#the victorian obsession with long hair

[ask19thcenturyengland]

[hotdrinks]

[ID: A greyscale waist up digital sketch of Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. He is a fat white man with ear-length light-coloured hair worn swept back. He wears a Victorian era suit, a scrappy, worn sack-coat, and spectacles, and looks apprehensively to the side with the points of his index fingers pressed together. A speech bubble beside him says “Hm?” End ID.]

MORE FANART OF SAINT’S VICTORIAN FIC FOR YE!!!!!! And also....an excerpt..a sneak peak...:

“That’s quite good, actually,” Stoker said eventually, not taking his work back up—for he became distracted at that moment by Blackwood’s entry. “Ah,” said Stoker, standing. “It’s our new Head Boy.” Blackwood’s brow instantly wrinkled, a flush rising on his cheeks. “Hm?” When Stoker began to laugh to himself, Blackwood glanced desperately in my direction with an apologetic look of apprehension. “Have I done something wrong, sir?” he asked, voice trembling. I should like to note that I was not laughing at his discomfort—rather his readiness to remedy what he perceived must have come from an internal defect.”

[aayakashii]

soooo I wrote this for the art god @devotion-disorder because

1- they're one of my favorite artists ever!!!!!!! And they're someone who portrays yanderes in such a 😙🤌 chef's kiss way that I can't help but admire

2- I am obsessed with their oc kuuya

but if you'd rather I delete it, just let me know!!

Warnings: NSFW, yandere behavior, unhealthy obsession !!! Minors DNI !!!

Part 2 of this fic here <3

The skin on the nape of your neck prickled, making you shiver at the strange sensation.

The steady gaze outside your window was so piercing and unmoving that it could be as sharp as needles nicking your skin.

Although, if you were to be fully honest, it felt more like a knife.

It would be just another night, if it wasn't for the fact that your co-worker lurked outside your house.

"Kuuya", you mouthed his name, just to feel how it moves against your lips, because you could never really say it during daytime without having him spiral headfirst into a meltdown.

Kuuya was a disaster.

He never talked to you.

You would sometimes catch him staring at you during work, which made him blush like an anime schoolgirl, but that was the extent of his interaction with you.

He was a regular employee, didn't stand out much, nor caused problems. He was just... there. Constantly looking exhausted, with his back hunched and in the verge of a mental breakdown.

And you were so attracted to that mess of a man.

Your friends would probably frown and sigh if they knew, but they were also pretty much aware of your type: sickly victorian-looking men, anemic, with extremely dark circles under their eyes, who probably sneeze a lot and shake like chihuahuas.

And, hey, that was Kuuya to a T. How could you not have a crush on him?

You soon realized, however, that he probably had a few screws loose.

It started slow, a few things going missing. First it was a pen, then some of your hair ties, then old post-it notes you had forgotten about, until their absence reminded you of their existence.

These things were inconsequential.

You wouldn't even notice their disappearance, if it wasnt for the fact that one day you saw Kuuya with a fluffy hair tie that looked way too similar to yours to be a coincidence. It even had the same little star charm that yours had.

And then you noticed the pens, carefully placed inside a cup near his computer.

And the erasers, the post-its, the pencils, all the other office appliances that you were pretty sure were yours.

But they weren't, right?

That was just your fertile imagination playing tricks on you.

Right?

One day, just to erase this silly idea from your head – I mean, you were probably just paranoid – you waited until you saw Kuuya take a break from his assignments and make his way to the bathroom.

You observed through the corner of your eyes how he stared at you while making his way to the other side of the office, anxiously shaking your leg as you mentally egged him to hurry up and go to the damn toilet.

As soon as you were sure he was inside and you were out his sight, you bolted towards his desk, earning a few pissed off glances from your other coworkers.

You had to work quickly though, since you didnt know how long he would take to come back. Looking over your shoulder constantly, you opened the drawers under his desk, searching for something and feeling silly all the while (what if you're the crazy paranoic one for real?), until your hands haphazardly touched some papers and you heard the sound of crinkles.

