#london marble company

[thetriumphantpanda]

LOST IN OUR VICES | ONE

Chapter Summary | A chance encounter with a handsome stranger sets off a chain of events that could all end in disaster. It's hard to say no when it feels so good though.

Pairing | Professor!Marcus Pike x Student F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | Dubious ethical relationship between a professor & student, Marcus tells a lie, mentions of food and alcohol, mentions of academia, academic failure and strained parental relationships, gratuitous descriptions of London because I live here and I love it, some heavy making out and some heavy petting, no use of y/n.

Authors Note | WELL HERE SHE IS. I have no idea how to tell you how much I am loving this so far. Professor Pike has well and truly rotted my brain so y'all have to suffer with me okay? It's gonna be fun, I promise. I would LOVE to know what you all think about this so feel free to scream at me incumbents, reblogs and asks! As always, a huge thank you to @undercoverpena for reading this over and making sure it isn't utter tripe. ILY. And to @saradika for the beautiful divider.

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’s seen her there every day he’s visited the past month. Sitting on the bench, looking up at the same sculpture - a woman carved from marble - sketching into a notepad. He stands this time and watches as her finger tucks some hair behind her ear, brushing it out of her face. She looks up and tilts her head a little, eraser end of her pencil sitting between her teeth as she thinks, tracers a portion of the statue before her head is back down, looking at the page as she continues to draw.

She’s beautiful, there’s no denying it, she’s been beautiful every time he’s seen her. There’s something lonely about her too, the way she sits there on her own, artefacts and artworks for company. She’s just like him really, uprooted from a life he was no longer satisfied with, four years of a PhD and now the letters of Dr before his name. Moved to London, a new city, a fresh start as he’d coined it to his family, but he’s been here three years now, and not one thing that he wanted from his move have materialised. He knows the therapy was good for him, he knows that his haste to find someone was probably what was making him scare people off, but he doesn’t much like the other side of the coin either - a modest flat in London to himself, a small group of friends who sit around and drink beer and droll on about their academic passions, but no-one he can really call his own right now.

Dr. M Pike. Professor of Art History. That’s what his doorplate says, one of many in the small corridor at UCL. Three years and he’s still not quite sure how he made it here, or if it’s really what he wants, but it beats whatever he was doing back in D.C. that’s for sure. It had seemed like the best thing to do at the time, but when Lisbon had told him she wasn’t coming, everything about it seemed wrong, soiled somehow, by the life he’d built in his mind being torn up by someone who, looking back, had never really wanted him in the first place.

He thought about talking to her the first day he’d seen her, but then realised he was actually here to prepare for one of his teaching seminars, so squirrelled himself away to another room instead. The second time he’d seen her, she’d looked too engrossed on whatever she was working on, and then every other time, he’s convinced himself she’s here for peace, not to be bothered by some random man. But there’s something about the way she is today that makes the pull harder to resist, so he says fuck it, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and walks over.

“You come here often?”

It’s an American accent that pulls you from your work. His voice jolts your hand, makes you press your pencil into paper too hard and at the wrong angle. You suck in a deep breath, try not to think about the hours of work he’s just ruined by startling you. You’re about to turn around and complain when he comes into your vision.

He’s tall, broad shoulders covered in a light dress shirt, two buttons undone so you can see a flash of tanned skin and a smattering of hair. It’s tucked into dark jeans, a belt keeping them tight to his trim waist. And then there’s his face - a beard, but only just and friendly brown eyes, a full mouth too. He’s handsome, there’s no way around it.

“Sorry, that was awful,” The mystery man scratches the back of his neck, “I just come here a lot and I think I’ve seen you here every time for the past month.”

You smile at that, that you’re someone he’s been picking out amongst the crowd of tourists who always come here, someone familiar to him, even if he’s not the same to you.

“I’m just working on something.” You shrug, letting your palm slyly cover the sketch you’ve been making.

The man walks in front of you slightly, takes a seat on the vacant spot on the bench and looks up at the woman carved from marble, “She’s beautiful.” He muses.

“She is.” You agree, looking over the curves of her hips, the way the marble has been carved to make it look like her clothes are wet, sticking to her breasts like she’s just climbed out of the Aegean Sea.

“You like sculpture then?”

“I do,” You nod, turning your body a little towards him, “It’s not my first artistic passion, but I’m studying for my PhD at the moment and it’s all about the female form in marble.”

“Brains as well as beauty,” He smirks a little at you, “Sounds interest though, where are you studying?”

“UCL,” You beam, because you’re proud, it wasn’t easy, you’d been rejected for your first choice research project the first time around, encouraged to choose something else from the feedback, but you were there now, and that’s what mattered, “What about you?” You ask, “What do you do that means you have to be here as much as me?”

He shrugs a little, “I teach.”

It’s vague but you don’t press, he owes you nothing, so you let it lie. You turn back to the sculpture in front of you, when your stomach grumbles. You look down at your watch. It’s 2pm and you’ve not eaten anything yet.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.” You reply meekly.

“Want to grab something to eat?” He asks, “I know a great Italian place in Soho if you fancy it?”

You look at him, eyes tightening a little. It’s been so long since anyone has shown you an ounce of interest, and now the beautiful man in a shirt and dress pants wants to take you for lunch, it all seems a bit too good to be true. But, you can hear the voice of your therapist tell you to say yes to more things, take more risks in life because not all of them are going to turn out to be bad, so you flip the front of your notepad over to cover your drawing and reach down to pick up your backpack.

“Lead the way.”

He doesn’t disappoint. Over the course of a glass of wine and a bowl of olives, you coax out his name. It’s Marcus. He’s got a PhD in Art History and moved to London from D.C. three years ago. He lives alone, near Notting Hill, he likes it because he can go searching for antiques on the weekend. He wants a dog, but he spends too much time out of the house to justify one. He likes to read and he can cook, but prefer eating out or ordering in because he’s not mastered the art of cooking for one.

When a waiter sets down your second glass of wine and your food - gnocchi with pesto and bacon for you and carbonara from Marcus, he turns the conversation back to you, sipping wine as he ask you where you live - Willesden Green, so not far from you - who you live with - myself, my dad was so proud I got into my course he pays for my rent, it’s the only way he can show he loves me - what you like to do with your free time - free time? When I have it, I read, or I walk, or I sit and draw sculptures in museums.

You don’t know whether it’s the wine or not, but the dark winter sinks in, outside cloaked in black, lights dimmed inside, and it makes him even more handsome than he was before. He makes you laugh, with his stories of his own PhD stress, how he would walk the streets of D.C. at 3am to get coffee and pancakes on his way back from the library and then collapse into bed and sleep for two hours until his alarm would wake him up and he would go all the way back to the library to do it again.

“If I ever get to that point,” You muse, stabbing a piece of gnocchi onto your fork, “I don’t think I’ll have the will to make it through.”

“You seem far too organised to me to fall into the bad habits I had.” He shrugs, looking at you over his own glass of wine as you take a bite of your food, too busy watching him to really notice the angle of your fork, green sauce smearing on the corner of your mouth as you fight it into your mouth.

Before you have a chance to reach down and grab the napkin from your lap, Marcus is reaching over the table, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the stray sauce away. It’s something that under any other circumstance would make you feel uncomfortable, but all it really makes you want to do is kiss him, especially when he apologises profusely for being so forward.

He pays for dinner, insists on it really, hidden behind the excuse that he knows how hard it is to live whilst studying. He takes you for cocktails at a bar on the end of Old Compton Street - orders himself an old fashioned whilst you opt for an amaretto sour. The bar is dark and busy, the only seats are in a corner, sat so close together your knees are touching and your shoulder is slightly leaned into his side.

“So, you said you got rejected from your first choice course?” He muses, taking a short sip of his drink.

You shrug with a nod, “I wanted to research the impressionist movement,” You start to explain, “I love Monet and Renoir but I think my research application was too broad,” Sipping your own drink you carry on talking, “There’s a great academic at UCL, Professor Pike, I was desperate to have him as my supervisor, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

You turn your head a little, watching as Marcus swallows on nothing, quickly taking another sip of his drink.

“It’s okay,” You hasten to add, “I guess if I’m not writing thousands of words about it, it won’t make me hate what I love most.”

“Smart,” Is what he says with a smirk, “You would have given him a run for his money anyway.”

“Do you know him?” You ask, “I know all of you academic types are familiar with each other.”

He swallows on nothing again, “I’ve heard of him but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

You both order another drink, sit around talking about nothing much at all, slowly moving closer as the bar gets busier, you tell yourself it’s just so you can hear him better, but he smells good, some kind of musky cologne that suits him really well, so you don’t complain about soaking it up.

When it gets late, he offers to take you home, keep you company on the tube. You know it’s not really necessary, you’ve never felt particularly unsafe walking home from the station, but if it means spending more time with him, then you don’t really mind. He lets you take the only free seat on the tube, standing in the aisle just in front of your knees so he can keep talking to you, and when you reach the other side, he walks close to you, puts a hand on your lower back which you can feel through your jacket when a group of people walk past you a little too close. He even insists on walking you to your door.

It’s quiet in the building, like it usually is. It’s only recently been built and you think you’re one of only a few people who are currently living there. You pluck your keys from your coat pocket when you reach your door, leaning your back against it.

“This is me.”

“Nice place.”

“Yeah, although I usually prefer places with more character.”

He’s stood right in front of you, rocking on his heels, that same nervous hand on the back of his neck as this afternoon, “I know this might seem weird, but would you like to go on a date sometime?”

You can help but snort a laugh, shaking your head a little, before you meet his eyes, “This wasn’t a date?” You ask coyly.

He smirks a little, cheeks flushing a little, “Did you want it to be a date?”

“I wouldn’t have let you take me for lunch if I didn’t,” You say, “But there is one thing missing.”

“Oh yeah?” He hums, “What’s that?”

Instead of speaking, you take a step forward, hands gripping the lapels of his jacket as you press up onto your toes and plant your lips on his. It’s clumsy and it’s impulsive, but you’ve wanted to do it all day. You can feel his arms wrapping around your back, dragging your body flush to his as he opens his mouth against yours right as you do the same. He tastes like mint from the gum he’s been chewing and the whisky from his drinks - it’s all you can think about as he walks you back, presses you against the door as his tongue meets with yours.

You’re thankful no-one is around. Your arms move from his jacket to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the curls there as you tilt your head to one side, a slight smacking sound from your lips as the disconnect, only to come back together seconds later. He’s good at this, you think, as his hands drop from your back to rest in the pockets on the back of your jeans, palms warm through the material. You can feel him squeeze you there a little, and you’re so close to saying fuck it and inviting him in, because if his lips are this good against yours, you can’t imagine what they’d be like in other places.

Marcus is the one that pulls away from you, resting his forehead gently to yours. You’re both breathless and you’re itching to press your mouth back to his.

“I should go.” He breathes against your mouth, pressing his lips to your in a chaste kiss.

“Yeah,” You agree, “You should.”

He steps back, takes the warmth of his palms with him, but reaches in to his pocket and hands his phone to you, “Put your number in here and I’ll call you.”

