staring back down on his hands, a barely touched canvas for her markings, Ashtray can only breathe. The blister on his palm seems to have broken when he clenched his fist against his reflexes, but he barely feels the additional hurt over the charring pain all over his body, concentrated, irreparably, in his throat. But it's okay. It’s okay. It must be Okay.

It is nothing but pure mercy, when his Mistress lays her hand on top of his head, almost absentmindedly, and starts petting him in slow, gentle motions, making sure not to ruffle his prettied hair. Ashtray tries not to press into her touch, chasing a sensation he knows will be rare. It floods his body like a cooling wave and a fever high at the same time. 

Only Good Boys get pet; a blissful knowledge deeply ingrained into him. 

Good Boys take the pain they were trained for and Good Boys look graceful while doing so. 

And then, maybe, Good Boys will be rewarded with a touch so rare they can barely remember the last time they felt it.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[prettywordsyouleft]

Every Damn Time

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x female reader

Genre: emotional angst-fluff

Tropes: established relationship

Warnings: mentioning of declining health of side character, main protagonist is expressing their fears over it.

Word count: 659

Author’s Note: I wrote this back in January, when this situation happened to calm myself down from the fright of it all. Naturally, this piece is a little personal.

Jinyoung barely had a moment to react, and yet he did so instinctively. Catching you before you knocked both of you to the ground, he went to laugh and asked why you were so greedy for his embrace, only to stop himself when he felt your body shudder.

Instantly, he was on red alert. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

“Need you,” came out with a choked sob, and Jinyoung rearranged his hold on you.

He pulled you firmly against him, caging your shaking body so you felt protected and safe. And that was enough to unleash your emotions. It killed him to have no clue why you had entered his home and ran to him like this. He wanted to rage in your honour, ask who did this to you, uncover every little detail so he could put together a plan. So he could be the one to solve this and never let it make you break like this again.

But as he continued to hold you, rocking your body and letting out soothing noises, his mind came down from the height it had gone to.

Jinyoung had been working late yesterday and into the early hours of today, which wasn’t unusual for him, and he had almost sent you a message out of habit but realised the time was late. He remembered frowning when he had seen your last active time stamp to be after one am, yet he considered you probably had struggled to sleep and then fallen into slumber eventually.

But now he wasn’t so sure. What had kept you up so late into the night? He had his suspicions, and you finally confirmed them a moment later. “She fell.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. I was in bed and woke to a loud bang. I thought it was one of the cats and went to check, but the TV had crashed into the wall and she was completely dazed,” you said quietly, not objecting when Jinyoung gently led you to the couch and pressed you down until you sat before he crouched down in front of you.

“She’s completely fine, well, a few bruises are going to come up, but I was just so scared. I keep having these moments where I get complacent with Mum’s illness and then she declines and something like this happens and I just—” Tears welled in your eyes and he reached forward to brush them aside, your watery gaze connecting with his. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“With time. Your mother has plenty of time still.”

“I feel like I’m going out of my mind. I could barely sleep worrying something would happen as she rested. I’ve made plans to move my things out to the study nook so I can be right there if she needs me. I’m going to have to monitor her closely. It all feels so overwhelming.”

“You should have rung me. I would have come over immediately. “

You sighed, nodding softly. “I wanted you there.”

“You needed me,” he corrected, and you nodded a second time.

“I always need you. I worry the strain I’m holding will end up breaking you when I lean on you.”

Slapping a shoulder, Jinyoung cracked a grin. “Why do you think I built these up?”

It delighted him when a small, exasperated smile curled up your lips. “You fool.”

“You need me at any time of the day or night, and you know I’ll be there.”

“Really?”

“What are boyfriends for if they can’t promise that?”

“To look pretty and carry heavy things?” You pretended to ponder, and Jinyoung tsked loudly before reaching for your hands, rubbing the coolness out of them.

“I don’t ever want to let you stress to the point of crashing into me like that again. But if it does happen, I’ll catch you, okay?”

“You’ll catch me?” you repeated, eyes wide with emotion.

His throat felt tight as he nodded. “Every damn time.”

_________________

All rights reserved © prettywordsyouleft

[GOT7 Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist]

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 2 - SECRET

All the air in the room shivers and gusts like an expulsion of breath; the sluggish, oil-slick water below resumes its flowing; Arabella, liquid metal curled lacelike over her skin, starts laughing.

It’s dark, in this dank cavern. Karliah left the lamp she carried outside and did not suggest lighting another. Perhaps it would be sacrilege. For several minutes, all had been shadow; but now if Arabella squints, she can vaguely make out the motion of the water, the distant shine of filigreed armour, the bird-mark on the floor. She can make out Karliah on the middle plinth and Brynjolf on the distant one; she can make out the cracked stone below her; she sinks down, low, into a crouch, hood pulled down over her forehead, and cackles. It echoes in her mouth, against the fabric-smoothness of her mask.

“Well,” says Brynjolf’s voice, blankly, from across the room, and again, “well.”

“The first meeting can be… overwhelming,” Karliah says, tactful. Like Arabella’s cracked under the pressure of watching someone talk to a big not-light in a hole so soggy-stale it feels as familiar as the cistern. She is still laughing – she can’t help it (it’s either funny or it’s very serious, and she’d rather not take it seriously) – as she rolls her shoulders back the way she practiced in the armoury, lets the metallic carapace unravel itself, shrinking and sinking again into her skin, to the cold metal mark she pressed like tattoo ink into the back of her neck. (She’s been branded – she’s been gulled – perhaps she should be taking it seriously, but it’s so ridiculous that she doesn’t want to.) The armour goes away. She can, just about, see her skin again.

She is still laughing, birdlike high and delighted.

Brynjolf shakes his head – she catches it only because of the way his eyes glint in the mask – and says, “Didn’t wake up this morning thinking I’d be meeting a Daedric Prince.” He sounds very deliberately careless; taking everything, very intentionally, in stride. “Suppose I’m honoured.”

“Oh, yes,” Arabella crows, “most honoured bargaining chip –” and she goes off in peals of laughter again. Her language is bleeding into Bos, a little – she’s getting her grammar mixed up in her head, blending her words in ways that should give them layers but instead just turns them to gibberish. Most-honoured, ill-weighted, played like lamb-tendon lute-strings, all an unintelligible mess of sounds. It’s all so patently ridiculous.

Brynjolf pauses, asks, “Does this happen, often?” with a nigh-audible furrow of the brow.

“Arabella,” Karliah says. “Arabella. What, the hysterics? No, or, I’ve never – Arabella, pull it together.”

“Lest your Lady think –” and the rest of it is lost to scrambled syntax, but then Arabella wipes her mouth – probably smudging her paint, she realises after the fact, damn it – and stands up straight and says, gleeful, “You liar. Well done.”

“Are you listening, now?” Karliah asks; when she moves, she gleams, ever-faint.

Arabella echoes, “Will you tell us, now? You’ve been so dreadfully surreptitious.”

Karliah gleams again. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I’m sorry I’ve had to mete out information so slowly. But now that you’ve transacted the oath –”

“Such a vague oath,” Arabella remarks, shark-toothed.

“I would like to hear more about the oath,” Brynjolf puts in, “and whatever else, but do we have to have this out in the dark?”

“I would like to hear about how it’s supposed to make us more powerful,” Arabella says, “and why I can’t feel any bloody difference.”

Karliah moves – coils her fingers, maybe, so her armour can slink off to puddle in her hand, pulled night-dark in toward the mark at her wrists – and Arabella can see her a little better, then, a ghostlike shape standing ill-defined on the platform. “That,” she says, soft-voiced, “relates to what I was going to say; Mercer’s –”

“Do you feel a difference, Brynjolf?” Arabella calls.

Sharply, Karliah says, “Stop interrupting.”

The water burbles quiet below them. Arabella’s smile is pinned so broadly to her face that her cheeks sting.

“We’re going back into the hall,” Brynjolf decides. His armour sloughs off as he starts picking his way back down the shadow-cracked stone. Halfway down, he looks over, his face a smudge in the dark. “No. But it’s new.”

