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burningvelvet · 10 months ago

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being a romantic era poet: a quick how-to guide

walk around in nature contemplating Things. start hiking, swimming, sailing, rowing, shooting, riding, etc. for inspiration

be obsessed with the french revolution and related enlightenment-era figures like rousseau, voltaire, mary wollstonecraft, and madame de staël. be more disappointed by napoleon bonaparte than you are by your own father.

speaking of fathers, your parents and most of your other relatives are all either dying or dead or emotionally abusive. if you have any siblings (full, half, step, or adopted) who DIDN'T die tragically already, then you may choose to be close to them. you also may end up being much TOO close to them. various circumstances may also ban you from seeing them.

be at least slightly touched by madness and/or some other severe illness(es) including but not limited to: consumption, horrors, syphilis, deformities, lameness, terrors, piles, boils, pox, allergies, coughing, sleep abnormalities, gonorrhea, etc. — for which you must take frequent bed rest and copious amounts of Laudanum (opium derivation)

consider foregoing meat and adopting a vegetable diet instead to purify the spirits. you may also abstain from alcohol for the same reasons. alternatively, you may attempt the veggie diet, end up rejecting it, and becoming a rampant alcoholic instead. in romanticism there is no healthy medium between abstinence and excess.

reject, or at least heavily criticize, christianity. refuse to get married in a church and consider becoming a fervent champion of atheism. alternatively, you may embrace catholicism, but only on an aesthetic basis. eastern religions and minority religions are also acceptable, only because they piss off the christians.

if you’re not a self-hating member of the aristocracy and instead have to work for a living, do something that allows you to benefit society, be creative, and/or contemplate life. viable options include, but are not limited to: apothecarist, doctor, teacher, preacher, lawyer, farmer, printmaker, publisher, editor. there is also the possibility of earning a few coins from your art. if you were cursed to be born a She, no worries. we believe in equality. you may choose from these occupations: wife, nanny, housekeeper, spinster, amanuensis (copy writer for a man), lady’s companion, divorced wife, singer/actress/escort, widow, regular escort, tutor, or housewife.

speaking of sexist institutions, try rejecting marriage entirely. Declare your eternal devotion to your lover by having sex with them on your mother’s grave instead.

if you do get married — elope, and only let it be for necessary financial reasons, or to try and save a teenage girl from her controlling family, or out of true love with someone you view as your intellectual equal, or because your life is so racked with scandals and debt that you can only clear your name by matrimony to a wealthy religious woman as your last resort before fleeing the country.

After marriage, quickly assert your belief in the powers of free love and bisexuality by taking extramarital lovers and suggesting your spouse follow suit. If they cannot keep up with your intellectual escapades then consider leaving them. Later on, propose a platonic friendship with them following the separation, or beg them for reconciliation.

If your marriage is happy, try moving in with another bohemian couple to shake things up. Alternatively, you may die before the wedding for dramatic effect.

If you beget children (whether in or out of marriage, makes no matter), do society a favor by choosing to raise them with your beliefs. Consider adopting orphan children, or even non-orphan children. If their parents are poor enough they probably won’t mind. Try kidnapp— I mean adopting — children off the side of the road if you can.

DIE but do it creatively. ideally young. ideas: prophecy your own death, lead an army into war and then die right before your first battle and on your deathbed curse everyone and demand to see a witch, write a will leaving money to your mistresses or some random young man you have an unrequited romantic obsession with, carry a copy of your dead friend's poetry and read it right before you drown so that your washed up corpse can only be identified by his book in your pocket, die while staring at your lover's shriveled up heart that you keep wrapped up in a copy of his own poetry and then be buried with it, die of the poet's illness (consumption) while your artist friend draws you and then be buried with your lover's writing, get mysteriously poisoned (by yourself) after a series of scandals and accidents and then have your family announce that you were killed by god, die from romanticizing poverty or receiving bad reviews from literary critics, die from walking or horseback riding in the cold and the rain while poeticizing, etc.

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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year ago

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Rigor Mortis (part 2)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 1, Part 3

summary: Your new roommate has... interesting habits.

warnings: sexually suggestive, nothing explicit.

a/n: i think i've realised miggy in this fic is a combo of his movie and comic counterpart. Miguel O'Hara: part-time whore lmfaooo

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lady death, at the cradle of a babe.

You've decided: if Miguel's the Sun, then you're a black hole. Cold and dark where he was warm, to seemingly everyone else but you. Even then, the metaphor didn't carry, and O'Hara wasn't quite the shining centre of the universe you had first thought him to be.

In the dim gloom of a little lamp on your bedside table, you’re left squinting at a crisp white document. Blank; save for a thousand tabs open, and the blue links of a half-hearted bibliography. You’ve got the bare bones of an assignment; left too late, as usual. The rest lies at the tip of your tongue; nips at the ends of your fingers like the heat of cigarette butts, and as fleeting as wispy smoke in an ashtray. To get yourself through it, you’ve resorted to romanticising it all, pretending you're a wistful poet dipping the feathered end of a quill into ink. Writing something… revolutionary; as opposed to the mish-mash of articles and studies you’ve crammed within the last hour and a half. There’s a pounding at your skull: the dull beginnings of a migraine, most likely. You squeeze at your temples, eyes shut – and the thrum matches the thud at your thin walls. Rhythmic, obscene, and it creates a cruel staccato; shaking the flimsy plasterboard that separates your room from your roommate’s.

He’s fucking someone. Loud, like it can’t be heard by half the complex. It's the third girl he’s had over in as many weeks. Not that you were keeping count. For a supposed tutor, you hadn’t seen much studying - despite the bright eyed young women that seemed to be at your doorstep most days. Perhaps you're being dramatic, but you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the kind of pupils Miguel had had the privilege to “teach”.

You remember the first time the true weight of Jia’s words became clear: whilst banging on the front door after a draining day of lectures.

You’d forgotten your keys after rushing out the morning of, and arrived to a locked door in the afternoon. You had been starving, insides churning with the thought of takeout you’d saved the night before; a greasy bag nestled in the corner of your shelf in the fridge. So maybe you'd been antsy, irritable at a stretch; fist on the door like a divorce lawyer, hungry in more ways than one.