So you do, press the eleven digits into his phone along with your name and then kiss him once more before he’s turning on his heel and walking away, leaving you with a dull ache between your thighs that you’re working on relieving within five minutes of getting inside. You’re fucked.

Marcus curses himself as he settles into the seat on the bus. It’s late enough that it’s not too busy, no-one sitting next to him as he leans his head back and runs his hand over his face. He already knows he’s fucked up. The words Professor Pike and rejected from my first choice spinning around in his brain as he watches parts of North London flash past the window on his ride home.

Why hadn’t he stopped it then? He knows the rules, knows that even though he doesn’t teach her, any kind of relationships with students, no matter how mature, are off limits. And how is he supposed to keep the facade up now? It’s only a matter of time before she puts two and two together and figures out who he really is.

You’re sweet and you’re smart and you’re fucking beautiful and the best kisser he thinks he’s ever met. You have so much in common with him that it actually hurts him a little and one stupid choice to keep lying to you and the fucking ethics policy are going to keep him from something he thinks would actually be fucking good for him.

He thinks for a second, pulling out his phone and looking at your contact card that he should probably just delete your number. It’s for the best for everyone. He could avoid the museum for a while, keep his head low on campus, he knows he can avoid you. But with his finger hovering over the delete confirmation, he finds he doesn’t have the strength to do it. Stuffs his phone back in his pocket and tries to will his mind to forget the way you’d gasped into his mouth when his hands had squeezed at the swell of your ass, or the way your lips had been soft against his when he’d kissed you.

Then, led in bed, frustrations sorted by his own hand, he picks up his phone and damns himself to hell with a single text.

How about a walk around the National Gallery and dinner this weekend?

[isawken]

in 1883 in the first recorded rodeo takes place in pecos, texas. in 2001 rob smets attends the PBR world finals in jeans and a sports jersey bearing sponsor logos. in 1568 the gelosi acting company coalesces in italy to perform the hot new style of live improv entertainment. in 1780 joseph grimaldi makes his stage debut at 2 years old at london’s famed drury lane. in the many, many years before any white person ever laid eyes on it, a man in what you’d now call northern arizona paints his body in black and white stripes and puts corn husks in his hair. in 1557 ivan the terrible is pallbearer to a man who walked naked in the streets of moscow. in 2017 the ringling bro’s circus announces its last show, 146 years after the titular brothers first formed it. all of these moments (and more!) have lived in my head rolling around like marbles for years now and im so happy to now have the proper method to infect your mind as well:

History of Fools is a hobby project of mine i've been working on for over a year now! part essay series, part half-assed podcast, part descent into madness, this little diddy is the culmination of years' worth of highly specific insanity. i have 4 half hour-ish essays/episodes out now reviewing the histories of:

Jesters! Commedia Dell'arte! Sacred Clowns and Holy Fools! and my personal favorite (seriously if you listen to or read any please choose this one) Rodeo Clowns!

I have more episodes planned to get into clowns proper, hoping to come out in 2024. but until then please take a read or a listen and let me know what you think!

CLICK HERE FOR FOOLS!

[autumnaaltonen]

Anonymous requested: "headcannons about Alucard and Alexander Anderson being in love with the same S/O?"

I was feeling more in the one-shot mood, so I hope you like this either way.

Alucard and Alexander Anderson Being in Love With The Same S/O

It started at the National Gallery, where you tagged along with Sir Integra, Walter, Seras and (you think?) Alucard. Tbh, he disappeared the moment you all stepped out of the limo, so you imagine the flirtatious vampire has wandered off to find a dark closet to rest in before being called upon when if things go awry.

Seras, too, leaves you three, mentioning something about “finding a good plan B”. Whatever the hell that meant.

So that just left you, Sir Integra, and Walter, to wander about the marble hallways of paintings, waiting for your invited company to arrive.

If only they would show up on time for once…

“What nuisances,” Integra grumbles, before turning to you. “Go see if you can weed the heretics out. I’m positive they are perusing the exhibit, purposefully wasting our time.”

“Of course, Sir,” you obey, bowing slightly before making your way through the maze-like museum. You imagine that whoever the has Iscariot sent to London; well, they must stick out of the average crowd.

Scanning the tourists for holy robes, uniforms, hell, even a gun or sword, you fail to spot anybody who could possibly be your tardy visitors. Eventually you resort to exploring the forbidden staff area, knowing that both Hellsing and the Iscariot have the pontifical balls to break simple rules. Opening many doors with obvious ‘DO NOT ENTER’ and ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’ signs, but finding most of them locked, you sigh in disappointment, deciding to make your way back to your boss.

But then you spot a familiar head of blonde hair, exactly where she shouldn't be.

“Seras, is that you? What the hell are you doing back here?” you call to her, seeing the young vampire in an unfamiliar uniform. She gives you a cheeky smile and an awkward wave, before disappearing around a corner. Tailing her, you run back down the hall, only to turn the same corner and collide into what you could only assume to be a wall, solid and sturdy as you smack face first and begin fall to the ground. Startled and blurry-eyed, you prepare to break your fall before a very long and strong arm catches you around your shoulders.

“Woah there, friend. Are you alright?” an unfamiliar Irish-tongued man asks, lifting you back onto your feet. You rub your sore forehead, blinking your vision back to coherency before looking up…up...and up, to your human wall.

Christ, he’s tall.

“Haha, yes, indeed you can thank our lord and saviour for that.”

“Oh wow, did I say that out loud? I’m so sorry—” you spy the golden crucifix and clerical collar around his neck, “—Father. I shouldn’t have been running. I saw that my friend had gottn a bit lost and…well she’s gone now.” You huff in annoyance, knowing you’ll give Seras a good talking to later. She’s becoming far too much like her new master as of late.

“All is well, my dear. Actually, I have found me’self a bit lost as well; the museum is just so beautiful that I stumbled off course!” he laughs jovially.

You smile back, knowing you’ve found your man. “Actually, Father, you are just the person I’ve been looking for.” You lift your arm band slightly for the priest to see, telling him your name and position in the Hellsing Organization.

You see his cheerful smile damper a bit at the Hellsing insignia on your uniform, before quickly recovering. “I see. Father Alexander Anderson, at your service, my dear.” He bows his head towards you, “please call me Alexander. After all, you and I come from two very different clergies, I imagine.”

“A pleasure, Alexander. Although, I like to keep my faith ambiguous,” you add. “Sir Integra is waiting for you in the Sainsbury Wing, if you would please follow me.” You raise an arm in the direction out of the staff wing.

“What about your wee friend?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll find her way spontaneously back. Come, let’s not keep Sir waiting any longer, she can be quite the impatient woman.”

Alexander follows you back into the exhibits, making small talk along the way by commenting on the many displays. While a member of Iscariot, you discern Alexander to be a kind man with an eye for art. He tells you small sermons associated with some of the Italian pieces, amazing you with his theological knowledge, and letting him know so. You never imagined an enemy could be so enjoyable to talk to. But you suppose he’s only your enemy by association.

“I take it you are familiar with Hellsing’s pet vampire, dear?” he suddenly asks out of the blue, making you stop pause in surprise. His tone is pleasant, but his face tells something more. You recognize it as hidden disdain, masked behind innocent curiosity.

“Erm, yes, I am.” That was the understatement of the century. You have become more than a little familiar with Alucard over the years you’ve worked by Integra’s side. If you had to describe him in three words, it would be devious, coquettish, and handsy. He has made it more than clear that he has developed an attraction towards you, yet you have hesitated to return the handsome vampire’s advances in fear of getting played. Surely a creature of his stature could never have feelings for a human such as yourself, right? So, you’ve remained neutral, neither encouraging his inviting caresses and seductive words, nor pushing him away.

“We’re coworkers,” you affirm. “But I would not describe us as anything more, though Alucard can get a tad possessive,” you admit.

Alexander sighs with sympathy, suddenly draping an arm around your shoulders, just like he had when he caught you on your fall. He continues to lead you through the museum, not particularly focussed on finding your desired destination any time soon. “A shame. A pretty young soul such as yourself should never feel controlled by a vile monster.”

You purse your lips at the compliment, never hearing a man of the cloth make such a comment before, let alone towards yourself. His hand lowers from your shoulder to your middle back, pulling you gently ever-so-closer to his side.

“Just let me know if you ever need a delivering hand to aid you in a time of need, and the Lord shall answer your call,” he winks at you with a smile, making you giggle in disbelief.

“Father, are you flirting with me?” you ask with mock scepticism.

“Don’t ya worry, dear. I’m more than happy to look at the menu. It's ordering that’ll require a confession out of me. Or two.”

You giggle at his boldness, before the both of you hear an angry cry echo down the hallways.

“Anderson!”

Alexander frowns, before removing his arm from around you. “Please excuse me, my dear. It seems we have missed introductions.” He cracks his knuckles together, before two silver bayonets are unsheathed, seemingly out of nowhere. You gasp in shock as he stalks his way down the hall with a malicious grin on his face, sermons spilling from his mouth as he makes his way to his target.

You follow quickly behind, practically running to keep up with the tall priest. Down the hall you spot Sir Integra, Walter, and also Alucard with his gun’s raised, pointing them at the two other Iscariot members you missed in your search. You know this was going to lead to only one thing.

Alucard laughs maliciously. “Neither of us could ever back down in front of an enemy. Come on then, Judas priest!”

“What a coincidence. You won’t be so lucky this time, vampire. Do you enjoy playing with God’s most gifted children so?”

Jesus Christ on earth. “Stop!” both you and the silver-haired Iscariot member yell at the same time.

You see Alucard’s eyes widen as he catches you running behind from where Alexander had appeared. A scowl replaces his bloodthirsty smile. “What were you doing over there, Catholic? How dare you even breathe the same air as my beloved!”

“Beloved?” Alexander sneers. “How delusional! You really think this beautiful soul would ever be with a putrid demon such as yourself?”

“I’m ordering you to stop!” the Iscariot man repeats.

You've had enough of their cat fighting. You yourself between your quarrelling admirers and silently pray to God (or beg to Satan) that your new knights aren’t feeling as trigger-happy today.

“Hi! Right this way, everybody!” Seras practically yells into your ear, as a flock of elderly Japanese tourists stumble their way around you. “Everyone with the Japanese tour right this way, please! Kochira e dōzo!”

Seras' can-do attitude and smile is a welcome de-escalation of the tense situation. You only wish she had let you know beforehand, before deciding to run away.

Alucard fluidly moves his way through the murmuring crowd, grabs you by your waist and leads you back behind Sir Integra and Walter, much to Alexander’s detestation.

“What were you doing with him?” Alucard glowers.

“I was doing my job, since you decided to disappear," you huff.

“I was making sure the area was safe, for your and my master’s protection. Don’t you know who that priest is? He’s just as much a monster as I. I won’t allow him to go near you again.”

“And what makes your attitude any different from his? How is that any of your business? ” you glare back, not pleased with being pulled around so much today.