“New indeed,” Arabella agrees, the soles of her shoes ringing against the marks in the stone; she holds her arms steady for balance as she steps onto the spit of rock. “Whatever power we expect, Karliah – it won’t come up until we’ve made amends with your goddess, will it?”

She is so very spectral, in the dark. Blue-grey, distant-pale. “Nocturnal’s favour alone is a powerful thing,” she says, clipped. “It will give us an edge.”

“Will it,” Arabella says. It is not a question. She is putting considerable effort into not giggling again.

Even in the dark, even without the masks, she can just about catch the shine of Karliah’s eyes as she looks at her. There is a lengthy pause. “It might.”

Brynjolf, a shadow almost at the end of his stone-spit tightrope, pauses. “Ah,” he says, and then, faintly disgruntled, “Really?”

“She played us well,” Arabella tells him with airy unconcern; her teeth scratch against the meat of her lip. “Very cleverly. I bought it just about enough.”

“It might help,” Karliah insists, dogged; “I – I hope it will. And I couldn’t tell you the whole truth if you remained outsiders – we would have been ineffective, barely a chance –”

Arabella slides the last half-metre of damp stone on the flat soles of her shoes, skirt flaring, hair in her mouth. She says into the dank cavern, “You sold us to curry favour.”

“Yes,” Karliah snaps; she strides down back to the ground, quick and practiced, a blur against the stone. “Yes, all right – we need her favour if we’re going to be able to return what Mercer stole, which you still won’t let me tell you about, we need – it’s been a decade.” (Arabella remembers the thick patterns of dust in these strange halls.) “It’s been a decade, Arabella, this is my life, and if bringing it back isn’t – maybe it won’t help! But I told you, it’s business.” She tosses her head; she’s still hooded, and it’s still dark, so this conveys very little. “Yes. I negotiated acquittal. And if you want to be angry about it, that’s fine, but do it less obtrusively so we can actually start –”

“I’m not angry,” Arabella says, and she licks her teeth. Karliah looks at her; in the dark, her eyes don’t flash. Her face is an ink-smudge. Arabella grins. “I just wanted you to admit it. That’s truly astoundingly selfish.”

“In fairness,” Brynjolf says, before Karliah has a chance to rail at that, and he gestures, quick and loose and just fast enough for her eyes to register it, to the lax little circle they stand in, like the points of a lopsided triangle. “Would you expect anything less?”

It’s still so dark – so little light comes in even through the entryway – but the water sounds cold and quick as it runs, and Arabella is good at taking up all manner of sensory space. “Touché,” she says through beaming teeth; shrugs, exaggerated, the motion rippling the metalline mark pressed into the back of her neck. “Really, Karliah, I don’t mind. Nocturnal can have my soul. What worth is it to me?”

[patibato]

[Bitter Sweet Sixteen] 002-B01 - The Hateful Five

Female Student A: Oh, ufufufu! Just what I'd expect from you, Yumenosuke-san! Sharp, smart, athletic, and funny to boot.

Female Student B: I'm so happy we can spend time together in mahorova like this.

Yumenosuke: I'm also honoured to be able to talk with delightful ladies such as yourselves. It's a shame that, due to me being at my villa in Switzerland, the metaverse is our only way to meet, but… well, there's only about half of Summer Vacation left.

Next on the agenda is how to make the best use of the remaining time—let's have an open discussion about it!

Female Student A: Sounds good to me! By the way, what are your plans?

Yumenosuke: I completed all my assignments in the first week, so in the remaining time, I think I'll put all my efforts towards ensuring the success of the open days we'll be holding at the end of the month.

Female Student B: Oh my! That's wonderful! We should learn from you.

Female Student A: We should. I've just been obsessed with the "LashColle" releases lately…

Yumenosuke: LashColle… "Eyelash Collection", you mean? Unfortunately, I'm rather unfamiliar with the eyelash world, so I appear to be falling behind.

However, I believe the top LashColle award from the other day was acquired by my Uncle, with an overwhelming point difference, yes?

Gannosuke: Indeed, along with one of the audience awards.

A pleasure to meet you, lovely young ladies. I am Yumenosuke's Uncle, Kuraku Gannosuke.

Female Student B: I was wondering who the mysterious gentleman next to Yumenosuke-san was… so you're that renowned eyelash artist?

Female Student A: Congratulations on your winnings! Your work was the boldest, most radiantly decadent one of them all…!

Female Student B: So true. On top of that… it felt a little different to your usual style!

Yumenosuke: Huh… has there been a change in your mental state or something?

Gannosuke: Well, the other day I had a once in a lifetime encounter on the island. There's no doubt that he sparked a flame in my imagination.

Yumenosuke: Oh! That's wonderful to hear. I wonder, just what kind of encounter was it—

Student Council Member: President Kuraku!

Yumenosuke: What is it? Quiet down.

Student Council PR: It's serious! Please look at this news!

Yumenosuke: …!? "Active High Schoolers Recruited as Tourism Ward Mayors"…!?

Student Council PR: What's more, while this hasn't been announced yet, my mother who works with the news says the ones nominated are—…

Female Student A: Of all people, it's those lowly Rank One students who may have blown up the old school building…!? Aah, I'm getting dizzy…!

Female Student B: A-are you alright, Yumenosuke-san? You've gone pale…

Yumenosuke: …Kh!

(Ward Mayors have a lot of influence over the political world, and despite knowing that, the Ward 0 Mayor chose THEM? In the first place, it's clear this personnel decision was enforced without proper consideration… an unacceptable folly!)

(What's more, being a Ward Mayor…! It's the position that I should have been inaugurated into in "Kuraku Yumenosuke's Life Plan Chapter 3 ~Tourism Ward Mayor Edition~"…!)

(Surely those savages responsible for the bombing incident took the positions with no great effort involved—absolutely unforgivable! How dare they do this to my perfect life plan… how dare they…-)

Gannosuke: Are you alright, Yumenosuke-kun?

Yumenosuke: … Excuse me. I have some business to attend to, so I shall take my leave now!

Gannosuke: …

Momiji: Everyooone! The press release is ouuut!

Akuta: Ooh! For real!? Can I see~~~?

Nanaki: Oi, Akuta. Sit properly while you eat.

Ushio: Hmm… this celebration* soba is pretty good.

Muneuji: Indeed. I'm sure even my mother, who's very particular about Japanese food, would choose to eat this 100% buckwheat soba.

*slurping*

Kiroku: … Slurp…

Akuta: Uuum, "Actibb high shkoowers~"…

Yachiyo: Ah, should I read it out? Since everyone's busy eating…

Renga: That's thoughtful of you. —Hey, you guys, hand it over.

Momiji: Sorry, Yachiyo-kun. Please go ahead!

Yachiyo: "Active High Schoolers Unexpectedly Chosen for Wards 5-9 in the Hama Special Tourism Ward"

Liguang: … …

Yachiyo: "Aiming to incorporate a new sense of values into Hama's tourism based on the younger generation, who bear the burden of the future—"

"We are pleased to announce that active high schoolers have been inaugurated into the position of Tourism Ward Mayors for Wards 5-9 under the orders of Ward 0 Mayor and Hama Tours President, Oguro Kafka."

Yukikaze: …

Yachiyo: "As with the tour held by R1ze—the Mayors of Wards 0-4—which concluded to high acclaim the other day, their upcoming first tour will include a Hospitality Live."

"And this time, there'll also be an inauguration ceremony held on the first day, making this a tour packed with events."

"Furthermore, it will be held at their school building, one of the symbols of Hama—"

Ten: This soba's good.

Yachiyo: "Hama Asunaro High School, in collaboration with the open days being held."

"It will be a tour that can be enjoyed by not only the prospective students and their guardians, but the general public as well, so please rouse yourselves to take part, everyone."

—Done!

Momiji: The press release really does make it hit home and get you motivated.

Akuta: A Hospitality Live for the tour…! Just hearing that gets me going all of a sudden~~~!

Liguang: Don't shake the table, boy.

Nanaki: Ah, sorry, I'll scold him later.

Renga: But you know, feeling excited for it is… well, I understand it. But what will you do about the contents? Your concept is important.

Kiroku: …The… concept… …

Ushio: Our dear Idiotake-san, how's that coming along?

Akuta: Nghe?