Wasn’t Miguel already home? He had to be, you can hear the low tones of his voice leaking from the gaps at the sides of the door. And.. rustling, the shift of fabric tousled and pillows hitting the floor. It’s then that you hear another voice, higher pitched; gentle and soft where his is baritone. If you’re not mistaken; and something at the pit of your stomach hopes you are, for some reason; he’s laughing, speaking in hushed tones, whilst she giggles at something he said. You bang at the door even harder, hoping the sharp rap-rap-rap interrupts him. It feels like you’ve had half of your college’s senior cohort in the city in and out of your apartment - or, at the very least, the pretty ones. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; and your knuckles sting against the lacquered wood. You’ve half a mind to shout into the keyhole, to tell him to hurry the fuck up, or else–

Miguel opens, brow tight, and wiping something from his lips with the back of his hand. It’s suspicious; he looks carefully flushed, lips plump and cheeks slightly ruddy. You notice the way his head flops onto the lip of the open door; slightly out of breath like he’s done a dozen push ups. And with the way his biceps flex and tense under his open button up; paired with some slacks in a pitiful attempt to look less slutty; he might have. The image makes you purse your lips to stop inappropriate laughter: Miguel on the floor, brows kneaded in concentration as the woman in your apartment looks on, entranced. It feels more plausible than the reality; making out on your couch, whilst her hands travel to undo the button at his waistband.

What doesn’t help, is the look he gives you; like you’ve interrupted something important.

“Oh.” He says, clearly deflated. “It’s… you.”

You flash him a sarcastic smile and push past into the front room. You’ve seen her before: the girl on your couch. Sarah, a pretty thing in Miguel’s advanced Math class, you’d learned from the last few weeks. It’s not the first time she’d been over, but she doesn’t usually stay; rather, she’d drop something off at the door and twirl her hair whilst she waited. You’d answer, because of course he was never home at the right times, and she’d crane her head in for a glimpse of him. The first time; you were struck by the effortlessness of her beauty. And on your sofa, she seemed hardly fazed; the gentle curve of her stomach and thighs spilling onto the tattered cushions, donned in a patterned sundress. Her lips are pert, curved into a knowing smile as she giggles at the scene you and Miguel make at the door.

“Hey, Sarah.” You give her a small wave as you make your way into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. However, you don’t have the energy to dignify Miguel with a response – so you stay silent. He bristles.

“You don’t have a key, or something?” You’re digging through the shelves as he calls out to you, hands on his hips like you’re in the wrong. You can’t help but hiss under your breath. He’s got an attitude, when only one of you had been left outside the door; starved and exhausted. And the other: getting off on your sofa. Poor Miguel, left with a limp dick and full balls.

"Forgot." Your answer is curt, and you don't even bother to look up. You can hear him scoff, incredulous - as if the mere idea was so offensive. It makes anger bubble up at your gut, head still buried behind the fridge door.

"That's convenient." You can't hear the words that come out after, but you're sure it's not exactly glowing praise. You lob a hypothetical grenade over the lip of the fridge door: a middle finger, crisp and clear.

Takeout in hand, and a bag over your shoulder that feels like a concrete block; you drag yourself to your room, without giving Miguel so much as a second glance. When the door slams, you're hit with the full weight of Jia's words; a moment that seems so long ago. Miguel's probably picky about who he tutors for the same reason people swipe left and right on dating apps: he's an unrepentant whore.

The thought had seemed somewhat premature, at the time. You had had little to no evidence: a string of pretty women in your apartment did not a slut make, after all. It wasn't quite enough, just a knee-jerk reaction after a bad day. The most charitable interpretations tell you that by all means, your roommate is an upstanding guy. A model student; who left his undergrad with honours and a disgustingly high GPA, head of half a dozen clubs and societies, and currently getting his masters sponsored by a prestigious biotech company in the city. He’s a chronic overachiever, more or less. All things you've learnt from the people he’s tutored, small talk in between sessions (and they’ve all been nice enough). It seems a little more than convenient that the prettiest ones end up in your apartment - in his bed. And yet, you can’t get a straight answer from the man himself. Favours for a couple of friends, he says every time you complain.

With the noises you hear from the room over, you wonder how he treats the friends he really likes.

You think he’s doing it on purpose. That’s the only explanation you’re left with as you massage your temples in desperation. A steady pounding, that makes the shared wall shudder. Interspersed with graphic moans, the higher pitched panting of his partner; Yes Miguel and Just like that; seems to blend with his groans. Sleep pulls at your eyes, and you want to scream into the pillows. It’s muffled, but you can make out his voice beyond the wall; low, hushed tones that makes desire pool at the base of your stomach. And you’d rather die than admit it; but you zone out for a moment, a little lost in the haze of a daydream. God, his stamina. It feels like they’ve been going for hours, obscene grunts and groans spilling into your room. The wide span of his shoulders, the way light is cut at his jawline - and you wonder what he’d look like on top, or the sounds he’d make underneath.