Alucard lowers to your level, getting in your face. “You are my business. You are mine.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, monster.” Alexander approaches from behind you both, bayonets thankfully gone from his hands. “I think the dear knows the path they walk, and it is not beside you.”

Alucard turns with a hiss, prepared to start the fight anew when it was your heart on the line. Hell, you know Alucard wouldn’t hesitate to bring about WW3 for you.

You stomp your foot on the ground in frustration. “I don’t need either of you to speak on my behalf. The path I walk is my choice alone, and at this moment, it’s away from both of you pompous idiots!” you yell, before turning on your heel towards the pavilion to prepare it for Integra’s meeting. Both of the men look at your back with marvel, before glaring at one another.

Maybe a war really was about to begin?

[demelzathemer]

My Heart Is a Haunted House

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘗𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 + 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘪, 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛

@dbdpromptober Day 3: Eternity (words: 1211)

Charles’ home was haunted.

The lights of his room would flicker at the strangest of times, he heard footsteps following him, shadows in the mirrors. When he’d left the gas stove on, the cabinet door above it slammed, getting his attention.

He’d asked Maa what she thought about it, receiving a puzzled look back. Maybe it was only Charles that was haunted.

He was more than excited about it. The empty rooms didn’t feel as desolate anymore when he had company. The ghosts hadn’t harmed him in any way, instead he’d been alerted to the unattended stove. It was like they were looking out for him.

Any time he was alone at home, he listened for the sound of the piano. So far that hadn’t happened again, so Charles opted on playing his few cassettes back to back, filling the silence.

By now he’d mastered both sliding down the handrail of the master staircase and playing hockey on the smooth marble floor with a cricket bat and a ball. But Charles’ favorite activity was exploring the house.

He felt himself a proper detective, inspecting floorboards and built-in bookshelves for hidden safes. It was a Victorian mansion, there had to be a few secrets buried inside the walls.

There were footsteps above him. Quiet, but intent. Charles knew for a fact that nobody was home except him. He sprinted towards the source of the sound, finding an attic ladder with a rope for pulling it down.

Someone was standing right above him. The small click of hard shoes sounded intentional, like someone was tapping his foot impatiently, saying come on now, don’t make me wait.

In the layer of dust that covered everything were footprints. Charles tried not to move too fast and kick up more dust than he wanted to breathe in when he followed them.

There was a desk with a chair by the window, bathed in the afternoon sun. Charles imagined the ghost had been sitting there, looking at the view towards the yard. Across it, a path went through the gate and over a river into the tall forest.

The footprints stopped in front of a wooden chest, which blue paint the years had almost completely washed out. Charles cranked it open to find a set of gentleman’s winter attire (a vest, a coat and a pair of gloves), and other clothes, all destroyed by moths.

The only thing left was a black-and white photograph of a wide-eyed boy in a dark suit. His lips were pursed tight, his eyes serious. Charles was drawn to him, tracing his pale cheekbones with his gaze, wondering why, despite his neutral face, his eyes betrayed a profound sadness.

At the back of the paper, only numbers were jotted down with a quivering handwriting.

1900-1918

“Is this what you wanted me to find?” Charles asked, flinching at his own voice echoing from bare walls.

Is this you?

Nobody answered. It was expected, but Charles was disappointed nevertheless. He kneeled on the dusty floor, leaning on the open chest, just staring at the photo.

Were you alone too? Were you lonely?

He slipped the photo in the inside pocket of his Harrington jacket, close to his heart.

Other days, he couldn’t muster up the curiosity anymore. Coming back to the dark house after visiting Niko’s grave pulled him down into a glum mood.

Their crammed London apartment had never let him relax, but the oppressive silence of spacious halls felt uncomfortable in a different way. Charles trudged the stairs up into his room and dropped his backpack to the floor before faceplanting onto the bed.

He wished he had somewhere to be or someone waiting for him. He wondered what “home” was supposed to feel like. Probably not like this.

He lay motionless for some time. Just when he groaned, attempting to pull himself together, the first notes of a melody floated down the hall.

Charles jumped up, holding his breath. The piano was playing again. A different tune, too.

He rushed out and to the stairs. The music had been slow and unsure at first, like the player was testing out the right keys, but it gained more confidence when it went on. Charles wondered why it sounded so familiar.

“No way, mate!” He grinned when he recognized the tune. He skipped down, two steps at a time. “No way! You liked it that much?”

The song the ghost was playing was unmistakably Under the Milky Way from the best The Church cassette Charles had played over and over again the last few weeks. It flowed from the piano with a slower tempo than the original, but Charles hummed along anyway.

He sat down on the duet bench, staring at the unmoving keys covered in dust. Then he turned around, gazing at the ceiling, just enjoying the music. He hoped he could tell what the ghost looked like. He wanted to know who was playing for him.

“I wish I knew what you were loo-king for… Might have known what you would find…”

The piano played for a few minutes, until both the verse and the chorus had been heard a couple of times, with Charles just sitting there, a content smile on his face. When the music finally faded, a slightly awkward silence fell in the foyer.

Charles was pulled out of his thoughts. He sprung to his feet, full of excitement again.

“Trust me mate, if you like that tape, I know one you’ll love!” He hyped. “Just a tick!”

He ran upstairs and grabbed his recorder, cradling it in his arms like his most precious treasure that it was, stuffed the tape in his pocket and jogged back.

He put the recorder on top of the piano and fiddled with it, his hands swift like every second without music was unbearable. He glanced around wanting to make sure his companion hadn’t left yet, which was useless as he couldn’t see him. With a clack he encased the B-side of Songs From the Big Chair and pressed record.

The sweet sound of synthesizer transformed the room instantly, flowing like waves over everything. It filled Charles’ chest with joy and the beat tugged his limbs into motion.

If he closed his eyes, he could see the bright colors and shapes the music took, pulling him from the bleak present into space without time, without worry or pain.

He opened his eyes, dancing in the middle of the empty house, but he wasn’t lonely. Maybe the ghost was the family’s son who’d died young. Young people liked good music, didn’t they? If he was here now, Charles was sure he could turn that sad frown into a smile.

He’d take his hand and pull him to dance with him. The heir had been a proper fit lad in the picture, handsome in that old-timey way, like he was a classical painting. Charles knew he could be wrong, but at that moment, it really felt like he was here, that they were dancing together.

As long as the music flowed, breathing was easy, movement was light, and nothing hurt. That moment only was worth all of eternity.

“Something happens and I’m head over heels

I never find out ‘till I’m head over heels…”

First Previous Next

[scavengedluxury]

View from the Marble Arch looking towards Bayswater Road, Hyde Park on the left, London, 1932. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.

[scavengerssuccotash]

🚨🚨CHAPTER 24 THIS FEELS LIKE TRUST is POSTED! 🚨🚨🚨

Read on A03

PSSST THEY FINALLY FUCKING KISS! 😱🤯

Snippet:

Phil Coulson stands solemnly before SHIELD’s Wall of the Fallen, a poignant if not simple memorial to all the Agents who sacrificed their lives in the line of duty. The wall, a modest expanse of polished white marble, is adorned with bronze nameplates, each inscribed with the Agent’s name and length of service. Above them the words “Wall of the Fallen” are inscribed, titling the piece.

Looking at it, it was easy for him to agree with the general consensus amongst SHIELD staff; the wall was bland, and uninspiring. Worst of all, many felt that its blandness was disgraceful to the memory of the Agents it listed. Evidence of an email chain detailing a plan to install wall-mounted flag posts and a heated debate on inspiring quotes sit in his inbox this very minute, and Phil can’t quite blame them for their effort. Besides the existence of the nameplates themselves, one might overlook it completely. Which, Phil is sure, Stanely must take great offense too, as the janitor is renowned for taking a keen interest in polishing them every night. Or perhaps he just liked seeing a job well done. Either way—

Beautiful work, Mr. Leiber; Phil thinks, admiring the way the late afternoon sun shines off polished metal. Lingering on the names of long-dead Agents he can’t help but feel a swell of deep sorrow rise within him, proving that while rudimentary, the overall effect isn’t lost. Finding it easier to express his grief in solitude, he doesn’t visit often, but today he found himself in need of a reminder. Not of those that were already lost, but for those that had the potential to be. SHIELD has a mole. A mole who not only knew about SHIELD security protocols, but how to circumvent them! Who is in some way shape or form has a vested interest in protecting a pharmaceutical company based in London with questionable ties to a Psychology professor whose research just so happened to revitalize a dying Soviet brainwashing program!

He gets a little winded just thinking about it.

[featheredclover]

Orphic

Chapter Two

Also on Wattpad

Chapter One> < Chapter Three

The rhinestones felt soothing against her skin, as she ran a hand over it. The red dress clinging to her body and tapering down in a gorgeous flair.

“Stop fidgeting Khushi, “ Garima admonished.

“ Mummy, do I really need to be there? I hadn’t even heard of the Raizadas until a week ago!”

“ Your grandfather was a good friend of Veer Raizada, Khushi “, her papa spoke up from beside the driver.

“ And anyway it’s a party. Your friends, Payal and Preetika will also be there!”

Sighing with defeat, Khushi settled down against the plush leather, her heart dreading at the thought of meeting a particular Raizada.

——

The white mansion sparkled in glory from a distance. The flurry of cars surrounding it gave a glimpse of the scale of the party thrown by Anjali Jha nee Raizada to welcome her father and brother back to Lucknow.

Their Benz rolled onto the gravel, and Khushi heard Garima gasp admiringly at the arrangements.

She grudgingly alighted from the car, and placed an arm around her father’s as he led them into the venue.

———

“ Welcome! Welcome Mr Gupta!” 

Khushi looked at the man who had become the star politician and the next-in-run to be chief minister at the mere age of forty. Shyam Jha was a charming man, who had worked his way up into high society. And the one who had helped him climb that ladder was none other than his wealthy, well connected and beautiful wife Anjali, who now stood by his side.

“ Garima aunty!” Anjali kissed her mum’s cheek, “What a pleasure to have you home this summer.”

“Well Anjali, we decided to keep Khushi company here in India. She was not willing to give her job a break! Wonderful party by the way” 

Khushi rolled her eyes discreetly. 

So this was the deal her papa wanted to crack.

Her parents were set on acquiring the contract for building the Raizada group’s latest hospitality venture. And for that they even sacrificed their annual vacation in London!

Shyam’s voice boomed out loud “ Mr Gupta you have met my father in law already, haven’t you? He’s at this party somewhere. Can’t seem to catch hold of him you see?”

And that’s when she became aware of a certain tension between her papa and Mr Jha. 

Just then Anjali led her husband away to another guest, and Khushi heard her parents' hushed discussion.

“ He wants one of his corrupt cronies , that Rocky Khandelwal to get the deal Garima “

“ I know Shashi. But we need to be patient here. We have the quality of work and their friendship on our side”

It was the proof of her mother’s stressed state , that she left Khushi unchaperoned at that moment and went off in search of Rajiv Raizada.

Shrugging to herself, she looked around for Payal. Preetika was definitely to be found in some dark, dingy corner romancing some poor lad ,and Khushi had no intention of walking into that.