Muneuji: Thinking up the concept is the leader's role. Do you have anything in mind?

Renga: W-wait! Students. —I appreciate that you guys don't know up from down when it comes to making plans.

If you're struggling, I could deign to lend a hand—

Akuta: Ac-tua-lly, I DO have a proper plan!

Renga: Wh—

Liguang: Patronising them is futile.

Ten: Isn't it nice that they won't be taking up any of your time, Renga-san?

Renga: …- Y-yeah, right.

Momiji: —Alright, if we're finished with the soba, let's get on with the rest of the moving process!

All Five: Got it.

Nanaki: So the room arrangements have me, Akuta, and Kiroku rooming together.

Akuta: The room's called "Coil" huh. We should think up a coiled pose later.

Kiroku: … Hm…

Momiji: Are you fine with this room arrangement, Ushio-kun?

Ushio: Can't complain about rooming with Muneuji. The name, on the other hand…

Muneuji: "Whinny Clan" is an interesting one. Shall we devise a Whinny Clan pose later?

Momiji: (The former inn does have weird room names…)

Nanaki: We should finish carrying in our luggage now. Let's go Akuta, Kiroku.

Kiroku: Mhm…

Ushio: … …

Yukikaze: Why are you scowling at your phone? Have you finished putting away your luggage?

Ushio: Elevator's full so I'm waiting for it to be empty. Gotta use that spare time to ego-search that news from earlier.

Yep, there's the slander. Reported.

Yukikaze: …

Ushio: …You think what I'm doing is pointless, don't you? So do I. It doesn't really matter.

Yukikaze: No, it's not pointless. I'll help.

Ushio: … Idle curiosity, huh.

Momiji: (It's not out of curiosity, it's out of kindness. Ushio-kun…)

Muneuji: Uuchan, step aside a bit. I want to put this there.

Momiji: Woah! That bag looks super heavy…!

Yukikaze: How grand. …It doesn't look like a piece of furniture.

Kafka: Amazing, right? It's full of congratulatory gifts sent by Muneuji's family.

Momiji: Wow~! It's got everything from high class sweets to electric appliances!

Kafka: Looks like we won't need to worry about equipment for a while. There's even tea cakes for tea time with Chief-chan.

Akuta: Lured by the presence of food, I have arrived from the second floor!

Ushio: Are you a dog…?

Akuta: Can I have this gold leaf castella? Ah, if I gather up the gold leaves, will I become rich?

Momiji: Ahaha, I wonder.

Ten: What's your home like, Akuta? Your family must be happy to hear you're a Ward Mayor.

Akuta: Nyah, my uncle's holed up at work so we've not had a proper talk yet. Nom nom…

Momiji: Your uncle?

Akuta: He's an animation director, Isotake Taiji. He's been looking after me.

Momiji: Is that so…

Ten: Isotake Taiji's a pretty famous animator. And even if he wasn't, people working in animation have it hard.

Momiji: (There goes Ten-kun…! Splendidly moving past the complicated circumstances and continuing the conversation…!)

(Come to think of it, the family member who signed the letter of consent for the trip was his uncle, wasn't it.)

(I wasn't going to touch on it, but—I see, that was why.)

Renga: Oh, Akuta! You're here! I was looking for you!

Akuta: Mgh?

Renga: A-about your concept! Earlier, I wondered if you were bluffing in front of everyone… I understand that too, or like…

A concept isn't something you can put together so easily! So I, the leader of the Morning Team, shall-

Akuta: Nah, I'm good. But thanks for the thought, Renga-san.

! Nanaki and Kiroku have come back at just the right time.

Hey, gentlemen of Asu-High! Attentiii~~~~on! Please gather here tomorrow!

Renga: …Uu.

Akuta: I'll be announcing the best, most powerful concept to render the guys who treated us like idiots speechless!

Renga: I-I… can lend… my knowledge…

Momiji: (I'll console him later…)

*"引っ越しそば" (hikkoshi soba) is soba eaten to celebrate a successful move. It's traditionally given by neighbours, but in recent years has become something eaten regardless

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Masterlist

[topsyturvy-turtely]

The Noises He Makes

if you're in search of a very quick very fluff fanfic... happy to be of your service ;)

read on Ao3 or here :)

Sherlock Holmes. The emotionless machine. The unfeeling genius. The sociopathic detective.

That’s what people say, what he likes to say about himself. Truth is, he is actually quite emotional, and he articulates his emotions loudly too.

When he is excited (about a new intriguing case) he jumps and shouts for joy. When he is irritated (with people or an unsolvable case – yes, those do exist) he throws his head back and groans out of frustration.

Oh, but when I touch him (with my lips, my hands, press my body against his), he makes the most delightful noises.

In the early morning, when I let my hand slide over his shoulders, an almost inaudible hum. Whenever I hug him, a sigh so heavy as if he means to say, he wants to stay in my embrace forever. At night, when we cuddle, when I have my hand buried in his hair, or comb through it, a noise escapes from deep within him, which reminds me of a cat. A big, dangerous cat – a panther perhaps – but a cat nonetheless.

When I kiss him… Gasping, moaning, groaning, mumbling - depending on where I kiss him. If I peck his lips, a tiny inhale through the nose, as if he was surprised every time. When I suck on his lip, a content hum. When our tongues fight for dominance (I usually win), a sound that could be a chuckle or something like a sob – ah, can’t be sure, I do have my tongue in his mouth while this happens. When I kiss his neck, a gasp. This usually comes along with a grip on my hips. When I kiss his nipples, he moans. When I kiss down his happy trail, there is gasping and moaning, with a hand in my hair and my name on his lips. Oh, and when we become one, melt into each other, when I am not sure where I end and where he starts, all these sounds happen at once. Sometimes we are both so overwhelmed by the love making, by the love we feel from the other, for the other, we both end up sobbing, giggling and we hold each other until we can both tell each other ‘I love you’ again.

What I am trying to say… is that Sherlock Holmes is actually extremely sensitive, more often than you might think even sensual.

And one day, after I made him make those noises all day long, heard him say my name like it’s a miracle, a mystery and magic all at once; I asked him if he will do me the honour to marry me. What followed wasn’t any noise. It was silence. But that silence said more than any sound could ever have.

∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻∻

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[jackles010378]

Best Birthday Ever.........

Jensen ackles x @cheynovak

A very special one shot for a lovely person I get to call my friend ❤️ Happy birthday Chey 🥳🎂🎉🎊🎁

Jensen had been brainstorming for weeks, determined to make Chey's birthday a memorable one. They had been together for two wonderful years, and he wanted to show her just how special she was to him. After much planning and preparation, he came up with the perfect idea to surprise her.

On the morning of Chey's birthday, Jensen woke up early to start setting up for the day ahead. He decorated their apartment with balloons, streamers, and fairy lights, creating a festive and romantic atmosphere. He then prepared a delicious breakfast spread with all of Chey's favorite foods, complete with a bouquet of fresh flowers as a centerpiece.

As Chey woke up to the surprise, her eyes widened in delight at the effort Jensen had put in. They spent the morning enjoying breakfast together, reminiscing about their favorite memories from the past two years. Jensen had also prepared a scavenger hunt around the city, with clues leading Chey to different meaningful locations they had visited together.

Throughout the day, Jensen pampered Chey with thoughtful gifts and surprises, including a spa day, a picnic in the park, and a surprise visit from her closest friends and family. As the day drew to a close, Jensen took Chey to a rooftop overlooking the city at sunset, where he had set up a candlelit dinner under the stars.

Over dinner, Jensen poured his heart out to Chey, expressing his love and gratitude for her presence in his life. And then, with a nervous smile, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Opening it, he revealed a stunning diamond ring and asked Chey the most important question of his life :

"Chey, these past two years with you have been the best of my life. You are my rock, my support, and my best friend. I can't imagine my life without you by my side. Will you do me the honour of spending the rest of our lives together? Will you marry me?"

Tears welled up in Chey's eyes as she gazed at Jensen, overwhelmed with emotion. She nodded, unable to find the words to express her joy. Jensen slipped the ring onto her finger, sealing their love with a promise for a lifetime together.