Shaking your head, you try to convince yourself: it's the lack of sleep that makes you think of the way his hands would feel on your waist.

~~~

The honeymoon stage, if there ever was one, was well and truly over.

In the morning, you’re woken up by the thud of the front door. Laptop cracked open on the covers, you shift to wipe the drool crusted on the side of your mouth. The good news: you remember getting down a couple thousand words before fitful sleep. Not to a great standard, of course, but as your deadline approaches, you’re grateful for whatever you can scrape together. Stretching, your back creaks with the memory of last night: hunched over your laptop, barely able to concentrate. Still in pyjamas from last night, you pad into the front room, looking for water to satisfy your dry mouth.

The bad news: you’re met with Miguel on the sofa, splayed out on the cushions lazily. There’s a mug of something on a side table, which he’s clearly neglected; eyes closed, and an arm drawn upwards to expose the tan skin of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but loose plaid pants, hair a mess and frustratingly peaceful. For once, he’s not wearing the perpetual frown you’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks, and he looks five years younger as a result. You tilt your head to the side – like a mere 90 degrees would make him look any different – and you can’t believe this was the man who was terrorising you the night before. He looks… cute. Innocent, almost.

The sight makes you scoff. You snatch a glass from the cupboard with a clink-clink, and he stirs. You watch him stretch as you fill it; a mop of brown peeking over the back of the couch. He peers over, groggy and seemingly confused.

"....When did you get back?" His voice is gravelly, heavy with last night's sleep – or lack thereof. You ignore the feelings it stirs up; pleasant and comfortable and domestic.

"Good morning to you too, " You say it under your breath but he hears; catches it and holds it at his chest like a songbird. One hand over his heart, he smiles, wide; a lazy, sarcastic grin, but it still makes your face heat up. It's too damn early for this, you think. "I wasn't… for fuck's sake… I came back last night."

"Oh." He frowns, sweeping into the kitchen, and opening up the cupboard.

"I couldn't sleep." Miguel's not stupid, and you wait for him to take the hint. "There was… too much noise last night."

"So that's why you're up early." He clicks his tongue. "You don't have a lecture to be late for?"

"You don't have another girl to fuck and ignore?" Without missing a beat, you snap at him – too tired and annoyed to entertain it.

"Ouch." It's blaise, thrown over his shoulder without a second thought. He doesn't even look at you, head buried and eyes scanning the shelves – looking for his morning coffee, no doubt. He finds it, opening the packet and elbowing you in the process, and you give him a glare. Did he have to do that right next to you?

You catch the ghost of a smile on his face.

"...Miguel?" You say; quietly, because you can't quite find your next words.

"Hmm?" He hums, fiddling around with the machine; a ritual you've only caught glimpses of.

How do you tell your roommate you can hear him have obnoxious sex through thin walls? Well, probably by opening your mouth and saying it, but anything resembling your true feelings dies in your throat.

He doesn't prompt you to finish the question, choosing to let the silence wash over you both. The clattering of a spoon against ceramic is the only noise in the little kitchen. It's not something you hear too often - never waking up at the same time as Miguel through a combination of coincidence and sheer willpower. Naturally, your routines are asynchronous - a half step, half-hearted jig to crashing music. That is to say: if you and your roommate were partners in a… ballroom, perhaps: you’d be stepped-on-toes and two-left-feet on the dancefloor. Disastrous, to say the least.

And yet, half-asleep, you watch as he pads around the kitchen; poking into cupboards and bringing out the ingredients to a hearty breakfast. Eggs and chorizo and tortillas; your stomach rumbles at the thought of a proper cooked meal. Ever the stereotypical college student, your usual food has mostly been instant noodles and leftovers. Maybe you’re just tired, but he makes the drawers and fridge shelves seem bottomless. It’s clear Miguel eats and he eats well – because of course he does.

“Could you…” You jump a bit when he places a gentle hand at your waist, moving you to the side as he reaches for a chopping board on the counter. “Sorry. Do you mind?”

It’s brief, but the fleeting touch fucks with your head as he cooks. Flashes of the night before run up your spine, electric. You watch his deft fingers fly on the chopping board; slender, a wide palm covering the span of a large pepper. How would they feel on your waist – properly – at the crook of your back, or at your thighs? Sighing, you chew the inside of your cheek and lean your head back against the wall. You feel the whispers of another headache. It's much too early for this.

He puts a pan on the stove. Shirtless, despite the heat of the spitting oil, and he pops a piece of a bell pepper in his mouth with a little smile that makes you roll your eyes. It's smug, somehow, like he knows something you don't – like he knows exactly what he did yesterday (or rather, who) and he’s enjoying your reaction.

Except: you’re exhausted, and he’s giggling like you’ve caught a kid with cookie crumbs on their face, empty jar in hand.

It’s a quiet he sits with, comfortable; moving around the space with the kind of familiarity that comes with time. It makes you wonder just how long he's been here, which other roommates he’s terrorised over the years. Maybe, Miguel’s got a reputation, and there’s a Yelp review sitting somewhere you’ve neglected to read.

“Did you see her leave?” He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes are trained at the eggs on the pan, onions and veg making a lopsided smile in the runny yolk. Even his food seems smug.

“Her?” You frown, not quite following.

“...Katie?” He says it like it’s obvious, as if her name alone should set off half a dozen bells in your head. It’s Katie, this time - not Jia, or Sita, or the slew of other girls he’s been fucking in the past few weeks alone.

Your eye twitches. Involuntarily, of course, but it feels like your body is physically rejecting his bullshit.

“I didn’t know she stayed the night.” A lie, obviously. You heard her well enough through the walls, not even a couple of hours ago.

“S’okay,” He shakes his head, nonchalant. You trace the curve of his shoulders and gentle slope of his plump lips. “I would’ve called her an Uber, or something.”

“You’re a gentleman, Miguel.”

And he laughs, a deep rumble that rings off the tiles. Admittedly, you like the way it sounds, and the way his eyes crinkle up into crows feet. He’s pretty, you think. In an annoying kind of way.

Oh, fuck him. You get closer, and stick a fingertip into the rich red of the pan. Wrapping your lips around it, with the heat of Miguel at your back, and yes, it's fine. Okay, fucking incredible – you know, nothing you haven’t tasted before.

Making eye contact, you watch him blink in surprise. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of himself; not dripping with the arrogance of a few minutes ago. Not wanting to give anything away, you keep your face steady.

"Needs salt, I think."

The spell is broken and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've seen the crap you shovel into that big mouth of yours… ¿mi mamá no me enseñó a cocinar para que vengas a decirme que sabe mal…?"

[My mom didn't teach me how to cook so you can come here and tell me it tastes bad…?]

It's your turn to smile at the sweet taste of revenge. Not enough to fuel the next couple hours of essay writing, but a small victory nonetheless. You flash him pink tongue, and watch as his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second.

"More salt?" He scoffs. "You wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the ass."

It's childish, but he chucks a tea towel at your head; and you narrowly miss it.

"Asshole." You spit out, frustrated. Your stomach grumbles, loud, and you watch his face crack, amused.

His lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Idiot."

Face tight, you storm out of the kitchen.

You're holed up in your room for the rest of the day; only leaving for snack and toilet breaks. Luckily, Miguel doesn't disturb you, except for a full plate left outside your doorstep in the morning. It tastes delicious; warm and homely, but you'd rather pull your teeth out than see that stupid fucking grin on his face. Instead, you give him a grudging thanks, shrugging as if to say: it was somewhat edible.

And when you hit send on your essay, with a whole 11 minutes to spare, you sigh in relief. You got through it, eventually; even though your roommate is trying to kill you, your new apartment is falling apart and you're failing half your classes already. But you're through the day, and approaching the end of the week with minimal emotional damage. Key word: minimal.

In the warmth under the covers of your bed, it makes you think. It can't get any worse, right? It won't – it can't.

Something shifts. Like a rip in the space time continuum or a malevolent god, the universe snatches up that thought; ripe and ready to spit you back out onto the fire.