“Khushi!” Payal’s soft shout made her turn around and found her friend looking rather flustered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Akash has asked me to meet him up at the terrace, “ she explained breathlessly.

“ Not you too! What am I going to do alone in this boring party?”she whined.

“Find a boy! You are old enough!” 

And with that Payal rushed off to find the nearest staircase leading up to the terrace.

Hormones, Khushi shook her head.

Grabbing a lemonade from the nearest waiter, she walked around the hall, and soon found herself, out of the French doors and near the pool.

The music was scarce here and so were the people. She settled down on a marble bench beside a tall bush, sipping her drink.

“ASR come on! We had so much fun last time!”

Khushi frowned at the shrill voice. 

“How about we go back to my place? Or Tony’s club?”

“ I am not interested Lavanya “ 

The husky voice startled Khushi, almost tipping her glass over.

She could recognise the voice ,which had haunted her dreams ever since she had heard it.

She froze in place, afraid to move and come into his line of sight.

“But why ASR?! You have been so cold with me since you came back to India. LA was so fun with you! I can never forget that” 

Her cheeks flushed as she realised what the woman was referring to. 

Mr. Arnav was a classic playboy and had probably got bored of his ‘ flavour of the month’.

“ We both knew what we were getting into, Lavanya. Now please don’t make me regret being kind to you” he said, rage clouding his tone.

She heard footsteps lead away from her and breathed a sigh of relief.

She waited for a few more minutes before leaving her seat.

She walked around the bush, to head back to the hall, when her arm was grasped in a vice grip and she found herself looking up into a pair of eyes, looking dangerously dark against the moonlight.

————

Too shocked to protest, she allowed Arnav to take her wherever he was going.

Everyone was too drunk to even pay attention to the Raizada heir dragging her away anyway.

She found herself on a beautiful balcony, overlooking the vast gardens of the mansion, when Arnav finally left his grip on her arm and settled her down on the swing.

He sat down beside her, leaving her no choice but to look at him.

“Eavesdropping can never lead to good things , you know?”, he said , jolting Khushi out of her silence.

“ I-I was there first! And I did not intend to hear about your escapades with your girlfriend. It was too awkward to get up and leave, that’s why I waited. It was common decency!” 

She was more outraged than ever before at this infuriating man.

“She’s not my girlfriend“ he hastened to clarify.

“Oh, forgive me. I don’t know what Casanovas these days call their flavour of the month!”

His eyes flared with anger.

“Flavour of the month? Which 60s movie did you watch?”

Sensing her need to leave,he caught hold of her hand to stop her.

“ Lavanya was an acquaintance. I met her back in the states. And we enjoyed a night together. One night. That’s all. It didn’t mean a thing.”

Khushi huffed in exasperation.

“Who cares?” 

“I do” he smiled, “the opinion of my captive matters to me”

Gaping at him, Khushi murmured,“C-captive?”

“Yes. The respectable Guptas wouldn’t want to know that their daughter was drinking whisky and prancing around in a barely there dress, would they?“

Swallowing nervously, Khushi said,“You plan to blackmail me?”

He flicked her nose with a finger, before whispering,

“ I plan to hold you to your promise. Anything, remember?”

Khushi gasped as she realised he planned to make her do his bidding. But she couldn’t deny the thrill which was running through her as Arnav’s hand remained in her hold, his gaze watching her every move, his voice hinting at something beyond what he said.

“Okay. Um..what do you want?”

He smirked. 

“I want you to do what I am challenging you to do.”

She frowned , clearly expressing her confusion.

“It is ridiculous that I just get one thing out of such a big secret-“

“But it’s not! It was just one evening of madness…”

“Yes, but think of what Mrs. Gupta would think about that evening of madness?”

Chewing her lip, Khushi thought of her mummy. She will definitely take this as a sign that evenings out with her friends were spoiling her daughter. She couldn’t sacrifice those evenings of dancing she enjoyed so much.

“What do you challenge me to do?” She asked hesitantly.

“A date. Tomorrow night.”

“I-I can’t! I am going out to the club with Payal and Preetika!”

He smiled softly,

“Take me with you then, Khushi Gupta!”

She sat there dazed, as he lifted her fingers to his lips, kissing her knuckles one by one. 

His eyes burned with such intensity, it scared and thrilled her in equal measure.

Tagging: @arshifiesta

Oh Khushi! You are doomed darling!

Next chapter>>>

@jalebi-weds-bluetooth @barshifan @andli @shiyaravi @muttonthings @hand-picked-star @msbhagirathi @phuljari @sankititaliya @thenainitaldisaster @thedupattaknowswhatsup @chutkiandchotte @laad-governess @laadgovernors @laadgovernorandsankadevi @leila1 @hi-this-is-permabanned @arshispyaar @minpdnim @thedustyshehnai @bigfatreader @arshiradio @simplycurlz @scorpio-smiles @bengudill @exosexosekai @0218fm

[thunderlina]

Pitch documents for a proposed Gorillaz video game from TellTale Games (2012)

300 YEARS OF HORROR The year is 2012. The location is London, England. A city with a long, dark, grisly history. And now the past rising… The water levels of London have risen flooding the city and in the process bringing up the sewage and hidden horrors buried beneath the ground since the time of The Great Plague and onwards…. Yikes! And now a dark force has been mobilised and something wicked unleashed. The flooded grounds of Kensal Green cementary have now become a stinking marsh of aroused corpses… The bottom end of Ladbroke Grove is fully submerged. Portobello Road is littered with washed up detritus and dazed survivors….Marble Arch deserted… The London Astoria, Trellick Tower…. all abandoned. Even the resturant "YumYum's" has shut up shop. Something evil has burped up these buried corpses and brought them back to life… And what's with the black helicopters that keep flying over the city? In an effort to apparently sterilize the city, mysterious Government helicopters have crop-sprayed the town and it's inhabitants with a netruelizing cleansing chemical. This has backfired leading to a deadly outbreak of the deadly "ToonPang D2020" virus, creating other grisly opponents. The future looks bleak all round…. No light shines here. But what's really behind all this? Is this a manmade manufactured disease, a disaster deliberately unleashed upon the city? Or part of an occultist curse to bring chaos and horror to the London streets? News released the GlaxoSmithKline the Government advisors on the antidote to ToonPangD2020 have made a £2.4 billion pound profit in the last three months alone, £700 million form the ToonPang antidote itself. Could the chemical ToonPang smiley disease and the GSK antidote all be part of the same source. Did the company create the disease? That would be EVIL. What has this got to do with Gorillaz? Is this a part of the deal that Murdoc made with the devil, or a karmic payment for all of his netherworld hi-jinx? Or is this the pysychic residue of a city built on top of itself, layer built upon layer built upon layer until the corpses burst out from beneath…?

Source

[thestylesindependent]

X

Harry Styles’s longtime stylist, Harry Lambert, and his creative director, Molly Hawkins, have had a lot to do with crafting the pop star and actor into one of the era’s top fashion icons. When they joined Styles in launching a company called Pleasing a year and a half ago, they achieved something even more significant, although no flashbulbs were around to capture it. Pleasing’s debut collection, a line of $20 nail polishes inspired by Styles’s own affinity for colorful manicures, was one of the first nail polish to be nearly 100% biodegradable.

Traditional nail polish is made from plastic polymers that break into tiny fragments of microplastic, contributing to pollution. From the start, Hawkins and Lambert were committed to making a version that would naturally decompose. They spent two years finding a laboratory able to work with them on devising a biodegradable formula, and then, in November 2021, they flashed the logo for Pleasing on the wall of the arena outside one of Styles’s concerts in Glendale, Arizona. Days later, when the Pleasing website went live, its first four polish colors—in trendy shades like inky black and bubblegum pink and with quirky names like Granny’s Pink Pearls—sold quickly. Six subsequent collections have launched every few months since then and have seen hero items sell out rapidly as well, while lines have snaked around the block for holiday pop-ups in London, New York, and Los Angeles.

As Pleasing expands into new categories (such as serums, eye shadow, and apparel), Hawkins and Lambert are continuing to push to make products even more eco-friendly, including making brush bristles from castor beans, a renewable resource, rather than petroleum. “We’re incentivizing our partners to keep moving forward,” says Hawkins. “If they can commit to developing a product for us, we can commit to purchasing a [large] quantity of it.”

Still, what makes Pleasing’s products so covetable among fans is that they just look so good. Lambert and Hawkins led the design process for the brand’s signature glass nail polish bottles, which feature globe-shaped tops in metallic and marble colors. “To succeed, the packaging needs to be interesting and exciting,” says Lambert. “We want the products to be so gorgeous that they live on your shelf, not inside your drawer.” To promote each new collection, the duo taps emerging artists to create attractive, color-saturated photography and illustrations. William Waterworth shot Pleasing’s first-ever campaign, for example, while Marisol Muro created the bright, ’70s inspired artwork that accompanied the recent nature-inspired Shroom Bloom nail polish line. Styles himself isn’t intimately involved with product development and doesn’t promote the brand heavily on social media. That’s by design. “At this moment, there are a lot of celebrity brands on the market,” says Lambert. “Pleasing is part of Harry’s world, but we also don’t want to rely on him to be the only reason people buy this product. We want to actually solve problems.”

[rom-e-o]

Unwind (Modern!AU) (Ebenezer/Constance)

A short little fic about being warm and cozy because it is WAYYY too cold to go outside where I am, haha.

Rated PG-13 for (descriptions of) nudity, and suggestive themes. Just two adult sharing a bath, haha~

The door to Ebenezer Scrooge’s London flat opened, and immediately, the biting cold of the outdoors streets and the stress clients and bank reports was forgotten.

It was Friday, and he was arriving home amidst a heavy snowfall, and his phone already silenced. The only company he cared to converse with that night was right beside him, her arm threaded through his while he keyed into the apartment.

“Bloody hell, what a week," he sighed.

The words practically melted into existence, the exhaustion that permeated his being done-deep and caustic as acid.

A softer, feminine voice followed his exhausted one. “At least it’s over for today.”

That was true. The sunset brought respite from the bustle of running London’s most prestigious private banking business.

Millions in funds exchanged hands over his desk (and through their office's Wi-Fi network) every day; even after decades in the practice, he still wasn’t used to it. That wasn’t to say he was ungrateful for all the business. Far from it. After all, it was how he was able to send six-digit donation numbers into philanthropic and humanitarian efforts across London and beyond. Yet, it was overwhelming some days, he had to admit. It actually hurt to ponder sometimes, the sheer responsibility of it all permeating his mind with the precision of a dental drill.

At least, just like his fiancée has said, the trials were over. For today.

As if to provide him further relief, Constance drifted from his side to help remove his coat. “I know. How about we share a bubble bath?”

There were few better ways to melt away the stress of the day than filling up his flat’s clawfoot tub and soaking in it.

After she removed his Loro Piana black wool trench coat, he motioned to return the favor. He slid the fur-trimmed Vivienne Westwood coat off her shoulders and propped in on the coatrack, then gently dusted the spare snowflakes from her fiery locks of hair.