As they embraced under the starlit sky, surrounded by the glow of city lights, Jensen knew that this birthday celebration would be one that Chey would never forget. And as they looked towards their future together, he was grateful for the love they shared and the countless memories they would continue to create.

Short but oh so sweet, I hope you liked it Chey 🥰🫶🏻

TAGLIST : @nescavaneckdaily @k-slla @cevansbaby-dove @kaleldobrev @janineb86 @deans-daydream @alternativeprincess94 @angelbabyyy99 @cheynovak @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33

[eastern-lights]

To be perfectly honest, throughout episodes 1 - 4 I was a bit worried Shogun was going to be a continuation of Hiroyuki Sanada being typecast as a Stoic Aloof Samurai that you could see in literally everything since the Last Samurai, which would be such a waste of both the source material and his talent.

Which is why Stick of Time and Abyss of Life were such a delight to watch. They really allowed Sanada to tap into his unbelievable capacity for portraying grief and despair, both incredibly subtle and so overwhelming it makes the viewer physically sick. (spoilers for the aforementioned episodes follow)

You really are never in any doubt that Toranaga's pain is real. Oh he may be playing up the cough and having to lean on a samurai to walk, but everything else is completely genuine.

Yes, he is using Nagakado's death to gain a chance at victory, but that does not mean he is not genuinely heartbroken at the loss of his child. This:

Is not him implying that the only useful thing Nagakado did was dying. He is giving meaning to an otherwise senseless death of a young man who could have achieved greatness if given time, which ties amazingly into Mariko's earlier words about how "we honour the dead by continuing their fight". Toranaga took his son's death, a freak accident, and retroactively made it meaningful, granting Nagakado the noble death he would have wanted.

[sup-geek]

Aphrodite and Her Reach

Here are quotes from antiquity, from both Greek and Latin sources, that speak to Aphrodite’s, her being the goddess of love, having a nigh-infinite reach, all-encompassing power over man:

Muse, sing to me the deeds of golden Aphrodite of Cyprus, who roused sweet longing in the gods and overwhelmed the tribes of mortal men and the birds of the air and all the beasts, as many as the land nourishes and the sea; for the deeds of fair-wreathed Kytherea are a care to all. But three minds she cannot persuade or deceive: the daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, grey-eyed Athena... Nor does laughter-loving Aphrodite ever tame in love loud-crying Artemis of the golden bow... Nor do the deeds of Aphrodite bring joy to the reverent maiden, Hestia, whom crafty-minded Kronos begot first... Of these three goddesses she cannot persuade their minds nor deceive them. But for the rest there is no escaping Aphrodite, neither for blessed gods nor mortal men.

(Homeric Hymn 3 to Aphrodite, translated by Professor Susan C. Shelmerdine)

Fearing this disaster, the king of the dark [i.e., Hades] had left his shadowy realm, and, drawn in his chariot by black horses, carefully circled the foundations of the Sicilian land. When he had checked and was satisfied that nothing was collapsing, he relinquished his fears. Then Venus, at Eryx, saw him moving, as she sat on the hillside, and embraced her winged son, Cupid, and said ‘My child, my hands and weapons, my power, seize those arrows, that overcome all, and devise a path for your swift arrows, to the heart of that god to whom the final share of the triple kingdom fell. You conquer the gods and Jupiter himself, the lords of the sea, and their very king, who controls the lords of the sea. Why is Tartarus excepted? Why not extend your mother’s kingdom and your own? We are talking of a third part of the world. And yet, as is evident to me, I am scorned in heaven, and Love’s power diminishes with mine. Don’t you see how Pallas, and the huntress Diana, forsake me? And Ceres’s daughter too, Proserpine, will be a virgin if we allow it, since she hopes to be like them. But you, if you delight in our shared kingdom, can mate the goddess to her uncle.”

(Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book 5, translated by Anthony S. Kline)

This extravagant bestowal of the honours due to heaven on a mere mortal girl roused Venus herself to violent anger. She shook her head impatiently, and uttered these words of indignation to herself with a groan: “Behold me, the primal mother of all that is, the source of the elements, the whole world’s bountiful Venus, driven to divide my imperial honours with a lowly human! Is my name, established in heaven, to be traduced by earthly pollution? Am I to suffer the vagaries of vicarious reverence, a share in the worship of my divinity? Is a girl, destined to die, to tread the earth in my likeness? Was it nothing that Paris, that shepherd, whose just and honest verdict was approved by almighty Jove, preferred me for my matchless beauty to those other two great goddesses? But she’ll reap no joy from usurping my honours, whatever she may be: I’ll soon make her regret that illicit beauty of hers.”

(Lucius Apuleius' Metamorphoses, Book 4; translated by Anthony. S. Kline)

‘Queen of Heaven, whether you are known as bountiful Ceres, the primal harvest mother, who, delighted at finding your daughter Proserpine again, abolished our primitive woodland diet, showed us sweet nourishment, and now dwell at Eleusis; or heavenly Venus, who at the founding of the world joined the sexes by creating Love, propagating the human race in endless generation, and worshipped now in the sea-girt sanctuary of Paphos... ’

(Lucius Apuleius' Metamorphoses, Book 11, translated by Anthony S. Kline)

Heavenly, smiling Aphrodite, praised in many hymns, sea-born revered goddess of generation, you like the night-long revel, you couple lovers at night, O scheming mother of Necessity. Everything comes from you: you have yoked the world, you control all three realms, you give birth to all, to everything in heaven, to everything upon the fruitful earth, to everything in the depths of the sea, O venerable companion of Bacchos. You delight in festivities, O bride-like mother of the Erotes, O Persuasion, whose joy is in the bed of love, secretive giver of grace, visible and invisible, lovely-tressed daughter of a noble father, bridal feast companion of the gods, sceptered, she-wolf, beloved and man-loving, giver of birth and life. Your maddening love-charms yoke mortals, they yoke the many races of beasts to unbridled passion. Come, O goddess born in Kypros: you may be on Olympos, O queen, exulting in the beauty of your face, you may be in Syria, country of fine frankincense, you may be driving your golden chariot in the plain, you may lord it over Egypt’s fertile river bed. Come, whether you ride your swan-drawn chariot over the sea’s billows, joining the creatures of the deep as they dance in circles, or on land in the company of the dark-faced nymphs as light-footed they frisk over the sandy beaches. Come lady, even if you are in Kypros that cherishes you, where fair maidens and chaste brides throughout the year sing of you, O blessed one, as they sing of immortal, pure Adonis. Come, O beautiful, O comely goddess, I summon you with holy words, I summon you with a pious soul.

(Orphic Hymn 55 to Aphrodite, translated by Apostolos N. Athanassakis)

Long had Jove seen this, watching from his lofty seat, and to Venus he thus enfolded the secrets of his heart: "Goddess of Cythera, I will impart to thee my hidden troubles; long ago I decided that fair Proserpine should be given in marriage to the lord of Hell; such is Atropos' bidding, such old Themis' prophecy. Now that her mother has left her is the time for action. Do thou visit the confines of Sicily, and armed with thy wiles, lead Ceres' daughter to sport in the level meads what time to-morrow's light has unfolded the rosy dawn; employ those arts with which thou art wont to inflame all things, often even myself. Why should the nether kingdoms know not love? Let no land be free and no breast even amid the shades unfired by Venus. At last let the gloomy Fury feel the sting of passion and Acheron and the steely heart of stern Dis grow tender with love's arrows."

(Claudius Claudianus' De Raptu Proserpinae, Book 1, translated by Maurice Platnauer)

@en-theos, @deathlessathanasia, any additions, no? @astynomi, @terpsikeraunos?

[starleska]

Huzzah! Art Fight nears its end, I think. I have survived! As have you!…I hope. I’m pretty sure you survived. <3 I know a lot happened there, but we both did ArtFight stuff! You did stuff! I did stuff! You fought hard! Idk if you’re doing any better or worse than before, and idk if you feel bad about any kind of inactivity, but there’s no need to! You’re alive and that’s what matters! If you want or need to take time away a little longer, you can take as much as you need! I’m sure we all love you and will be here when you’re ready <3

Also, since the “war” is over, or ending, we can go back to drawing whatever we want of whatever quality forever again without any pressure or self-imposed pressure to draw something else goodly! Woe! Art be upon ye!