~~~

You wake up and something feels off, already. For one, light streams in through the blinds, a slight chill from the open window. It’s peaceful, and the first thing you hear is the song of morning birds just beyond the glass, instead of cars and clattering garbage trucks.

But it’s a Friday, and you’ve got that 9:00am; the one you were insane enough to sign up for at the beginning of the semester. What you should be hearing is the call-for-war of your alarm; the one that slaps you square across the face and wakes you the fuck up. On time, of course, but still the kind of sound that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men. Groggy, you wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then you frown. The lilting chirp of songbirds (well-fed pigeons that shit all over your windowsill, large enough to be classed as biological weapons), instead of your alarm…?

Your hands go cold, and dread creeps in. Reaching for your phone, you click it on and it shuts off just as quickly. You’re met with the red icon of a dead battery. Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, you rush into the hallway. From there, you see Miguel; out of his workout clothes and flitting in and out the kitchen. Except usually, at this time he’s just coming back from his run and banging at the door to hurry you out of the shower. He spots you and furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t you meant to be…?”

You don't let him finish, and call out. “–What’s the time?”

He looks at his watch. “Uhhh… quarter past 8?”

“Fuck!” It erupts out of you, and you bite down the rest; opting to dart back into your room.

Miguel gets closer, pops his head towards your door; in the careful kind of way someone might approach a sleeping bear.

“Are you–”

When you open it in a robe and toiletries bag in hand, he’s there; tentative, and slow, and in your way. A beat passes and your eyes widen, incredulous. Like a fucking lump of coal, he’s slow on the uptake.

“...Move.”

You push past him into the bathroom and he throws his hand up to surrender. You’re the oddest person he’s had the pleasure (?) of sharing an apartment with, he thinks. Mostly harmless, but hard to read.

The shower sputters to life, changing from hot to ice cold in a second. You grit down a scream, powering through it until the suds wash off. Sheer resolve makes you towel off and change in record time.

You’re grabbing your bag and chucking whatever you can find in the fridge onto bread. Whilst making a crude sandwich, you’re distracted – going through the calculations in your head. You’ve got a train to catch in about 20 minutes, and if you keep a brisk pace you can make the walk in 15. When you switch subway lines to get across town, it’ll be tight, but you can make it up by cutting across the barriers and keeping those elbows sharp on the stairs. God forbid you miss the transfer, because you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes for the next one and–

Miguel watches by the doorway, a little amused. So caught up in your own world, you don’t notice. He takes a sip of a mug of hot coffee, and you look up. Your face, cute and all scrunched up as you concentrate; but he can’t help but enjoy the flash of displeasure on your face.

“Don’t want to hear it.” You’re spreading butter aggressively, if there was ever such a thing.

He shrugs. “...I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear it, Miguel. You’re thinking out loud, and…” Wrapping up your meal in tinfoil, you stuff it into your bag. “...I don’t have the time to tell you to fuck off.”

With a little gasp, he clutches at hypothetical pearls. He gives you a sarcastic grin before you’re off – slamming the front door in your wake.

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #eventual smut #angst #kat_writes😼#rigor mortis 😼

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poirott · 1 month ago

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Agatha Christie's 'Towards Zero' tv series: First Look

The BBC has released the first pictures of Towards Zero, based on the classic mystery by Agatha Christie.

England, 1936. After a scandalous celebrity divorce, Nevile Strange and his ex-wife Audrey make the unthinkable decision to spend a summer together at Gull's Point, their childhood home and the coastal estate of Nevile's aunt, Lady Tressilian.

With unfinished business between the former childhood sweethearts, plus the presence of Nevile's new wife Kay, tensions are running high. Add to this a long-suffering lady's companion, a mysterious gentleman's valet, an exiled cousin with a grudge, a venerable family lawyer, an inquisitive orphan and a French con man, and soon there will be murder. A troubled detective must rediscover his purpose to untangle a toxic web of jealousy, deceit and dysfunction. Can he solve the crime before another victim meets their death?

The new pictures give a first glimpse at Lady Tressilian (Anjelica Huston), Inspector Leach (Matthew Rhys) and British tennis star Nevile Strange (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) - seen in the pics with the two ladies in his life: ex-wife Audrey (Ella Lily Hyland) and new wife Kay (Mimi Keene). The series is also starring Clarke Peters as Mr. Treves, an old friend of Lady Tressilian, Anjana Vasan as Mary Aldin, another party guest caught up in this disastrous mess, Jack Farthing as suspect Thomas Royde, Jackie Clune (Motherland), Grace Doherty (Call the Midwife), Khalil Gharbia (Mary & George), and Adam Hugill (Sherwood).

Towards Zero is expected to premiere on the BBC over the 2024 holidays and arrive on BritBox in early 2025. It's been adapted for screen by BAFTA-nominated Rachel Bennette (NW) and directed by the Olivier Award-winning Sam Yates (Magpie).

Source: BBC, Agatha Christie Official Instagram - October 1 2024

#towards zero #agatha christie #period drama #anjelica huston #matthew rhys #oliver jackson cohen #ella lily hyland #mimi keene #jack farthing #clarke peters #anjana vasan #can't wait for the newest christie show!#no trailer yet but should be soon!#director called the story 'psychological'#the love triangle is described as 'explosive'#there is no superintendent battle like in the book #but his nephew inspector leach is #i love the name :D #let's hope for a great christie christmas <3

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rebecca-arielle · 3 months ago

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hello have not been on here in literal years and reactivated simply to post my modern bridgerton hcs that came to me as i was falling asleep would not let me go until i wrote them down! enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

the entire family is still very much british upper class - they regularly interact with the royals and attend all the family event like wimbledon and ascot. they are regularly featured in the pages of the tabloids much to their annoyance. they also went to either oxford, cambridge, or st. andrew’s (franny)

- anthony - still who he is, took over edmund’s position in the family business. huge company either a law firm, business like real estate or holdings. he’s ceo and damn good at his job. still viscount but it is really in name only.

- kate - still very much who she is, i can see her either going very much a lawyer or the artist route but i like to think of her as leaving her art as a hobby that she does simply for the pleasure of it.

- benedict - artist can do either painting or photography but has become very famous for it, initially it was because of the family name but then people started seeing his talent for what it is. his photos have been featured a bunch of times in british vogue and he is one of their go to photographers.