“That might be the best proposition I’ve heard all day,” he teased, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Her laugh as his lips caressed her frozen skin was nothing short of musical.

He was feeling less tense already.

They walked hand-in-hand across the living room to the flat's spacious, ensuite bathroom. Along the way, the left their shoes near the door and their bags (two suitcases, one charcoal black and the other a freshly-baked shade of brown) propped against the master's bedroom's ajar door.

"Now, this is one of the best parts of coming home," she said as she approached the bathroom's spacious vanity. She reached back to remove the bobby pins and elastic that held her hair into a slicked-back bun. With a sigh, she let her hair down and bent over her knife her fingers through her copper hair, tousling it into messy glory. “Oooh, that feels so nice.”

Ebenezer gave her a teasing look as he walked to the tub and began to run the water at the temperature he knew they liked. He gave the cold water tap a 45-degree twist, and the hot water one three turns of the wrist. He checked the temperature with a swipe of his fingers. Sure enough, it was perfect.

Reaching up to a golden tray with marble handles that was perched on the windowsill over the tub, he produced an orange blossom bath bomb and passion fruit bubble oil. He tossed the brightly colored orb into the water, and it began to tumble and froth immediately. Mere seconds passed before the room was filled with the aromatic blend of orange and vanilla.

One last drizzle of the oil made the water glisten warmly in anticipation of its guests.

Once that was done, he turned back to see Constance had undressed fully, her skirt, hose and blouse all melding together in a pool at her feet.

They’d been together many months, and yet, he still found himself agape at her beauty. He knew he would always be stunned into a state of disbelief by her elegance.

She was tanner than him by a few shades. She seemed to absorb the sun’s rays effortlessly and just glow from inside out, from the top of her copper-colored head to the tips of her pedicured toes. In addition to being glowing like a goddess, she was sculpted like one as well. It was difficult to not leer, though she’d given him enthusiastic permission to do so. The tabloid writers that wrote smartass and derogatory captions about the cellulite on her bum and thighs didn't have a clue about womanly beauty, as far as he was concerned.

When she glanced over her shoulder and saw him staring, still perched at the edge of the tub, she giggled and walked over to him. Even after all these years, she still walked like a model, miles of bronze skin and tumbling locks on full display with each sway of her hips. Not to mention, best of all, a radiant smile that made his inside weak and his heart ache in longing.

She stopped before him, his eyes level with the tips of her ample breasts. Gently, she guided his face up with one hand while the other worked the top buttons of his shirt. It was only when her hand could no longer reach the lower buttons and she cleared her throat that he stood to help her. His own hands lofted to undo the remaining pearl snaps, but she had the honor of pushing the crisp white fabric off his wide shoulders and down those lightly muscled forearms.

Watching the planes of hair-dusted skin move as he shifted out of his shirt made her eyes glaze with mesmerized intrigue. When he was under the adoration of her lake-colored gaze, he felt more desirable than he’d ever felt before. Regardless of how he felt about himself on any given day, (with his wrinkles, his salt-and-pepper hair) she ogled him like a seven-course meal, rendering any and all insecurities beyond moot.

She made him feel like an Adonis, and she was his Aphrodite, pining over him and caressing him into embraces that were possible to resist.

With his shirt gone, her hands rested atop his chest, fingers tapping his flesh in rhythm to his heartbeat. He reached down and undid his belt, watching her flesh prickle with gooseflesh and the clasp clinked with release. One hand tugged the belt from his pant loops and tossed it to the marble floor. The other undid the clasp and zipper at the crotch of his trousers.

“That’s it,” Constance urged, fingers giving his pectorals a squeeze. “Just like that.”

Good Lord, he almost moaned at the praise! Bending to kick the pants away and tug off his socks, she bent down and placed a kiss on the bare back of his neck. “Glorious, glorious man.”

When he unfurled upright, an arm went about her waist and hauled her close for a kiss.

Even her kisses tasted of warmth, amber and womanly musk. Maker, how was she real?

As their lips and mouths melded, Constance hooked her thumbs into the band of his boxer briefs and gave them a swift tug down. He broke the kiss against to ease out of those as well, but immediately rejoined her, which earned a gasp of delight. Her arms wound about his neck, fingers loosening the pomade-slicked coiffure in his silvery hair.

Upon breaking the kiss for air, he gazed upon her pleasantly dazed expression with confidence and delight. “My glorious, glorious goddess.”

Taking a ginger step backward, he guided her toward the tub with an extended arm, their hands remaining clasped together for the entirety of the short journey. The body heat from their grasp made the warm of her engagement band practically brand him, and he adored it.

She followed like a snake charmed by a flute and slinked into the large tub first. She looked at home in the glittering water, like Venus rising from the tides. He followed, filling the void of space beside her.

As they eased into the steaming water, the tension from the day melted away as she nestled into his lap. Using his chest as a pillow, she leaned back, and he idly toyed with her hair, peppering random kissed along her face, neck and shoulders.

He flexed his long legs out, feeling the hot water ease the stress out of his muscles almost instantly. The feeling of her body, alive and breathing atop him, brought even more peace to his soul.

The room was silent, the only sounds coming from the London traffic outside the fogged window and the occasional sound of water lapping at the edges of the tub when one shifted their weight. One could almost go to sleep. Hell, he likely would have, if there wasn’t also a light ache of hunger in his stomach.

“What do you want for dinner, love?” he asked gently, pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear.

“Hm…” she hummed, eyes falling shut. “How about we try that new Caribbean takeaway place? I saw a sign in the window saying they deliver.”

His head fell back in relief. “Perfect.”

She giggled, lifting her foot out of the tub playfully. She watched the perfumed bubbles roll down her calf in shimmering trails. “Not in the mood to leave the flat?”

“Not the flat. Not this tub. Not you.”

Two strong arms lifted out of the water, soap bubbles running in rivulets down his hair-dusted skin, he wrapped his arms around her belly. His hands rested over the pudge there (something she’d felt much more comfortable about showing him after having some time to breathe from the modeling industry). His lips skimmed the back of her shoulders, running over the water droplets that lingered there.

“Hmm…” she said, peachy glossed lips grinning. “That might be the best proposition I’ve heard all day.”

The jest earned an impish growl. His grip tightened, giving her only a hint at his intentions. “Come here, you minx.”

As expected, he didn’t let her rest long. With swoon-worthy ease, he rolled his body so that she slipped beneath him in the tub. His wider frame covered her easily, arms caging her. He was aided by his hands finding purchase against the edge of the tub, despite how the passion fruit oil from the bath had otherwise slicked their bodies. That, he thought with a smirk, would be helpful in other ways.

Head thrown back in laughter, she welcomed this bout of necking, basking in the glory of him, and the warm cocoon around them, all the while.

@quill-pen Just an innocent little bath. ☀️ 

[darerendevil]

For archive purposes: March, 2013

If he has one driving goal in his film career, it's to participate in a project that leaves a lasting impression. "Ultimately what I'd like to do is leave behind a movie that's a piece of art," he says. "One movie out of however many I make that influences or has an impact or someone holds up in the future as a piece of art. That's the ultimate goal."

Chaos. Blackness. Then a pair of inconceivably blue eyes burst open, filling the screen. This is how most audiences were first introduced to Cillian Murphy three and a half years ago, when the Irish actor erupted onto the scene in the post-apocalyptic sleeper hit 28 Days Later. As Jim, a bike courier who awakens from a coma after London has been wiped out by a deadly infection, the largely unknown 24-year-old found himself as the lead in Danny Boyle's poetically terrifying film. As the audience surrogate, Murphy's face telegraphed all the confusion, innocence, and wonder we would expect of a hero-in-the-making who is realizing he might very well be the last man on earth.

After the success of 28 Days Later, a career in Hollywood films was inevitable. It's not just that Murphy looks as though his face were sculpted from marble, topped off by those aforementioned stunning eyes. As he showed in 28 Days Later and subsequent films such as Girl With a Pearl Earring and Intermission, he was a chameleonic performer, a character actor trapped in a leading man's bone structure. In 2005 he found himself starring in two blockbuster hits in which he played characters that couldn't be further from the well-intentioned Jim. As Dr. Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow, Murphy's silky smooth calmness was put to villainous use in Batman Begins. He followed that with a turn as Jackson Rippner, a mysterious stranger who traps hotel manager Lisa (Rachel McAdams) into an assassination plot in Wes Craven's Red Eye. While both films were unabashedly popcorn entertainment, each transcended its genre with stellar casting and sharp direction.

After these back-to-back successes, it seemed there was only one logical step for the newly minted star. So Murphy shaved his legs, plucked his eyebrows, and gamely jumped into the role of Patrick "Kitten" Braden, the transvestite orphan whose adventures with cabaret singing, prostitution, and the Irish Republican Army don't even begin to sum up the strange and delightful world of Neil Jordan's Breakfast on Pluto (opening in limited release Nov. 18). Written by Jordan and Patrick McCabe, on whose 1998 novel the film is based, Pluto is a loopy journey featuring Murphy in a bravura performance as the needy heroine who spends her life looking since he first auditioned for it four years ago. Jordan couldn't get the film financed at the time, but he never forgot Murphy--largely because the actor wouldn't let him. "I did a test with Cillian and several young Irish actors to see: Was the role even playable?" says Jordan. "Cillian was not well-known at all but gave a blistering performance. Problem was, after that he would never let it go. Every time we met, he'd ask, 'When do we start shooting?'"

Murphy got his wish in 2004, when Jordan got the money and jumped right into a 10-week shoot. It was sudden, but Murphy took it in stride.

Early Stages

In person Murphy speaks softly, his voice heavy with his native accent--one that has rarely been captured on film, as he frequently adopts English or American accents for roles. He speaks in simple, sparse terms of how he came to acting.Born and raised in Cork, Ireland, Murphy grew up on a diet of American TV and was interested in movies and music. At age 20 he was playing in a band, and he saw a play at the Corcadorca Theatre Company in his hometown. "I went up and knocked on the door of the theatre and said, 'Listen, if you have any parts in any plays coming up, let me know,'" he recalls. "And the guy said, 'There's this play called Disco Pigs. Come in for an audition.' I went in and got the part, and that was it, really."He may make landing the job sound easy, but anyone who saw the 2001 film adaptation of Disco Pigs can attest it was more than luck that got Murphy cast. As the violent and unpredictable Pig, pathologically devoted to his lifelong friend Runt, Murphy is a force of nature we can't take our eyes off of. Still, he admits that at times he felt out of his league. "I was going to go back to playing in a band; I was just acting as a laugh," he says. "But it didn't transpire like that. I don't think I realized it was a career until recently. But I don't enjoy anything as much as I enjoy acting. I never got a kick out of anything as much as I get out of acting when it's going well. You build up a real hunger for it."

For the next three years he worked in theatre, learning on the job while performing in such classics as The Seagull and Much Ado About Nothing. "I think that's the best place to learn as actor," he observes. "I consider it my training ground. I was very lucky to work with a lot of great directors and great plays. I went from smaller parts onstage to bigger parts onstage, then smaller parts in movies to bigger parts in movies. It was a very organic way to do it."