(…I couldn’t remember where I saw your full lil persona before so I’ve been referencing your tumblr pfp and ArtFight pfp and going by memory sorry-)

…love toaster quality art…Ig that proves my point! Though sending this to myself on discord and screenshotting it may not be a good idea…post art fight delirium my beloved. uh let me just-

SCREAMING!!!! okay okay i have been mulling over how to reply to this for days because i was so just. delighted and overwhelmed with this little blorbo-processing universe you've invented for us!!!! F/O Inc...oh man, what a delightful place to work!!! that really is what it feels like logging into Tumblr Dot Com to yell about some new idiot 😂💖💖💖

but now i'm thinking...what exactly are our jobs? do we do fieldwork? certainly you and i are collectors of f/os, hunting down potential obscure characters for people to get obsessed with...what's the corporate hierarchy here? are our clients other selfshippers, or are they the f/os themselves? i'm cracking up at the idea of it being like one of those matchmaking dating services crossed with a crime drama...Ace Attorney style, people bringing in their woes and desperately hunting for an f/o who'll match them perfectly...!!! 😂😂😂 Client, visibly sweating: "Gosh, I-I never usually do this sort of thing, but...it's been so lonely on my dash recently, and I...I was wondering if you had any new, um...Tumblr Sexymen...to recommend?" You, chain-smoking cigarettes with three hanging out of your mouth: "Sweetheart, you've come to the right place. Take a look at these puppies." You yank a thick file from your drawer and slap it down, open, on the desk. "Now, keep an open mind, toots...but you ever hear about this Once-ler fella?" all of the DETAILS in this art are killing me 🙈🙈🙈 your countless cups of coffee, as if you've been trying to cope with the new freaks i've brought into the office 😭💖💖 the little Employee of the Month photo too, oh my gosh!!! i'm honoured :3c and oh my god the TINY Piers, Ramón and Maxime...!!!!!! FUCK the second i get a new laptop and can draw again i need to add to this universe, thank you for coming up with something so brilliant 🥺💖💖💖 accepting new hires for F/O Inc. today! 😉 and HUGE CONGRATULATIONS TO YOU FOR GETTING TO THE END OF ARTFIGHT FRIEND!!!! 😭💖💖💖 so sorry that July decided to kick me in the metaphorical nuts and i wasn't able to attack you back, but THANK YOU SO MUCH for the wonderful art you made me which i treasure so much 🙈💖💖💖 shortly i'll be compiling all the lovely art i received into a little chart, and i can't wait to show off your work!!! i owe you big time 😉 thank you as well for such a lovely pep talk and all the niceness you've thrown my way 🫂 of course i do feel a bit guilty about needing to take a step back and being so open about the burnout, but it's been a busy month for all of us, haven't it? i think August is going to be really nice and fun :3c anyway this is kickass and i'm so glad to be your colleague at F/O Inc. bahahaha 🤣🤣🤣🤣

[lootzest]

from a request from @sadsideart: how about Robert giving Rosalind a flower/flower bouquet but it's actually a message in flower language/symbolism

This was really fun to research - people really were out here sending complicated messages through floral arrangements. I tried Robert being a bit more subtle about things but it required a level of oblivousness from Rosalind that I couldn't get to work. Plus, the Luteces are forced to interact with a third party which is always fun.

(also @sadsideart, you could request something every single day and I'd be delighted!! this goes for you and anyone else - prompts very welcome!!)

Red Gardenias

“Would you object to stopping in at the florists?” Robert stroked his empty lapel. “Really this coat requires a buttonhole and there was nothing suitable at home.” Rosalind laughed. The idea that their home - overflowing with papers, laboratory equipment, and discarded experiments - was the sort of household in which a gentleman might pluck a bloom from an arrangement in the hallway on his way out the door, was absurd.

“If you insist.” 

The afternoon was so appealing that even Rosalind had agreed that being shut indoors with their research was a waste. The sun was bright over the rooftops, a pleasant breeze carrying the occasional cloud across a brilliant blue sky. It was, in short, a perfect day: all the more perfect considering that those rooftops were floating thousands of feet in the air and that she had put them there.

Even the poorly hidden stares from their fellow citizens could not spoil it. She had once scolded a newspaperman who referred to them as “reclusive”, but the Luteces did keep their own company enough that their presence on the street drew notice. Identical twins were notable enough but famous identical twins, responsible for the very streets they walked on - not to mention their impeccable sense of style - gave the citizens of Columbia plenty to stare at.

And, as Robert had said while Rosalind straightened his tie before they left, “Imagine how much more they would stare if they knew how we spent the morning.” He had wrapped his arms around her waist and taken his last opportunity to kiss her until they returned home.

Until then, they had to settle for being arm in arm, Rosalind occasionally holding his elbow a little more firmly, reminding him of her presence. She did not catch his eye because if she did so she was likely to grin and she did not grin in public. Robert meanwhile could glance down at her and assume the detached smile he often did; no one need know the cause.

They slowed as they approached the florists, buckets of flowers filling the pavement outside, their scents mingling to an overwhelming, though not unappealing, perfume. Robert stooped to inspect them, sliding his arm out from Rosalind’s, his fingers grazing the inside of her elbow as he did. He pulled one stem from the display and held it to his lapel.

“Your thoughts please.”

“Not with that tie.” Popular opinion said that always dressed identically, another oversimplification by Columbia’s press that Rosalind had derided over the breakfast table. They dressed to complement each other, the sash around her waist the same green silk as his tie.

“You’re right,” he said, replacing the flower.

“As always.” She turned from the flowers; this decision could not be rushed. His knuckles grazed hers. In return, she flexed her fingers against his. That would have to do.

Across the way, a young couple read a menu outside a bistro. The woman had her arm through the man’s, his hand resting on hers, her head leaning towards his shoulder. Rosalind’s teeth ground against each other like screeching brakes.

“Mr. Lutece!” Rosalind looked back to see who was speaking. “And Madame Lutece too. As one would expect, of course. An honour.” A man stood in the entrance of the shop, a green apron over his clothes.

“My sister and I could not resist such a fine day.” Robert raised the bloom he was assessing. “And I find myself in need of flowers.”

The florist looked at the flower and his eyes disappeared with his smile.

“Now I must say that that is a fascinating choice!” Robert was nonplussed - he looked to Rosalind for explanation but, on this rare occasion, she had none either.

“I thought it brought out–” but the man cut across him.

“Perhaps you are aware of the language of flowers?” The concept was not unfamiliar to either Lutece. In one world, Robert’s fellow students had regularly fallen foul of the messages they had inadvertently sent in bouquets to girls they were courting; in another, Rosalind witnessed those same girls sobbing in the common room over bunches of yellow roses.

“‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance’ and all that?” he offered. Rosalind’s foot tapped impatiently behind a bucket of hyacinths.

“Yes indeed - but this one is much more interesting. Whoever is to receive them - she’s a lucky woman indeed!”

Rosalind’s foot stopped tapping.

“Ah, you mistake –” Robert started but the florist continued, his eyes bright and blinded by his own enthusiasm for the subject.

“After all, Mr. Lutece, you are a very eligible man, no doubt you have your pick of young ladies…and your sister can’t expect to keep you all to herself.”

The stench of the mingled flowers caught in the back of Rosalind’s throat. Robert’s jovial tone dropped away.

“And what does this flower mean precisely?”

“That Mr. Lutece is a red gardenia - for secret love.” The florist had the audacity to wink at him. Rosalind had thought it was a rather pleasing plant until this moment when she realised it was the ugliest flower she had ever seen. The inner corners of her eyes prickled, no doubt from being next to all these awful flowers.

The back of Robert’s hand pressed against hers.

“And what would not secret love be?”

“Beg your pardon?” The florist’s smile faltered.

“If this love were not a secret?” Robert continued. Rosalind dared to look up at him. He still had his easy, relaxed expression but the sharp, serious eyes she usually saw looking back at her from the mirror.

“Well” –the man exhaled– “anything red. Roses, of course, but that’s rather old hat - a red camellia, that’s ‘you’re a flame in my heart’. Carnations are ‘deep love’, tulips, ‘passion’. And baby’s breath is ‘everlasting love.’”