- sophie - very much a primary school teacher because of her experience with araminta as a child she was determined to not let that happen for other children so she makes damn sure that while they are at school in her class they know some one is looking out for them.

- colin - travel writer. he works for some magazine and has his own column. the magazine is owned by like some big media company that has their own building.

- penelope - pen works for a different magazine that is owned by the same parent company as colin’s so they work in the same building when colin is not on assignment. she secretly still runs lady whistledown that is like deux moi and once she gets outed she starts her own mini media empire. still besties with eloise.

- daphne - she is very much the perfect socialite philanthropist that is so perfect she seems like she would be a bitch but truly is that nice. is still married to simon after they fake dated due to some media scandal. lives her absolute best WAG life and has the season down to a science.

- simon - is a huge sports star, think david beckham. technically was still the duke but officially gave up the title to piss off his father. this man was born to be girl dad.

- eloise - once she realized just how much privilege she has, she put her money where her mouth is and is constantly going to protests much to anthony’s annoyance (not because he doesn’t agree with the cause just because she is giving the family a bad name in the press, he actually super proud of her.) el went to school for a degree in women and gender studies and is super involved in academia when not getting arrested.

- phillip/a - a botany professor at the university where el is based out of. still has the kids from their previous relationship with marina but they were able to get a divorce because it is the 21st century and co parent the twins quite well. their gender honestly doesn’t matter for this, they love plants and eloise - the order of that is not important.

- francesca - autistic, it is important to me that you know that. she is a film composer, she loves getting to create the score for movies and that it doesn’t require that much human interaction.

- john - still unfortunately passes away, but prior to that was some kind of finance guy. was generally the nicest guy and loved fran with his entire heart.

- michael/michaela - hot. like the most beautiful human being you have ever laid eyes on. they work as an actor because it’s fun but secretly are insanely smart and like build computers for fun.

- gregory - anthony’s mini me and he wouldn’t have it any other way. he works for the family company and loves it. generally small bean like but is insanely tall, like taller than benedict much to everyone’s annoyance but no one more than hyacinth. he worships the ground lucy walks on but they only have three or four kids because they have access to birth control.

- lucy - a mini kate. also a lawyer who’s family firm got bought by kate’s and then started working under her where she eventually met greg when he was visiting his favorite sister kate for their monthly lunch date. has ocd.

- hyacinth - a child prodigy, started university at like 15 (which she never lets greg forget) works as a ta (or whatever the uk equivalent is) for agatha who is an old family friend through whom she meets gareth. her field is like archeology or some other super niche thing. (agatha does not have to teach, she does it because if she doesn’t how else will the new generation ever be taught the right way to do things)

- gareth - is so fucking chill but absolutely matches hyacinths freak. no one is quite sure what he does, he has explained it many times but no one truly knows even hyacinth.

- violet - was besties with princess diana (old money england) she unfortunately passes around the same time as edmund and she just loses it. luckily it is the modern days was able to get help but it took a little while. though once she is back on her feet she is a force to be reckoned with. she runs the family foundation which focuses on mental health and allergy awareness.

thank you for reading this! i will take no criticism at this time but welcome any addition thoughts!

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lawyerkarunasharma · 1 year ago

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Who bears the brunt of divorce?

#divorce lawyer #advocate #advocate karuna sharma #lady divorce lawyer #advocate near me #advocate in delhi #divorce #divorcelaywerindelhi #best divorce lawyer #divorce lawyer near me

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copperbadge · 6 months ago

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I went to the library this afternoon, intending to get a study room and do some work on the novel, but I got distracted and ended up spending the two hours working on a short story instead.

Georgie has said that Michaelis hired her after she rescued his friend's child from a kidnapping, and it was suggested to me recently that the friend could be Oliver McAllister, Michaelis's old school mate from Pirates of the Riviera. I was skeptical because the timing didn't quite work out, but I couldn't stop thinking about the idea, so I decided to try making it work.

And let me tell you, these messy bitches.

In 2015, Michaelis is deep in his Kingbot 3000 phase so he doesn't have to Have Feelings, and Gregory has coerced him into taking a vacation by threatening a coup. Meanwhile, Olly is fresh from his second divorce, from a woman who just tried to kidnap their child. Georgie is the most together person in the room and she's an unemployed twentysomething who just beat three men unconscious to prevent said kidnapping.

And the most amusing part to me is that because of how I set it up, Michaelis is just trying to be friendly but inadvertently keeps coming across like he's trying to seduce Georgie. Which also makes Georgie joking about trying to marry him for his money in Royals/Ramblers even funnier.

"Ma'am, the police would like to take a statement," Lael said to Georgie.

"I can have Lael find you a lawyer if you want," Michaelis added. She gave him a sardonic look.

"All right, let's get it over with," she sighed. "There goes my visit to the Musee D'Orsay."

"We'll give you the room. Olly, why don't you go in with your boy, so the police can speak with you if needed. Lael and I will be at the cafe next door when you've finished."

Georgie nodded, but he stopped as he passed her and put a hand on her arm.

"Come see us when you're done," he said quietly, ducking his head so the police at the doorway couldn't see their faces. "And cancel your job interview in London."

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Stay in Paris. You can see the museum this weekend. The palace will cover your lodging and food."

"I...don't want to offend," she said slowly, "but I'm not -- "

"I'm not flirting with you," he said, realizing belatedly how it might seem to her, and taking his hand from her arm. She looked faintly relieved. "I'm going to spend the time you're giving a statement assembling a job offer for you with my security office. Any young woman who can spot a kidnapping before it happens and soundly beat three grown men should not be leaving Askazer-Shivadlakia to do a job she hates in London. Now, regardless of that, and I say this as a concerned friend, not as king or employer: be honest and helpful with the police, but...economical."

"Just the facts?" she asked.

"Exactly." He gave her an approving nod and followed Lael out. They were silent in the hallway and lobby, until they stepped out into the street and Lael exhaled.

"That was impressive," he said. "Young lady has a great right hook."

"She's certainly very alert," Michaelis agreed.

"It's been a long time since I've seen someone throw a punch like that."

"Say it and you're fired," Michaelis said good-naturedly. He'd known Lael since the head of security had been a young palace aide during Michaelis's first days as king -- if still years older than the king himself -- and he knew what was coming.