He landed his first agent, Richard Cook at The Lisa Richards Agency, when Cook saw him onstage in Disco Pigs; he remains with the agent to this day. Murphy has a Los Angeles agent, Darren Statt at United Talent Agency, whom he says "saw an audition tape I did for a movie and took me on based on that--which is actually quite unusual." He also has a London representative, Lou Coulson with The Lou Coulson Agency. As Murphy began landing various film and television roles, he had to adjust to auditioning regularly. "It took me awhile to realize auditioning is a different skill than acting," he says. "They're entirely unrelated skills. Just because you're a good actor, it doesn't mean you'll be good in a room with a director. I had to learn to audition."

It was the film version of Disco Pigs that caught Boyle's eye when he was casting for 28 Days Later. Surprisingly, Murphy's newcomer status worked in his favor. "We thought that it was more appropriate for the film that it should not be a star vehicle," says Boyle. "Rather, it should be a community of people we cast as equals." Boyle also felt Murphy displayed an innocent quality that would endear Jim to the audience. "The feeling of a child who is forced to become a man and, by the end of the film, be almost primal, I thought Cillian had that," Boyle reasons. Murphy rewarded his director's trust with a searing performance, taking Jim from wide-eyed youth to fierce protector in the space of 108 minutes. "I've been lucky to have support from great people like Danny," Murphy raves. "He let me carry 28 Days Later. But, ultimately, if you don't produce in the work, you won't get hired. You're only as good as your last job."

Armed with this knowledge, Murphy was selective about his projects after the success of 28 Days Later. "I'm aware of the system and how certain doors open when a film does well," he says. "A lot more people started taking meetings with me. And people began to pronounce my name correctly, that's always been a good yardstick for me." Although most people probably know by now, the correct pronunciation is "kill-ee-un."

Being Bad

Murphy claims he would have been perfectly happy to continue doing theatre the rest of his life; indeed, when he speaks of performing onstage, it's with a low-key but palpable passion. But he is also practical. "If there's an opportunity to do a good film with a good director, you've got to take it," he muses. "You'd be foolish not to. And if a bit of momentum builds up, you have to stick with it."

He has collaborated with some of the most prestigious directors working today, from Anthony Minghella in Cold Mountain to Ken Loach in the upcoming The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Yet he insists there's no deliberate strategy to his career. "I want to do different things and keep myself interested and keep improving," he remarks. "Wherever that takes me, I don't know. There's no plan--it's all out of your control anyway. The only thing I've ever insisted upon is diversity. Every role you take, you have to be afraid that you can't do it. Otherwise, there's no point in doing it." The primary factors that draw him to projects are the script and the director. "It's got to be a good script to start with," he says. "If it's a bad director, they can make the script mediocre pretty fast. But the combination of a good director and good script--that's the ultimate. And I can't believe how lucky I've been to have both."

When it came to auditioning for Batman Begins, Murphy didn't look at it as a blockbuster franchise that would raise his salary quote--he saw it as an opportunity to play a well-crafted character and work with director Christopher Nolan. "I would do any movie with Chris Nolan," he says. "It was a good script and a great part. I had so much fun." Nolan originally brought Murphy in to read for the role of Bruce Wayne/Batman. "I saw Cillian in 28 Days Later and was struck by the extraordinary intensity of his performance," says Nolan. "We tested him for Batman, and his presence just leapt off the screen. Everyone who saw it got very excited about the idea of casting him as Scarecrow. He has a fantastic ability to project interior passions with a power that can be by turns either chilling or seductive."

As Scarecrow, Murphy proved a hero is only as interesting as his nemesis, and his cool confidence was enthralling--just listen to the way he draws out "Batman" as two words in a cruel taunt.He brought that same dangerous appeal to Red Eye, a film in which his Rippner is more or less played as the romantic leading man--until he reveals he's a stone-cold killer. "I was very careful not to come at that character as the bad guy," he explains.

"He's been chosen for his job because he has access to this charisma and approachability. For him to be revealed too quickly would be pointless." Murphy also enjoyed being the heavy, a nice respite from saving the world in 28 Days Later. "It's fun to be the bad guy," he notes. "I thought it was a great role. Just because he turned out to be bad, it didn't represent any more or less fun than playing [Jim]. It's still a great range there to convey."Murphy also wants to make it clear that playing back-to-back villains was a fluke of distribution. "I did get very frustrated with the question, 'Why are you playing the bad guys this summer?'" he says. "I guess it's an easy in. I've made 10 feature films and played two bad guys. I think anyone who's seen the rest of my work will realize that's not what I specialize in at all."

Men Are From Pluto

If Murphy had any concerns about being pigeonholed, he certainly confounded expectations as Kitten in Breakfast on Pluto. "That role was a gift," he insists. "To work with Neil, who's a living legend--he's amazing." To prepare for the role, Murphy reread the book and talked extensively with McCabe, who was frequently on-set. "The book is a masterpiece but not always conducive to the screen, and the film has to be cinematic," Murphy notes. "I used a lot of the episodes in the book that aren't in the movie as my own research." Aware that the role was "completely transformative," he also spent a lot of time getting down Kitten's gestures and movements. "It's a long process," he says. "The physical side wasn't too hard; that's just grooming, really. The clothes and hair and eyebrows--anybody can do that. It was getting the voice and the walk and the physicality." Murphy went so far as to hit London nightclubs in drag. "It's important to do that. How much of it you use or not in the end is irrelevant," he says. "It's just important to have a reference point."

While the sight of Murphy in skirts and wigs is frequently funny, his sensitive and sweet portrayal elevates the film and engages the audience in Kitten's struggles. He is boosted by a top-notch supporting cast that includes Stephen Rea as a sad-eyed suitor, his Batman co-star Liam Neeson as a priest, and his 28 Days Later co-star Brendan Gleeson as a drunken theme-park character. It's a giddy, charming work Murphy aptly describes as "an unexpected fairy-tale disco fantasy."Murphy says he can talk about Pluto "until the cows come home," a bold statement considering that he confesses to an aversion to interviews. "I don't particularly like interviews or having my picture taken," he says, somewhat apologetically. "I don't mind it as a character, just not as myself. I don't like the perceived celebrity of it. I'm not about to become a personality or go on talk shows to entertain people as me, as Cillian." He points out he has never done a talk show in his life--mention Regis and Kelly and he pauses for a moment before replying, "I don't know who those people are."Of course, with his profile on the rise, Murphy admits he has given serious thought to how to maintain a healthy career without having his private life exposed to the world. He even discussed the topic with Batman co-star Christian Bale, whom he praises as "the best Batman" and a dedicated actor. "I actually asked his advice because you don't see him in the papers," says Murphy. "He pretty much told me, 'Don't behave like a celebrity, and you won't get treated like one.' I guess if you don't go out to a lot of parties and fall down, people don't take photographs of you."

Accent on Talent

Murphy recently wrapped Sunshine, a sci-fi adventure that reunites him with director Boyle in which he is once again saving the world-this time from a dying sun. Surprisingly--considering that Boyle gave the actor his biggest break--he still had to audition for the role. "I kind of wanted to," he says with a shrug. "That's what we do; we're actors. I don't understand this thing about actors who won't read for parts. I wanted to show him I could do it. I'm playing an American, and the movies hadn't come out yet where I'm American, so I think he wanted to see me do it." Murphy notes that early in his career he encountered resistance when auditioning for American roles. "They would hear me speak and say, 'Jesus, there's no way,'" he recalls. "But once you do it well, people accept it. And after a while it becomes second nature. That's why I think actors should never be limited by their background. This is what we do: We dress up and put on voices. So people should never be afraid to cast someone because of their accent."

Murphy isn't sure what he'll do next. He mentions taking a break, having worked steadily for the last few years. He'd also love to get back to theatre and tackle some of the great roles. Point out that a website erroneously reported that he has played Hamlet and he seems wistful. "No, I wish. I'd love to," he says. "I hope they said I did a good job." He also

acknowledges the differences between film and the stage. "Obviously, it's different vocally. If you're playing to an auditorium of 1,100 people, you've got to magnify the performance," he says. "For me, film acting is when you can see what the actor's thinking. Theatre acting, you've got to get up to the gods and let them know what's going on." Murphy doesn't mind returning to small theatres-he might even prefer it. "Disco Pigs was always in tiny little sweatboxes," he notes. "As the play got more popular and moved to bigger houses, I think it lost some of its allure. I remember doing Disco Pigs in its first incarnation and turning and getting sweat all over the front row. It was so visceral and dirty and sweaty. Then, when you start playing to bigger auditoriums, it's not as sexy."

If he has one driving goal in his film career, it's to participate in a project that leaves a lasting impression. "Ultimately what I'd like to do is leave behind a movie that's a piece of art," he says. "One movie out of however many I make that influences or has an impact or someone holds up in the future as a piece of art. That's the ultimate goal."

[derridoid]

Hetalia Food/Drink Headcanons: Main Ensemble Edition

We all know North Italy has a love for pasta. One might imagine that he has a love for the "fancier" or more "complex" pasta dishes his home has to offer - and he does! - his absolute favorite dish is cacio e pepe. It reminds him of what Grandpa Rome would make for him when he was younger and needed a pick-me-up. Nobody makes it as good as Grandpa Rome, of course.

Germany has been coming around to IPA's over the last few centuries. If a world meeting is held at America's house, and if he and some of the other nations will go out for drinks afterward, he'll order one. He'd rather have a lager any day, but given that he's not a huge fan of America's take on lagers, he'll take the lesser of two evils. You might even get him to admit he kinda-sorta-almost likes them if he's tipsy enough - yes, even the hipster-y ones.

Japan has gone to every Ramen Jiro in Japan dozens of times over. He'd consider himself a Jirorian, doing his best to blend in with the students and salarymen who frequent the shops, and he likes to invite Greece and Prussia to accompany him on his trips to the "sacred" shop in Mita. (ie, the original Ramen Jiro) His go-to is the tonkatsu.

(more under the cut)

While America is and always be a fan of a good all-beef patty, he's become a fan of the "impossible," plant-based meats that are growing in popularity. He says eating plant-based burgers and hot dogs make him feel like he's living in a sci-fi movie - "in the future, people will GROW their meat!" - and appreciates the fact that most plant-based meat companies' environmental footprints are much smaller.

England is, of course, something of a tea aficionado, at least in the Western world. His "usual" is a nice Earl Grey, usually the Twinings brand - a fan since the beginning! - but he's been known to drink green or oolong, with China giving him suggestions on which blends he'd like best. Canada has been trying to get him to come around to the London fog variant of Earl Grey, but England is staunchly against trying it.

It actually took France a few decades to get his recipe for macarons right - they're finnicky little pastries! - but now that he's got it down, he loves making them. Watching him make these confections is like watching an artist at the easel or the marble block. In the last century or so, he's also gotten really creative with the flavors he uses for each batch, both successfully and unsuccessfully. He's gotten into the practice of making a batch of two dozen with unique flavors for each nation on their "birthday" - his favorite to date are the cherry blossom ones he made for Japan some time ago.