“I shall take them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put that together as a bouquet. All the most unsecret loves you have.”

“Robert,” murmured Rosalind.

“Who knew, dear sister, that one could say with flowers what one cannot say out loud?”

The florist, in his obliviousness, put together a terrific display. After all, he was the first in the city to know that Mr. Robert Lutece had a mysterious paramour and that was gossip one could dine out on. He presented the flowers to Robert for his approval.

“Almost as beautiful as the woman they are for.” Robert took them from the florist, who was already thinking of a shortlist of plausible recipients. “Perhaps my sister would assist me in carrying them home?” He looked deep into her eyes, blue like the skies she had put a city in, blue like his own, and handed her the bouquet.

“I shall keep an eye out for the lady who receives them,” said the florist.

“You won’t have to look hard, I’m sure.”

The sun was beginning to dip beneath the clouds they walked among. Rosalind had one arm around her brother’s, the other, holding her flowers. 

“People will think that these are for me.”

“Good. They are.”

“I mean that people will wonder who gave them to me.” Robert stopped and faced his not-twin. The street was quiet. He dared to stroke her cheek.

“Well. Your brother can’t expect to keep you all to himself.”

“I hope he might.”

[justforbooks]

In a spoof obituary written while he was still in his 40s, Barry Humphries, who has died aged 89, described himself as “an ancient comic” who had long since become “a self-indulgent and inaudible has-been” with no sense of progressive social relevance.

The Republic of Australia’s Art Squad had, he said, banned Humphries’ work in his native land. He had endured his last years of “exile and obloquy” in the tarnished splendour of “a Lusitanian spa”, where he occasionally gave clandestine performances to his dwindling, reactionary and hard-of-hearing followers. He was survived, the obituary concluded, “by innumerable wives, great-grandchildren and creditors”. It was a generally appropriate death notice of a satirist who delighted in guying both himself and his critics.

Never a genial humorist, there was always a whiff of sulphur in his comedy. “What is there to say about me?” he would gull his interviewers. “I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I am Church of England – I wash my car on Sundays. There must be some way you can jazz me up.” This was Humphries disguised as a candid interviewee. Being oneself, he would add, is a form of disguise.

There were many other disguises. One minute he would be a monocled Edwardian dandy or a mad scientist or a sad, sexless suburbanite. The next he would assume the mask of a beach bum or a shady art dealer or an embittered intellectual. But the most famous masks of all were his hellcat, the housewife megastar Dame Edna Everage, and his alcoholic political freeloader, professional adulterer and family man Sir Les Patterson.

Humphries grew up in suburban Melbourne, the son of Louisa (nee Brown) and Eric Humphries, a prosperous builder. He was an old boy of an exclusive school (or as he put it: “self-educated; attended Melbourne grammar”) and was briefly a student at Melbourne University. He began his extraordinary career on the back of an arts council bus touring the country towns of Victoria in 1954. It was his first professional role – the lovesick Duke Orsino to Zoe Caldwell’s Viola in Twelfth Night.

At each town, a patron of the arts, often the lady mayoress, would welcome the company over refreshments. Later, to help pass the time on the bus, Humphries invented a character to lampoon these municipal occasions. She was a drab, mousey and relentless hostess, simply named Edna.

The character was thought amusing enough to try out on stage in a Christmas revue in Melbourne. So it came about, on 13 December 1955, that Mrs (as she then was) Edna Everage made her stage debut – a volunteer hostess for the Melbourne Olympics, six feet tall, with brown basilisk eyes and a large chartreuse cabbage rose pinned on her charcoal suit. Her family – husband Norm, son Kenny, daughter Valmai, and mother (in a twilight home) – were given honourable mention, although their miserable fates in Edna’s triumphal backwash were not yet evident. Humphries, then as always, wrote the script.

The sketch was only a moderate success, but enough to point Humphries away from dramatic acting and towards the revue, music hall or cabaret. Also in 1955 he married Brenda Wright, and the following year they moved to Sydney to join a London-inspired theatre of “intimate revue”. He had found his metier, although Sydney satire was still too bland and self-congratulatory to satisfy his dandiacal rage. What Australia still needed, he said, was not mild satire, but a heroic act of espionage.

He finally found it playing the anguished Estragon in a 1958 production of Waiting for Godot. Humphries tramped the streets of Sydney in a sandwich board advertising the play, stuck Godot stickers on posts and windows, and scoured the scrap yards for trash with which he designed the stage sets. The audiences received the play with overwhelming indifference, but Humphries said it changed his life.

When he returned to revue, it was a new Humphries and a new Edna. She became at last a fully ad-libbing monologuiste, teasing if not insulting her audience. This was Edna’s breakthrough. She never looked back.

Australian theatre, however, remained in the doldrums. One critic said there was better theatre in a march-past of lifesavers on Bondi beach. In London, meanwhile, Beckett, Brecht, Osborne and Pinter were leading “the great uprising” from Sloane Square to Stratford East. Humphries found it irresistible.

His first marriage having come to an end after a couple of years, in 1959 Humphries married the ballet dancer Rosalind Tong, took a steamer to London – and into a decade of obscurity (and deepening alcoholism). He found some small parts, notably the undertaker in the original production of Lionel Bart’s Oliver! (1960). But his future fame lay with the one-man shows which at that point only his faithful Australian audiences would even contemplate. Three years after arriving in London, he returned to Melbourne and staged, in mid-1962, A Nice Night’s Entertainment, in which he again paraded Edna and her family, along with some of his other creations, from a tortured, expatriate-hating journalist to a nose-picking, guitar-toting beatnik.

The popular success of the show emboldened Humphries to try out his characters in London – at the Establishment Club in May 1963. It was a flop (or as he put it, “a highly successful five-minute season”). He returned to small roles, notably in Frank Norman’s A Kayf Up West, at Joan Littlewood’s Theatre Royal, Stratford East (1964). He also created for Private Eye the randy hobbledehoy Barry (“Bazza”) McKenzie, whose boozing, vomiting, urinating adventures, narrated in comic-strip form in a largely invented vernacular, reflected and mocked Humphries’ life in the swinging 60s. A film based on the character, The Adventures of Barry McKenzie, was released in 1972, and a sequel, Barry McKenzie Holds His Own, two years later, with Humphries taking several small roles in each; in the latter, the Australian prime minister of the time, Gough Whitlam, apparently invests Edna as a dame.

Humphries did two more Australian tours before testing the water in London again. The first – in 1965 – was the triumphant Excuse I, which filled huge Australian theatres for weeks on end. No one-man show had ever done such business in Australia. It was on this tour that Humphries introduced the gladioli-hurling finale. The next tour – the 1968 Just a Show – introduced further variations. Edna now abandoned her dowdy appearance and came on stage smiling like a shark in a red Thai silk coat over a green dress. (“Am I overdressed?” she asked, looking around. “No, I don’t think so.”) She also began entering from the stalls chatting to her “possums”.

The enormous success of Just a Show encouraged him to try again in London – at the Fortune theatre. Once again the show was a flop. Harold Hobson dismissed it in one devastating sentence: “Most of Barry Humphries’ Just a Show will give pleasure to most Australians in London.”

The great turning point in Humphries’ career came in 1970 when he collapsed, an alcoholic wreck. That June, he was arrested in the streets of Melbourne’s leafy, affluent Camberwell and charged with being drunk and disorderly. A sensible magistrate adjourned the case for six months, ordering that charges be withdrawn if there were no further “incidents”. Humphries booked into a private hospital specialising in alcoholism. The man who for more than 10 years had started the day with a “grappling hook” (brandy and port) became an abstainer – and one of the great comedians of his age.

Still he had not yet conquered London. His Australian shows of the early 1970s (A Load of Old Stuffe, in 1971, and At Least You Can Say You’ve Seen It, in 1974) further refined Edna. She was now a name-dropping predator of radical views and treacly-trendy sentimentality, wearing glittering scarlet hotpants split to the groin. Soon critics were ransacking the dictionary for adjectives to describe her: psychotic, hysteric, Dionysiac, Amazonian, crypto-fascist, anally obsessed, a piranha, a hectoring Medusa, a blue-rinsed beast of Belsen, the Australian daughter of Torquemada.