"Not since our last trip to Galia," Lael said, voice full of relish. "That time a young hothead punched Duke Tomas in the face."

"Utterly fired. I've found your replacement. I'm putting you out to pasture with no pension."

"You think she'd make a good successor to me?" Lael asked. He was joking but, simultaneously, he was not -- they were both getting older, and Lael was as aware as Michaelis that when a new king was elected in a few years, whoever it was, they would need someone younger, someone who could more easily keep up with them.

"You tell me," Michaelis said. "You're the expert."

"Oh, I've been fired, clearly my opinion isn't wanted," Lael said, as they settled into a table at the cafe, Lael with his back to the wall, eyes always scanning behind Michaelis. There had never, at least as far as Michaelis knew, been an attempt on his life, but he'd become used to never getting direct eye contact in public from the man whose job it was, after all, to watch his back.

"Fine, I withdraw your firing. I suspect purely on her ability to sass me, she is your equal if not your better," he added, as the waitress approached. He ordered coffee and pastries briskly, then turned back to Lael.

"Well, it's difficult to tell on two minutes' acquaintance," Lael replied, "but actions do speak louder than words."

"Agreed. Perhaps a contingent offer? She has a law degree; she could likely earn more than we could offer her for a job like yours, but I think she's looking for the right job, not the right pay. Say three months of probation with guaranteed six months of pay to ensure she takes it, and a firm permanent offer at the end if you approve? Conditions non-negotiable but a bit of wiggle room in the salary, I think."

Lael considered it, then nodded. "I suppose it's paranoia to imagine she might have arranged all this to get into the Palace employ."

"As what, a spy? I love a thriller novel, Lael, but they are fiction," Michaelis replied, amused.

#shivadhverse

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ofbreathandflame-archive · 7 months ago

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The Paradoxical Nature of Feyre

It’s interesting to consider just how much of Feyre’s character must overcompensate for Rhysand’s shortcomings as a character. I’ve always wondered at the impossibility of the morality involved in the characterization of feyre; in which, Feyre exists – as @feyres-divorce-lawyer has already elaborated on this this post – in this violent conundrum in which is operates as both the most qualified, but is oftentimes then characterized as the most inept to help.

To elaborate – Feyre’s character has to subsume an almost reverential when she is discussed in thorough conversations that question to her motivations, tactility, and efficiency. And because Feyre is never actually given qualities (or I should say – those qualities are never at the forefront when discussing why she is placed in these hierarchal / leadership positions) that prove she deserves to be a leader there’s no actual, tangible evidence to prove that Feyre is inherently qualified for any of these roles. When Helion asks Rhysand – “why did you make her High Lady” the story does not lean onto to any tangible reasons as to why we the reader should believe this other than ‘Rhys loved Feyre’

Here enters the actual problem with Feyre’s character: her being High Lady is a statement of Rhys goodness, not a statement on Feyre’s prowess. Because the story leans on such individualistic, arbitrary ideals, there’s nothing being said about Feyre as a character. So much of these conversations centers around Feyre being qualified but there’s nothing in the story that suggests otherwise. Feyre being reckless and brave prove that she is….reckless and brave – both those qualities don’t really make a good leader and they prove…nothing about Feyre’s skills. Realistically, of course Feyre knows close to nothing – of course she’s going to make very bad decisions and mistakes, of course her per view is limited. So much is put into proving that Feyre is the best that there’s often no conversation about how rigid that makes Feyre as a character.

Those are flaws that make Feyre a better character. One of my favorite moments when reading A Storm of Swords was the moment Davos realizes he needs to be able to read because ‘he’s a lord now.’ I love how he reflects on how hard the process is and how the children seem to read so easily and he has to sit down and sound out the words. Davos is such a good character because he represents the kind of struggles someone – lowborn, smuggler, illiterate, might have when integrating themselves into a new hierarchal world. But this also says something about him as a character – he chooses to begin the journey to learn how to read because he’s realized he needs tools in order to combat is inexperience. Even the fact that it’s not Feyre who realizes she needs to learn how to read but Rhys who forces her says so much about her character, negatively.

So when we have these conversations about Feyre, no one ever actually proves what makes Feyre qualified to lead. Begrudgingly feeding your family because you feel obligated doesn’t prove that you can lead an entire town; it proves perhaps resilience, perhaps resourcefulness but even then id argue Feyre isn’t even that (see: she seems to not learned any other skills other than hunting, complains about her shoes instead of just mending her own or switching with Nesta or Elain; she can’t cook, etcs). Rhysand making Feyre High Lady because he loves her says nothing about her as a character. It doesn’t expound her talents and skills – and ultimately doesn’t make anyone believe the title is tangible. Even the story doesn’t believe that to be true. Nothing about Feyre’s trials UTM prove that she is capable leader – if anything they prove the opposite (I do not mean this negatively – if anything, I’ve always felt that Nesta’s arc with the Valkyries fit Feyre much more than her own arc did. I could see Feyre being someone who operates under her own set of rules. I’ve always felt that Feyre seems to chafe under rules , so it doesn’t make sense that she would bound herself to such a leadership role as High Lady).

Back to the main point – the whole I’m making is that I believe that Feyre is talked about this way because so much of her character has to be muted to connect with Rhys. I think this conversation is always a consequence of Rhyland’s characterization and the novel's (and stans) rush to defend him. So many things have to be true about Feyre in order for her romance to Rhysand to be believable - and I argue that those changes are to the detriment of the traits Feyre's is initially characterized as having. And because Rhysand never has to undergo an actual character arc the pressure is placed on Feyre's character to align with the more negative traits Rhys possesses. Realistically, given how Feyre is characterized and given the whole “I hate the preening, gawking Spring Court” – I think its weird that she would immediately (1) do the exact thing in basically nothing with Rhys (2) allow herself to be turned into the most traumatic version of herself and (3) delight in random people’s pain. But because the story never asks Feyre to introspect she simply doesn’t talk about it. And even if the story wants to go there – so much of Feyre’s healing hinges on affirming that she is good and so introducing these bad, carnal, selfish thoughts into the mix seem to undermine that.

#anti sjm #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti acosf #anti sjm: feyre a #anti sjm: feyre archeron #anfi acomaf #anti acomaf #anti acowar

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 1 month ago

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Barrister Law USA on Twitter has said the Harkles are living apart. We may be advised to take every post by accounts online ‘with a grain of salt’ but when multiple blogs and accounts are posting the same thing, something must be going on.