Russia has a tendency to over-season his food. If he's following a recipe with specific measurements provided - half a teaspoon of celery seed, a teaspoon of tarragon - it's not a problem. However, if he's going off of sight and feel alone, he puts in way too much, because "it never looks like there's enough!" By the time he gets around to tasting the food to check the seasoning, it's often too late. The worst offender is usually pepper, but most people are too intimidated? nice to complain.

There's a long-standing agreement that the nation whose house a World Meeting is held at is the nation who decides where everyone goes out for dinner - if the meeting is hosted in New York, America usually takes the nations to a steakhouse; if the meeting is hosted in Rome, North and South usually take people to a local pizza place; so on and so forth. When meetings are hosted at China's house, he, almost without fail, takes everyone out for hot pot. Everybody loves it, and they look forward to when meetings are hosted in Beijing. China is personally is a huge fan of the mutton, and has been for centuries.

South Italy makes the most unbelievable pizza ever known to man or nation. His favorite is the Pizza Margherita, which he perfected with Rafaele Esposito (the father of modern pizza) and has been eating since it first dropped at the Risorgimento in the 1860s, thank you very much. In fact, he used to work at Esposito's tavern Pizzeria di Pietro e basta così when he wasn't engaged with nation-y activities. In recent history, he grows his own San Marzano tomatoes and basil for the Margherita pizzas he makes, and he still uses the original dough recipe he picked up from Esposito. He could share it with you, but he'd have to kill you.

Prussia has swapped recipes with Poland for like, the past few hundred years, and much of the food he ate was influenced by Poland and, to some extent, Russia. His favorite thing to make, even after all these years, is Königsberger Klopse. He does tend to go a little heavy on the capers. Unrelated - one time, he accidentally ate some of Gilbird's gourmet seed blend, thinking it was snack seed mix, and didn't notice until about three handfuls in that it was not human/nation-grade product. Germany was there to see it, and is the only person that knows. He's been sworn to secrecy on the matter under the threat of blackmail.

Canada, as we know, is a fiend for ice cream, and he'll eat just about any brand of it that you offer to him. His favorite for "binging" is Chapman's, mostly because it comes in a cardboard box that can be deconstructed and laid out near-flat - no spoonfuls lost in the corners! He's also a fan of some of his brother's brands of ice cream, particularly Ben & Jerry's. He's been known to make the near 5-hour trek from his place to the factory in Waterbury, Vermont for a tour and free samples...multiple times a year, even...don't tell America this, or he'll get teased.

[quccnbees]

( renee rapp. cis fem (?). she/her. ) - let me introduce you to a member of the eversley family, charlotte eversley is the middle daughter. they are twenty-six and are known as the queen bee to the family because they are obsessive, clever, and cruel when you get to know them, you think about legally binding contracts signed in glitter gel pen; the constant struggle between imposter syndrome and god complex but they’re still an eversley, nonetheless.

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Charlotte Alexandria Eversley

Nickname:  Lottie, Lots, Char, Charlie (at your own risk)

Birthday: May 7, 1998

Place of Birth: Eversley Estate, Hampshire, England

Places Lived Since: Oxford, UK; Leiden, NL; Cambridge, US; London, UK

Current Residence: London, in a townhouse absolutely paid for by her father

Notable Family Members: Hazelnut Eversley ( child, 2 year old standard poodle ); Daphne Eversley ( twin sister, best friend ); Adrian Eversley ( older brother ); Imogen Eversley ( older sister ); Hector Eversley ( oldest brother ); Charles Eversley ( father, idolizes ); Ignes Eversley ( mother, pities )

PHYSICAL:

Faceclaim: Reneé Rapp

Height: 5’7

Build: curvy  

Hair Color: blonde  

Eye Color: blue

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: always wearing one of her father’s old watches, several piercings in both ears, a good amount of tattoos ( will be expanded upon )

Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: playing with her hair when anxious, drumming her nails, being cruel for sport

PERSONALITY:

Occupation: lawyer for her father’s company

Education: Law Degree from Oxford University, LLM from Harvard Law School

Languages Spoken: English, French, passable Dutch, Latin because she’s annoying

Positive Traits: outgoing, ambitious, dedicated, meticulous, clever

Negative Traits: obsessive, manipulative, vindictive, cruel, arrogant

Likes: iced coffee, glitter gel pens, the oxford comma, a particularly tricky legal argument, early 2000s chick flicks, singing chappell roan after three espresso martinis at karaoke

Dislikes: sloppy writing, boston as a concept, playing nice, the legal ambiguity of working for your father, birds kept as pets, losing at anything, being lied to  

Aesthetic: perfectly crafted citations; falling asleep to the comforting sounds of the city; fighting dirty, because you don’t know any other way; a turning page in a silent library; your father is the worst man alive, you are his favorite daughter; the sound of expensive heels across marble lobbies; is it worse to be doomed by the narrative, or haunted by it?

HISTORY:

The fourth child, the second daughter, the older twin – she’s nearly as middle as a middle child could be. And yet she’s the one gifted a variation of her father’s name. Perhaps it's a coincidence, or Ignes merely liked the name – Lottie doesn’t know, she wasn’t fully conscious yet at the time of her naming. But it matters. It has to matter – names carry meaning, to name something is to grant it power, worth. Charlotte’s spent her entire life trying to prove herself worthy of her father’s affection and trust.

The older twin by a mere ten minutes, Charlotte comes out screaming. Daphne follows, setting the pattern for most of their lives. Charlotte is bright and bold – the sun, but not warmth: a burning, blazing pursuit of power, anger and armor in a pretty blonde package. Daphne her moon – ethereal and lovely, quiet with dark hair and dark eyes; reflecting back the brightness and burn, a guiding light in the darkness.

They are a package deal, something Lottie makes quite clear to everyone in that poison laced honey way of hers. The Queen Bee reigns with her sister close by – gaining power through a combination of charm, manipulation, and other, crueler accusations that never stick. Charlotte’s not just the popular girl – she’s also obsessive to a fault, a perfectionist who absolutely won’t accept failure. She’s naturally clever, of course, but not everything comes so easily – she just makes it look like that. Sleepless nights full of self-loathing and relentless dedication to whatever subject is giving her trouble result in near perfect marks and a lifelong tendency to dance right on the edge of self-destruction.

Perfection leads to Oxford, of course, and despite her best-efforts, Lottie’s never been all that good at numbers, so she studies the law. She loves a challenge, the intricacies and various loopholes that craft something particularly clever and weighty. Two years at Oxford, then her third year in Leiden, studying international & European law. The family business is international, so it’s the obvious choice. But it's the first time she’s away from Daphne, and it takes a toll. Daphne goes dark, but Lottie burns hotter and faster. She’s crueler – like something has been torn away and left all her edges jagged and sharp.

Daphne publishes a novel – and Lottie’s her biggest fan, bullying everyone she knows into buying a copy or two. She’s always known her sister was capable of greatness, hated anyone who dismissed Daphne’s shyness or kindness as weakness. The success of Daphne’s novel is probably the only time Charlotte’s ever let herself be truly, selflessly happy for someone else’s success. It lasts their final year at Oxford, but that’s not enough for Lottie. So she spends a year at Harvard gaining an LLM degree and a profound hatred for Boston. She returns to London, and naturally starts working for her father’s company. Here lies the biggest disconnect of Miss Charlotte Eversley’s young life – she idolizes her father, has spent her entire life living up to his name; but she’s also fought tooth and nail to prove that she deserves this position on merit, not her father’s name. She should work for an outside firm first, establish herself in the field. But he’s old, and his health is failing despite the façade they present to the public. So Charlotte falls in line, and weaponizes her beauty and cleverness against anyone who’s foolish enough to suggest she’s not earned her position.

EXTRAS:

She currently lives in a townhouse in London with her only child, a 2-year-old chocolate colored standard poodle named Hazelnut.

Chaotic bisexual

She and Daphne attended the last night of the Eras Tour LA in August, 2023 together ( 1989 tv was announced ) but then had a huge argument after the concert due to Lottie being a bitch to Daphne’s date & accusing them of only being with her for the family money. The twins have been on bad terms / estranged ever since

She loves all her siblings and would commit atrocities for them, but they are still subject to her harshest judgement ( except for Daphne up until last year ) and she’s never been one to mince words. Still – it's very much ‘only I can say that about them, I’ll ruin anyone else who dare say so.’

She is left-handed.

Her father is the only one to call her Charlie.

[sonnenreich]

continuation of (☀️) ⸻@siphvnr

In most cases, people were either sceptical or just amused by the allegedly tourist attraction, Spindleweed—and yes, Zeev thought himself particularly funny for this play of word—seemingly nothing more but a picture frame imagination of a witch's shop come true, seamlessly transitioning into the overall historic town's appearance. Usually, no one stumbled upon Sundawn by accident, hidden and safely nestled in the forest's landscape, circled by birch trees, oaks, beeches and pretty but rare willows. Whoever came to this secluded and rather narrow minded speck of land, came for a reason. While trying to fathom the motivation behind his visitor’s company, he quickly and rather involuntarily lost his concentration to much more interesting aspects of the dark haired man. Kai reeked of something he couldn't quite grasp but knew was palpable, familiar even. A presence so telling and loud, yet secretive and cunning. Zeev rarely felt a pull—and a repelling push at the same time—towards another being that stirs his curiosity with an intensity like he did. With heightened attention, he observed the nonchalance and insouciance with which he strolled through the store, inspecting everything, though Zeev doubted he was really interested in any of the things to the extent that he wanted to use them. Kai didn't really look like someone who was overly interested in healing tea blends or scented candles. Then again, it was foolish to claim to know the versatility of the people he met in its entirety.

With deliberate steps and a body movement that could only be described as fluid, he strolled over to him. It was nice to hear that someone seemed to have respect for what Zeev considered the cornerstone of his life—even if Kai couldn't possibly know that. Or did he? It frustrated Zeev that he apparently wouldn't get an answer to his question just by looking at him with an intense gaze, brimming with light. All Zeev was really sure about was the fact that there was a river running through Kai's veins, fueled by an energy he was no stranger to.

The witcher smiled at his words, charming but reserved, distracted by his own desire to observe and investigate. But he suspected that he wouldn't get very far that way.

Me, was his first impulse of thought to answer. He was a piece of the collection easily overlooked, his beauty deceiving most, giving the impression there wasn't more to discover than coquettish behaviour and a pretty face to look at like a fine sculpture—stunning on the outside, but nothing more but a marble surface with no recess for a heart. But he would never beg, he would never run after something that didn't like to stay and he most certainly wouldn't force anyone to change just to accommodate to his needs. There was no point anyway, but making yourself vulnerable to rejection. 

Zeev ushered him to follow, smiling to himself at his question that he liked to ask too when visiting all sorts of curiosity shops and met with anything occult. Spindleweed wasn’t a huge place, feeling a bit crowded but yet organised. The witcher loved cluttering, to see some sort of personality at every corner and cranny, still it needed to maintain class and visual appeal—much like he himself. Appearance was the first thing anyone noticed. 