As her curtain raiser, and to incarnate his disgust with alcoholism, Humphries also created a new character, half Sir Toby Belch, half Apeneck Sweeney – exuberant clown and revolting drunk, the cultural attache Sir Les Patterson. Staggering down the aisle, whisky in hand, he would invite his audience to give Edna the clap she so richly deserved.

In 1976 had come yet another assault on the West End, this time succeeding sensationally when Housewife-Superstar opened at the Apollo. It ran to packed houses for four months and almost 500,000 people saw it.

This was the first of Humphries’ enormously popular one-man shows in London, which included A Night With Dame Edna (1978-79) and Back With a Vengeance (for a number of seasons 1987-89 and 2005-07). Critics now acclaimed him as the greatest one-man showman since Charles Dickens and perhaps in the history of theatre.

He reached an even wider audience on British television, including two series of The Dame Edna Experience (1987-89) for LWT, a highly successful comedy chatshow in which Dame Edna interviewed celebrities – or delivered monologues interrupted by total strangers, as she herself described it. On both stage and screen a silent, doleful background presence was provided by her “New Zealand bridesmaid” Madge Allsop, played from 1987 to 2003 by Emily Perry.

The US took longer to conquer. In 1977, Humphries presented Housewife-Superstar at West 55th Street, off Broadway, where the critics dismissed it as “abysmal”, “pointless” and “like the litter on 42nd Street, something worth missing”. It was to be 20 years before the New York critics submitted to the Humphriesian tornado. In 2000, he was awarded a special Tony for the “theatrical event” of the year – a category invented for the occasion since his show, Dame Edna: The Royal Tour, was neither play nor musical. His success led to subsequent US tours, and a role in the TV comedy drama Ally McBeal in 2002.

In March 2012, Humphries announced a farewell stage show, Eat Pray Laugh!, which toured Australia, the UK and the US. It featured his best-known characters – Dame Edna, the stoic old convalescent Sandy Stone, and Sir Les Patterson (with a bit part for his brother, Gerard, a paedophile priest). But in an eerie finale, there were glimpses of other unforgettable creations: among them Lance Boyle, the trade union racketeer; Brian Graham, the 1960s Sydney executive and closet homosexual in navy blue shorts and long white socks; and Phil Philby, the lefty experimental film-maker.

Before the final curtain, Humphries himself took the stage, thanked the packed house, and ambiguously urged them to come to his final “farewell”. In a wave of emotion while the band belted out “Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye”, his tearful fans delivered a standing ovation.

In 2015, Humphries was artistic director of the Adelaide Cabaret festival, where, with characteristic panache, he announced that he had banned the use of the word “fuck”, which too many comedians, including some good ones, use in a desperate attempt to get a laugh. (Humphries himself had often done so.) The patrons, he said, would be relieved and delighted by his new espousal of censorship.

As intended, the resulting controversy generated enormous publicity for the festival, but nonetheless he continued “to defend to the ultimate my right to give deep and profound offence”. Remarks of his on transgenderism – including dismissing it as a fashion – led in 2019 to the Melbourne international comedy festival dropping his name from its major prize, the Barry award.

Perceptions of what was considered either cutting edge or decadent in the jazz-infused music of Germany of the 1920s and 30s had fascinated him since finding a bundle of sheet music in Melbourne. In Australia in 2013 and in London seasons in 2016 and 2018, he explored it in the show Weimar Cabaret, with the chanteuse Meow Meow.

Humphries was based permanently in London from the late 1960s, although he visited Australia frequently, maintaining good relations with fans, friends and family. “To live permanently in Australia,” he would say, “is rather like going to a party and dancing all night with one’s mother.” He collected art and books, describing himself as a “compulsive bibliomaniac”, and owned 25,000 volumes.

Over the years, he made recordings, wrote books, a novel and a volume of verse, and in 2007 he held an exhibition of his paintings in Melbourne. He had roles in several films, including Finding Nemo (2003) and The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (2012). He dismissed most his books as trifles and promotions, but not his autobiography More Please (1992), which is less a comic story of an actor’s life than a de profundis or an alcoholic’s almanac; it is also noteworthy for its piety towards his family. It won the JR Ackerley prize for autobiography in 1993. Humphries was the subject of several biographies, including John Lahr’s Dame Edna Everage and the Rise of Western Civilisation (1991), One Man Show (2010), by Anne Pender, and my own book, published in 1991, The Real Barry Humphries.

He was appointed OA in 1982 and CBE in 2007.

From his marriage to Rosalind, Humphries had two daughters, Tessa and Emily. In 1979, he married the artist Diane Millstead, and they had two sons, Rupert and Oscar. Following his third divorce, in 1990 he married Lizzie Spender, daughter of the poet Stephen Spender. She survives him, along with his four children.

🔔 John Barry Humphries, comic actor and scriptwriter, born 17 February 1934; died 22 April 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[mypetitelune]

Two eagles, one blade

-an Russell Adler x Bell OC fic

Tw: fighting, swearing.

Idk, please tell me if I miss anything.

—————————

Chapter one: The break of something new.

"I will retire to rhe Salton Sea at the age of 23

For I'm starting to learn I may never be free"

A grieving animal is still an animal. It will bite you. It will still grovel and paw on you. It will still snarl. Its eyes tear not from the pain of love but from the pain of hunger. Its teeth itch and irk not from the disgust of feeling your blood trailing down on them but from the delight of flesh.

The morning breeze caused her mind to mourn. It always led to this. As the church bells rang, her mind zeroed back to him. Calling him her God was blasphemous,however, her mind revered his presence as such. Her guts and heart, though, detested him, detested how he made her what she was, what he made her believe. Detested how sweet his words were to her even if they come through snarling teeth.

Like a dog, her skin adore every accidental touch of hands, of legs, of finger, of hot breaths. Her mind deluded them into something more, so much more. Like a dog, she will whine and cry for his attention. Like a dog, the scars on her body didn't make abandon him from her soul, her mind, her heart.

His presence was forever stitched in the ugly suture that trailed down from her hairline to the end of her head. Her left side was devoid of any hair because of them. Sometimes, she lied herself it was a badge of honour, a testament of her strength. Surviving two shots point black wasn't an easy feat after all. Of course, it was just another lie, as bitter as the pills she needed to take in order to sleep or function like a normal person.

Her mind pondered if he ever was a normal person. Can he laugh? Joke? Ever talk without biting? Ever be soft without a motive? She couldn’t pinpoint a time where he was like that. His mug always in a vice frown, rough lips in a scowl. His furious eyes, too light in comparison to his soul, were glaring at her, at the world through his enflamed aviators. Another sign of him pushing her away. The scar? The scar he never told her the story of? It didn’t take from him, despite creeping down his whole left cheek. It added to his mythos, his moniker. America’s Monster.

He was always mean, frustrated, exasperated. She never understood it. The woman did what he wanted without a beat, slaved away without a pip. Where his finger will point, she would follow. Where his nose scrunches, she would readdress her behaviour. It got to the point, he didn’t even need to speak for her to act.

Her efforts in vain, the man never pleased. Never a word of praise that truly came from him, just general things a dog owner would say to his mutt. That's what was certain as the man... The man lied a lot.

The betrayal should have been obvious. No matter what she did, no matter what she gave him, said, learned, told, spoke, it was never enough. The tittle of him was the lover in the fairytale she told herself so she could sleep. He was her executioner. The night in Berlin...it was just a way to keep her leash tight around her purple neck. A reward for not going rogue upon told her past was just another lie. A fiction...like the one you are reading now.

Her pen rolled down with a heavy thump. Her dark eyes watched the ink spill on the dusty bar floor, the meat of her cheek in her teeth. Her thick eyelashes blinked in a ratio of 2:1. Her expression was blank, not even neutral. It was like she forgot how to relax her muscles. The groaning of the stitches around her lower jaw made no impact.