Barrister Law is not credible. They’re a lawyer in the southern US who has a medical emergency every time they get called out or challenged by the twitterati. Someone who can’t handle the heat isn’t someone who has trustworthy gossip.

But a broken clock is right twice a day.

And, do you know why we always say “take with salt” when it comes to internet gossip? Because it’s all anonymous sources that cannot be verified from anonymous accounts that cannot be authenticated. We have no idea if everyone is using the same sources. We have no idea if people are making things up. We have no idea if the sources are legitimate or if they have a grudge or if they have actual connections or if there’s bias involved.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say this again: Just because multiple accounts and blogs are talking about the same thing, it doesn’t mean it’s actually happening. All it means is that those accounts and those blogs are in the same echo chamber and share many of the same users/visitors. That’s why it’s important to diversify where you get your news (or gossip) from, so you get out of that echo chamber so you can see what is really happening.

So for me, when I see the same stories on my spectrum of websites, that tells me something is brewing - because I know liberal publications and bloggers absolutely do not have the same sources as conservative publications and bloggers.

For the record, since many are asking:

CDAN and Enty do completely make things up themselves but they do have good connections to Hollywood PR

DeuxMoi also makes things up and has gone on the record saying they make things up. Not trustworthy at all.

Exposing SMG takes gossip and analysis from other blogs and websites and repackages it as their own.

I do believe that Lady C has sometimes-knowledgeable sources but she keeps moving the goalposts for The Big Sussex Takedown so her accuracy is doubtful. I think she makes some things bigger to keep her audience and viewers engaged.

BarkJack/TLF has bonafide journalism credentials but I doubt their sources are still in the know because everything they take credit for happened years ago and their scoops are so vague (to protect their sources, as they always claim) because it lets them take credit for everything no matter how it actually happens.

Astrology and tarot is all subjective based on the reader and the reader’s own biases and I don’t consider their readings to have any authority until after a prediction has come to pass.

But what I do note about astrology and tarot is that when several people on different platforms who I know don’t know each other are saying the same/similar things, that’s worth paying attention to. And so far, that “universal signal” (if you will) has only happened three times: in mid-2017 when many of these began picking up on a new baby for the Cambridges, in 2020 or 2021 (I’ll have to find my notes to double-check specific dates) when those sites noted a pregnancy loss for the Cambridges, and this summer when they were seeing big changes in store for the Sussexes October/November. While these sites are saying different causes (Sussex divorce/separation, the children and LOS issues, the children’s titles, Charles modernizing, Charles dying, Sussexes returning) they’re all citing October/November timeframe. That’s worth paying attention to, IMO.

I don’t watch any of the royal YouTubers so I can’t comment on any of them.

Reddit is kinda a crapshoot. It’s hit or miss. SMM gets good gossip but the channel and most of its commentariat have huge angry biases against the Sussexes so I always question how much of it is real and how much of it is exaggerated for engagement. The Royal Gossip sub is fairer but they also cover all royals everywhere and sometimes you may have to dig.

Quora is definitely a crapshoot. Christopher Jones/Jackson/Johnson (I forget his last name) started out credible but lately seems to be more fantastist and I’m not sure that he’s as credible or believable any more.

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themaclean · 7 months ago

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hi i just came from ao3 and firstly, i have read ur vaultghoul fic probably 20 times already it’s just so good with spot on characterization and amazing writing, thank u so much 🙏

secondly, i was reading the comments on it and came across one abt wanting to see a pre-war au where cooper and lucy start an affair and immediately my ears perked up like 👀 all i could imagine is her being cast as his love interest, her being a big fan of his already, and them having a wedding scene where they fuck in her wedding dress after they call cut

n e way so sorry for rambling haha but unfortunately ive got the brainrot now

I MEAN HYPOTHETICALLY -- I'm mobile (and somehow wrote 2k words still wheeze) so I'll finish this when I'm on my PC but I played around with the idea a bit thanks to this ask. :)

...

Summary; Cooper Howard x Lucy MacLean, 2077 AU where Lucy and Cooper star in a movie together.

...

There's a whole host of ways that Vault-Tec could have cracked down on Cooper. Given the infringement of their security protocols and the divorce and the way they choked him out of all the good roles...

It wasn't such a far stretch that he'd have to take place in the biggest circle jerk of a film production where his super-fan shoved his daughter into a starring role using Cooper's connections.

Because, so far as the public knew, he was still a supporter of Vault-Tec and he'd do just about anything to sell that delusion.

Cooper crushed the heel of his palms against his eyes, a limp cigarette hung between his teeth.

The girl was a nightmare.

Stiff, picky, absent-minded. No emotion, either, no semblance of self-awareness. It was like some Disney Princess popped out of the cartoons in the worst way, quick to parrot the lines she was meant to say with perfect diction but nothing more than that.

And it was somehow his fucking job to coach the girl -- Lucy -- into a leading lady. The idea was that she was the daughter of the Overseer, played by her actual father, and Cooper was some vault dweller from another section.

The whole thing was convoluted. He did cowboy flicks and the sort that had a showdown at the end. This sci-fi garbage went right over his head, this future projection of the what-if. He didn't have time for the what-if.

He had a daughter he needed to vy for custody of and an expensive divorce on the horizon. And Barb had the best lawyers money could buy and he'd never thought they'd end up like this. There was no pre-nup and nothing to protect him.

And he didn't have a goddamn lighter.

"You shouldn't smoke."

Cooper near growled around the butt of his cigarette, only just keeping himself civil at the last moment. He turned towards Lucy, unable to mistake her for anyone else. There was something about her vacant, pretty face that irked him, those giant goddamn eyes.

"It's bad for you. I read an article about it."

"Maybe you'd be better off reading your lines again," Cooper said with a wave of his hand. He dug in his jacket pocket, the one he'd worn to set.

Bingo.

Lucy crossed her arms and leaned against the vault railing. It was strange to do the filming down, a hundred feet or so beneath the surface, but it made for impressive sets. They were around the corner from the rest of the camera crew and cast.

And they were alone for the first time since shooting. Most times, Cooper had a few stage hands or interns at his heel. And he didn't see Lucy around much, except for scenes. Didn't chase her down, didn't much think of her.

Except now he's aware she's still in the wedding dress she'd been in earlier. Stage blood soaked the stomach of it, thick streams of blood from where she'd been stabbed. But he'd saved her and they'd shared a chaste kiss for the camera.