Some treated the shop like a museum, but there were no glass cases nor anything he'd consider so much over value that it could be stolen by yet another British explorer to be displayed in London. 

It didn't take long for Zeev to find the silver locket, engraved with what seems like initials of the former owner, partly blackened by silver sulphide. It didn't seem very special at first, but when he took it in his hands, it felt warm and welcoming, drawing in a sense of nostalgia and loss. “The old lass who gifted it to me claimed that it was made by a heartbroken witch and that those who hold it too long may feel an inexplicable longing for something—or someone.” His thumb brushed over the surface, the truth of her words undeniable. Zeev offered the necklace to Kai, letting it dangle from the chain. “That is if you believe in such things,” Eyeing him observantly at the remark. “Most is just born out of very vivid imaginations, but even stories can erupt feelings and stir your own perception of things. It's like Tarot, all it takes is your own mind to weave the webs and connect emotions to the meaning they hold for you. Sometimes though it is downright magic.”

[crowleystits]

I'd Like for You and I to Go Romancing

Chapter 7: A Tempter You Surely Are

[read chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 on tumblr here]

Yellowish streetlights started popping up around the city, illuminating it like stars spread about the night sky. The late summer air was replaced by a light evening chill, as the sun kissed the horizon, and the pair lazily walked down a Parisian street, taking in the pleasant surroundings and the smell of human dinners and French bread.

Their hands stayed intertwined most of the day, as both basked in the freedom of being perceived as a proper couple. Around them, only humans, oblivious to the millennia of conflict and distance, to the war they nearly provoked, to the end they managed to avoid. Crowley had found them, or perhaps rather miracled, a room in the beautiful Hotel de Crillon, which he knew the angel had stayed in over 100 years ago, after it had opened. He thought, maybe, that the nostalgic feeling of the imposing building would bring some comfort, and help Aziraphale feel calm and happy in his company.

"Oh, Crowley." The angel began, as they stopped at the door of Hotel Crillon, eyes fixated on the architecture, free hand over his heart, voice pouring with delight. "It's just as I remember."

"That's the point." Crowley replied, turning his head to look at Aziraphale, a small, smug smile upon his lips.

"You charmer." Aziraphale responded, letting go of Crowley's hand in order to open the door for them to enter the grandiose building. "After you." And he gave a small, polite bow.

***

As they ascended to their residence for the evening, they passed breath-taking patios and hallways, luxury oozing from every corner, every centimetre of ornate wallpaper. All of it was a blessing to the eyes, even a wretched creature of the underworld such as Crowley could, albeit hesitantly, admit to it.

The room however, was like Versailles exploded into a dance with the twenty first century: ostentatious wall art and cushion covers contrasted spectacularly with crisp white linen sheets and sleek white walls.

"Looks nice. I did ask for their best." Crowley began, allowing himself to snake around the different areas of the room, inspecting everything as if to make sure they did really provide what they were asked.

"It's perfect." Aziraphale responded giddily, touching the bedsheets gently with the tip of his fingers.

"Wait until you see the bathroom." The demon announced, walking back towards the main area of the room, a thumb pointing back over his shoulder.

"Oh I must see." The angel responded quickly, making his way quickly into the enormous room that looked nothing like what his bookshop had to offer back in London. Grey marble floors, impeccably clean white tile walls, a certainly vintage clawfoot tub the main attraction all together.

"Nice, huh." Crowley's voice rung right behind Aziraphale. He stood right behind the angel, shades still over his eyes, peering over an angelic shoulder to the bathroom ahead.

"You did all this," Aziraphale began, turning his body around on his heels so he could come face to face with his paramour. He gently placed two hands over the demon's chest, wet eyes looking up at his own reflection on black lenses. "For me?"

"Us." The demon responded, clearing his throat and looking down at the hands over his own corporation, threatening to make his shrivelled heart burst through his chest like a seed ready to germinate. "I'm also going to be sleeping here, you know." He mocked, in an attempt to disguise how flustered he truly felt.

"I would not want it any other way." Aziraphale continued with a smile, reaching his hands up so he could pluck the glasses from the demon's face, placing them down gently over a side table nearby. "We're indoors. I would much prefer seeing your eyes over my own reflection on these things."

"Are my eyes fetching then, angel?" A hint of sarcasm in his voice, a hand finding its way into a stupidly tight trouser pocket.

"You old serpent." Aziraphale complained. "Will you ever let that go?"

"Never." Crowley responded quickly with a grin, approaching the bed. He kicked his black boots off, so he could then crawl his way on top of the mattress, laying upon it like a long, lanky starfish.

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, unsure on whether it'd be proper to approach, fiddling with the edge of his velvet waistcoat before deciding 6000 years of distance should be put to a rest completely just now. He stepped toward the bed, sitting himself on its edge before letting his body fall back, his head over one of Crowley's arms, gazing up at the ceiling.

The demon didn't dare speak, lest he spook Aziraphale and ruin the moment permanently. Closeness is all he's ever desired, even if he had never allowed himself to believe it. For a few moments they just stayed, they just were, in a majestic Paris hotel, together, alone, free.

"So," Yet another one of Crowley's suave segues into a more uncharted topic. "I'm going to... do it. Again. Now. If you'd like it, that is."

"Do it?" Aziraphale questioned, turning his head to face his demon once more. Expectation poured into every one of his syllables, as his eyes drifted slowly down towards thin lips.

Crowley understood the subliminal message well enough. After all, this would be the fourth time they'd clash lips, feel each other's breath on their skin, feel their own hearts pound heavily behind strong ribs. So, without wasting a second more, the demon's free hand flew onto Aziraphale's cheek, pulling him closer so they could touch their lips once more.

Both beings now laid on their side, hands clinging onto each other's faces, lips pressed together as if the world outside had ceased to exist at once. Their kiss was the same as the previous ones, just lips pressed tightly against one another, motionless, until they decided they should part and rest their foreheads together. Celestial or otherwise they were, immortal, endless, and yet not one of them knew how to properly develop a kiss so it could last more than a few seconds.

Ignorant as he may have been, Aziraphale felt courageous that night, inspired by the freedom and the comfort that permeated his corporation, and so he decided to join lips again, this time moving them slowly, a shy smile crossing his expression after he felt the demon hesitantly reciprocate. A sound, though almost inaudible, escaped Crowley's throat; a groan, a hoarse noise of both disbelief and contentment. They did that for a while, hold on to each other's faces, hands descending hesitantly towards shoulders, pulling each other closer and closer as the atmosphere grew warm and mellow. After a begruding separation, they left their eyes closed and touched foreheads once more. A smile cut the angel's face, and a little chuckle allowed itself to break through Crowley's otherwise almost stoic face.

"Snogging angel, really?"

"I'm not even sure that that means, you fiend." The angel gazed up, observing how Crowley's face presented an utterly lovable reddish tint.

"You know. What we just did. Very human, in fact."

"Is it? I do believe you are tempting me into more and more human activities. A tempter you surely are."

"You started it."

"I most certainly did not."

"I'm a demon, you know. Resisting temptation is not really my forte."

Aziraphale responded with an amused exhale, gazing up at mesmerising yellow eyes. He had witnessed the birth of the stars, and yet no view was more overwhelmingly miraculous as the one he had the luck of perceiving in this moment.

"Fancy getting under the covers, then? Maybe some sleep?" Crowley suggested, and so they did.

[read more chapters here]

[isawken]

haha heyyyyy jesties

this year has been rough stuff. and the problem is nothing life shattering has happened so i don’t even get to have a spectacular mental breakdown. it’s just been a lot of grind and disappointment and struggle to keep up or have any energy to do anything other than the bare minimum. to everyone who reached out to me with love or kindness or memes and waited weeks or more for a response i love you. and i’m so sorry for my total absence of personhood. i’ve never gotten a dm even if it’s just a silly post and an “i thought of you” that i didn’t like. and your patience with me is appreciated more than you know.

i have some stuff i want to work on. some hobbies i want to pick up again. some friendships i want to recultivate. some pieces of my life i want to try to rekindle. i used to have so much creative energy and impulse. did you know i used to make zines? i fuckin loved making zines. the tactile experience of cutting up thick paper and punching holes and using thread to bind em and filling it with vague thoughts and little collages and splashes of acrylic paint. that shit ruled. about a month ago i tried making one for the first time in years. i cut up some old paper and dusted off the ol' hole punch. this time instead of my usual embroidery thread i used necklace chain to bind it. i was proud of that idea. when it came time to put stuff in it i choked. i had no creative thought. i forced myself to cover the first page with orange and yellow crayola markers. but that was it. i had nothing other than that. just hasty sloppy color thoughtlessly and restlessly thrown down. a dull background promised to a more interesting foreground that never came.

that shit did not rule.

in 1883 in pecos texas the first recorded rodeo takes place. in 2001 rob smets attends the PBR world finals in jeans and a sports jersey bearing sponsor logos. in 1780 joseph grimaldi makes his stage debut at 2 years old at london’s famed drury lane. in the many, many years before any white person ever laid eyes on it, a man in what you’d now call northern arizona paints his body in black and white stripes and puts corn husks in his hair. in 1557 ivan the terrible acts as pallbearer to a man who walked naked in the streets of moscow, even in the dead of winter. 1568 the gelosi acting company coalesces in italy to perform the hot new style of live improv entertainment. in 2017 the ringling bro’s circus performs its last show, 146 years after the titular brothers first formed it. all of these moments (and more!) live in my head rolling around like marbles and one day i’ll tell you all why.

i’ve been on mood stabilizers for so long it’s hard for me to tell if this has just been a really long depressive swing or if this is just how i am now. if this is just what getting older is like. i don’t really think it is. i am like 90% sure this will not last. but the two questions that follow are always 1. how do i get out of it, and 2. what if it is tho xD?

i recently went down to southeastern ohio to visit my family. went up the mountain at 1 am saturday night to help my gramma grab the 8 year old boy she’s been helping to take care of from his strung out mother. the next day i saw my various other relations, aunts and cousins however many times removed. i hung out with my second cousin. same age as me, with two twin girls, 4 years old. she’s a great mom. and enjoys it, too. got a decent husband with a good job. obviously i don’t know her struggles. not like we talk often. but she seemed overall pleased when she spoke about her life. i told her about my work from home job and my loving partner of 8 years and my plans for the future. she told me i was living the dream. and like. i kind of am. so why do i wake up every morning in various states of hangover (it's the mental illness)

i live in one of the cloudiest cities in these united states. my house is about 500 square feet. it’s dark at 5pm now. i already miss the sun. i want to get sunburned again. i want to be sweaty. i want to put talcum powder in my skort. i want to get through this winter without having to rub snow on my face to stave off more serious impulses. i want to check the 5 items off my to do list.

all of my want is like a song stuck in my head.

i miss that stickbug meme

i should dress up like a clown again

maybe tomorrow i’ll just lay under my weighted blanket for 5 hours

or maybe i’ll actually do something i like to do and feel good and real and human about it. who knows. only time will tell. and in the meantime. thanks if you read this <3