The smell of forest overwhelmed her nostrils. Yatagan Caron. How could she forget? Even when mad, she could sniff it like the hound dog they made her to be. The smell of the 1978 cologne overcome the beer, the cracking of sunflower seeds, the shouts of men as their team scored a goal, it took precedent over everything, including herself. Her mind cracked and the dam she worked so hard to build was diminished in seconds. The whispers came back ‘Please, no! I did good! I did good!’ Why do they always come back? ‘Why are you doing this? I did good! I did all you ask! Adler-’

“Careful, Bell! Might lose your head next.” He bent down, picking the pen and placed it back near her. She will never touch it again.

She should have known. She should have predicted this.His mercy wasn’t out of his heart. Guilt didn’t birth it either. Her utility to him was the answer. What she can do, what she can’t, how can she burn herself more for him. That’s why he could take a seat next to her, with such lack of shame. A smile tugged his scar as his eyes peered down on her. His arrogance was evident from the tip of his nose. God strike her down if he didn’t love to see her fall!

“Fuck you and your money

I'm tired of your money.”

Did he think she’s stupid? Scratch that. Of course, he thought she was stupid. Just a naive broken girl who looked so timidly for love, reassurance, and care. It was too late to deny it when her moans and pleading echoed in her head. Her gasps shut by his hot lips, her tears soaked by his callous fingers. His nose dragged hot air down her cheeks, her chest, her arms. She was pathetic.

Her gaze settled away, biding herself some time to build a wall of bricks between them.

“Ignoring me, Bell? That’s awfully childish of you. Didn’t I do well by you? I deserve at least a hello, Bell.”

Of course, it fell like a pile of hay, a mountain of feathers in the storm. Her rage, palpable, as her gaze met his. Those stupid fucking glasses.

“Go fuck yourself!”

That only pleased him more, making him laugh. “Bell, while I am glad your English got hear able, come on! You can do better than this.” His finger tapped the apple of his cheek, her eyes scrutinising him.

The man expected her to scream, to shout, to break the water glass over his head. He expected her to put effort, especially after their last fight.

Her bleary eyes looked desperately for a shadow from the blinding hospital lights. Adler’s body became her respite. Her hands acted before she could catch up. They grasped the sides of his waist, digging her fingers hungrily into the chub of it. The muted dark azure polo shirt he wore twisted under her nails. He looked delicious. She closed her eyes when his fingers traced up and down the skin of her jaw and neck. Embellished in his warmth, the room seemed less sinister, more welcoming.

“Russ-“

He shushed her, making her mind think she wasn’t allowed to utter his name. Why couldn’t she? She did good. She did very good. She was the best. Best what? Woman? Soldier? Lover?

“Test subject, Bell.”

“Oh.” It calmed her thoughts before she widen her eyes. How the hell he heard her thoughts? How in the-

She struggled when she felt the metal latches rip into her skin. Her legs kicked wildly, feeling her bones crack. Adler cursed at her, roaring at her to quit it. She couldn’t. She was feeling trapped. She was trapped. Her airways were clogged and not amount of lungs or exercises made it so air could go through. Tears covered her eyes, his fingers squishing down the eyelids.

“Shhh, Bell. This will hurt more if you keep struggling.”

“No, Adler! No! I was good! Please! I was good!” Her nails tore into his skin as she fought the chain grinding down her throat.

“Just stay sill, Bell! Just-“

“No!” Her leg came to hit him into the nose. Bell whined as his hands harshly scrapped over her cheek.

“That’s it!” His hand pulled her ankle, dragging her sideways.

She looked confused before his hand came down akin a hammer, compressing her nose. His hate was evident, her screams and begging not alternating the sheer force of his. Her head was slammed again and again on the metal surgical table. It echoed as her skull thumped painfully. Her legs were heavy as they kicked into the abyss. The end was closed and she knew it.

Her adrenaline woke her up when the giant needle came in the view. She shook her head, pushing against his grip. His nails scratched against her eyeball as he attempted to retake control, to keep her eye open. Administering the Lysergic acid diethylamide proved harder than thought.

“No! NO! NO!”

Her shout made her cat jumped off her bed. Her pants heard by her throbbing ears. She glanced around, heartbeat going faster and faster. It felt nauseating and so familiar. The pain, the fluctuations, the heat. She wasn’t sure how long can she endure this.

‘Breath, Bell!’ Oh, how she hated that his voice allowed her mind to catch up. ‘Look around, Bell! Tell me what you see.’ Even now, after all that happened, he was a pillar of support, of guidance.

‘What I see? Okay, I see my bookcase, so many books, my pistol, you won’t like that I keep the safety off, and...uh...’

‘Yes?’

‘Mimi, my neighbours’ cat. Fat cunt came to hassle my kitten again.'

She groaned, her legs still burning from the running marathon she did last night. When the panic takes her heart, she runs. 1km. 2km. 3km. She ran 30 km, calming herself and scoping the perimeter.

As Mimi's cries resounded in her ears, Bell slowly walked out of her bedroom towards the downstairs kitchen. Opened, spacious, mid century, her kitchen was a place of comfort. The focus while under the bullet rain changed into the concentration of making chocolate pudding at 3 AM. The shouts of dying soldier devolved into the comedic lines of Mexican soap opera. The sweat, the strain, the hallow feeling replaced by the cozy warmth she worked so hard to achieve it.

Under the sun rays, the vapour of the steaming milk danced in the mosaic Turkish coffee pot. Her lips let a small smile slip, tired from another night without proper sleep. She ignored the world a bit, basking like a cat in the waking sun. The world could wait like she did for 24 years for a moment of peace.

The phone started to blare. Bell almost threw the pipping hot kettle at it. With a heavy sigh, her legs slowly carried her towards it. Her hand took the receiver, old model from 1980s, three fingers squishing it in an attempt to elevate her tone.

“Da?” Well, it didn’t work.

“Да? Да! Мисси! Кому вы повышаете тон?” A grave voice rang out, making her heart jump.

“Anton?!” Her voice was light, still raw, but much more happier.

Perseus, for all it took from her, gave her something back. A grumpy timid 38 year old Ukrainian called Антон Kovalenko, mechanic specialist and all time techie and tinkerer, and aloof goof of a Belarusian 41 year old man called Kiril Dmitri Kruk,human shield and enforcer. They,like her, were forced to join Perseus, forced to dirty their hands for good for nothing traitors.

“Приятно слышать твой голос, маленькая птичка! Не буду вам врать, я звоню не по уважительным причинам.”

This sobered her up. “What?”

“Медведь попал в капкан. Ходят слухи, что его скоро убьют.”

She sucked her breath in. “Èske w sèten?”

“Pou toutbon.”

“Shit. Just bear or fox too?”

“Bear, 2300. Be careful!”

“С божьей помощью.”

With her hands trembling, she pushed the receiver back. Her palms embraced her face, hot air escaping from her constrained lungs. She could rationalise it all day, that he betrayed her as well, that he let Adler kill her, that he abandoned her, left her to be ripped in two by the lion. Her instinct triumph despite all logic.

She got to rescue Woods at all costs.

Author's note:

Hi, guys! Hope you enjoyed this. I apologise for any mistranslations or spelling mistakes. Thanks for reading!🧸

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Our babies are finally married!!!! What a ride from start to finish. Thank you so much for taking the time to create this wonderful alternative reality in which two girls in love fight to change the world. Amazing. I imagined the wedding so perfectly in my head, from the organ music to the vows in their voices, (I personally can’t wait for show Michaela because Masali’s voice is so crisp and sexy, I also imagined Hannah’s baby voice she does interviews) Can’t say a lot, too emotional and overwhelmed to write the proper words, just thank you, thank you thank you. Can’t wait for the epilogue.

Franchaela Forever and Always ❤️

They are married!!!! They got their happy ever after 🥳

It has been my honour and privilege to create this story. I’m so glad the visuals of the wedding came through so perfectly, it was a delight to write.

I agree!!! Their voices are so pretty and damn their confession and love scenes are gonna be so good I can’t wait I’m so impatient for canon franchaela 😫

🥹 you have my heart thank you so much for reading and engaging with this story 🤍

It’s already posted but it’s less of epilogue and more of a ‘where they are now’ at the end of the story, pt 60.

I also have a list going of other things I want to post so keep an eye out. Another surprise coming in the next couple days and I also have deleted scenes, character studies and more to post. Always open to requests!

🩷💚

–GW xo