And then he hadn't seen her.

"I thought you'd be a better kisser."

Cooper didn't withhold the glare, couldn't bring himself to give a fuck. "Pardon?"

"Just -- the kiss. Didn't really..." Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. "I grew up watching your movies. My dad is a big fan. I always figured you'd be a good kisser, but you aren't."

"You ain't much yourself, either," Cooper said with a raised brow. "Like a fish, sweetheart. Cold."

"I'm not a fish," she snapped back. "That's very mean. I -- I know I was mean first but I just thought you could do better."

Cooper couldn't help but laugh to himself at this miserable brat who'd sought him out to complain about an on-screen kiss. He took a long drag, his gaze slanted across the backs of his knuckles.

"You're here 'cause your daddy yanked some strings," Cooper shrugged a shoulder. "My only obligation is to make a movie for the studio. I'm not your damn boyfriend-for-hire, trying to get you off for the cameras."

Cooper was a professional and on his best behaviour -- usually. But the long days of filming for a corporation rooted in the exploitation of the country he'd fought for... That patience wore thinner with each moment he was alone with this brat.

"I'm here as an actress -- "

"You can act?" Cooper asked, mock surprise as he pressed a hand to his chest.

Lucy had the gall to look offended.

Cooper took another drag, his hip notched against the railing. "It's a movie, darling. I've been doing this shit for years. They ain't gonna let people tongue each other to high hell."

"That..."

"That is exactly how it works," Cooper said as he ashed his cigarette onto the grate beneath his feet. "It's not about you, it's about the shot."

Lucy looked at him like he'd slapped her. "I know it's about the shot."

"Could've fooled me." Cooper huffed out a breath. He'd kissed plenty of women for his films and he was a consummate professional. If the audience bought into it, that was all he needed. He didn't give a damn if his co-star got butterflies over it.

Especially not the daughter of some jackass at Vault-Tec, for a project that was nothing more than an empty propaganda piece. But he didn't have much choice.

"I'm here because it's important to my father. Vault-Tec wanted to keep as many roles as they could within the company -- "

"Nepotism."

"To promote the culture they want within the movie, which is carefully curated -- "

"Cultish."

"To their... Could you stop doing that?"

Cooper crossed his arms, his cigarette nearly finished. The vault had good enough ventilation that the smoke disappeared but the smell lingered. He pushed away from the railing, his expensive smile slack across his lips.

"I had my fill of the Vault-Tec propaganda, sweetheart. Don't make a difference if it's from a pamphlet or a pretty girl, I'm just doing what I'm being paid to."

"Wasn't it your wife -- ex-wife -- who brought you in originally?"

Cooper's neck twitched as he looked down at Lucy, as she smart-mouthed her way right into some shit she didn't know anything about. He tipped his head to the side, the annoying collar of the vault suit biting into his jawline.

"So you believed what Vault-Tec thought originally." Lucy toyed with the stain on her white dress, her fingers tugged at the frayed edge. "What changed?"

"Nothing," Cooper said, his voice flat.

Lucy met his eye, her head tilted to contrast the angle of his head. She settled a hand on the railing, uncertainty replaced her uppity edge from before. "I'm not trying to spy on you or get information. You just -- had your life together, and then you're getting divorced."

"It happens," Cooper said, aware now that she was between him and the crew. The vault split into spidery webs in all directions, though. He could leave her if he wanted. But then he'd end up who knows where, deep in the belly of this steel nest.

But they were alone, and she'd inched closer to him.

Cooper saw the leading ladies he worked with as colleagues. Sometimes they'd have to kiss or imitate gentle moments or intimacy -- but for the most part, he could compartmentalise it. But Lucy didn't act. She couldn't. She was an atrocious leading lady and she read everything as if she were saying it herself.

Like a porn actress, saying shit to get through to the action, rushing through the writing like it didn't matter.

It wasn't her fault. He had the sneaking suspicious she had no interest in acting or in this movie; that she was only doing it because her father asked her to do it. Maybe even so she could have an excuse to meet him, he realized dimly as she looked up at him with wide hazel eyes.

That separation -- of leading lady and of a romantic partner -- muddled with her. Because he didn't even like her. He didn't want to get to know her. He hated her father and he wanted nothing to do with this company.

And she was closer to him than not, and they'd kissed a handful of times, and she'd said he sucked at it.

Cooper rolled his jaw as Lucy didn't have the guts to do more than she had. Her moony eyes fixed up at him like a challenge. And then he felt his resolve snap because it wasn't like he had much to lose. This wasn't a real acting gig and she wasn't a real leading lady.

His hand snapped out, fingers and thumb dug into her cheek. He brought her close, to see what she'd do. The answer was -- not much. She didn't shout or push him away, their mouths inches apart as he hovered close to her, examining her beneath his lashes.

"Bad kisser -- that what you said?"

Lucy swallowed hard enough to nudge his hand. "Well, you were. I'm not going to lie to you to spare your ego."

Cooper made a soft sound from the back of his throat as he kissed her. The distant crack and shift of the crew as they moved their cameras from one vault room to another should be a deterent but Cooper doesn't care.

He's single, isn't he. Has been for a few months. He'd not acted on it, hadn't felt the urge to, but he's as trapped as ever in the shadow of what Barb had done to him. It's only fair he make use of that shadow to indulge, even if it's just to prove a point to this girl Lucy.

There's some inherent amusement to how she melted into the kiss. She wanted it far more than she'd let on, that soft mewing, moaning neediness as he stroked her long brown hair out of her face. He threaded his fingers softly through her hair, hand on either side of her face, fingers combing through her hair.

Her back was arched over the railing as he gave her the kiss she'd probably expected earlier, the one he wasn't about to throw out on camera. There's standards for cinema and he didn't want to waste film or time.

But then her fingers were on the zipper of the stupid fucking vault suit. He didn't stop her, even as she yanked it down and slipped her hand along his stomach.

If anything, he pushed harder against her. The fluffy white skirt of her wedding dress made it hard to get much for himself. But with a yank of her knee and the shift of her weight, he had her seated on the railing. Her shoulder caught one of the metal frames, to keep her pinned in place.

If this were any other job or any other actress, he'd give a fuck.

But it's Vault-Tec, through and through.

#anonymous #my writing #vaultghoul #answered

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