Looking over your shoulder one more time to make sure he wasn't around, you lifted the papers and mouthed a silent "oh." as you saw what was underneath them.

Dozens and dozens of candy wrappers, discarded notes and even more of those old post-its laid organized in what you could say was impeccable fashion, if it wasnt for the fact that it was all trash.

Your trash.

In the back, you saw some plastic bags with questionable contents, but your anxiety was in an all time high and you decided to just put things back were they were and close the drawer.

You had your confirmation. He WAS crazy and you were still paranoid, but at least you were right.

You made way back to your desk and sighed, sitting down.

Conflicted feelings pooled in your gut.

You knew all of that meant that he was indeed crazy and obsessed and potentially dangerous, but also... you couldn't really deny the excitement that made butterflies fly all around in your stomach and the giddy feeling that made your heart race with expectations – of what, you didn't know.

And as these feeling swarmed you, you failed to realize the pair of eyes that were locked tight onto your figure from the very start.

If Kuuya could properly express his feelings, he would be moaning and whining in pure despair.

They saw everything. They saw where he keeps all his treasures he had been collecting for the past months.

But why?! Why did they even think about looking for that? Has Kuuya been acting too obvious? But he made sure he wouldn't be too creepy! Well, at least not as creepy as he truly wanted to be. How was that happening all of a sudden?!

The taste of copper interrupted his mental breakdown and he looked down at his thumb, where tiny droplets of blood appeared after he anxiously chewed it.

"It's okay, it's fine" he kept repeating in his mind, like a mantra. He'd just need to see how you'd act around him after that.

If you stopped interacting with him (even if most of those interactions were just good mornings and good evenings coming from YOU), he would probably just... end it all for once. Or maybe kidnap you so you wouldn't run away. Whatever crossed his mind first.

With his heart beating loud on his chest, Kuuya walked back to his seat and forced himself to work, spreadsheets and numbers flashing on his mind, unnoticed.

All he could think was of your hands rummaging through his drawers.

Oh god, your hands touched his things.

Kuuya exhaled sharply, rubbing his thighs together to alleviate the sudden discomfort in his groin. What would he do if you never even looked at his direction again? Sure, you could even report him to the HR, but not being able to see you was a fate worse than being fired!

His mind tumbled, wandering through every worst scenario possible, and in his despair, he didn't notice it was already time to clock out.

"Good evening, Kuuya." You say as you pass by him, nodding your head, with a tight smile.

'Huh?'

Kuuya stares at nothing in front of him, until the fact that you talked to him registers in his mind.

'HUH?'

You talked to him?

Wait.

Did you really see what was in his drawers? Was he just hallucinating? No, there's no way he was. He saw how your colleagues stared at you when you ran to his table. They SAW you. Just like he did. So you saw everything. And you don't hate him? What the fuck. You don't find him disgusting? What? What the hell.

He didn't understand.

He couldn't understand.

He had to understand.

And so, he led himself towards your house, hiding in the bushes right in front of your bedroom window.

How lucky was he that you didn't live in an apartment building?

He was there to understand you better. Just for that. And it'd be just this time, he swore. Just to see what was up with you.

His breath was ragged and heavy and his cheeks burned red. He bit his bottom lip tightly to keep any moan from escaping as he palmed himself through his pants, while he watched the way you stripped yourself of your work clothes.

Quickly undoing his belt buckle and his pants, he let himself be completely overtaken by pure lust and began pumping his dick mercilessly as he was graced with just a little bit more of your skin, right in front of him.

He saw you sigh as you got rid of your pants and his eyes rolled back, imagining how you'd sound if he was the one taking your clothes off.

Oh, what would he give to be able to jump through your window and grab one of your dirty clothes and get drunk on your scent...

The thought made him buck his hips forward clumsily, and he gritted his teeth, hard.

Well, fuck.

He panted, while he observed the way his cum dripped from the leaves of the bush, and as coherent thoughts started flowing back to his mind, he suddenly hoped he wasn't moving too much to catch your attention.

You hadn't even looked his way, so he was safe, right?

Right?

You rubbed your thighs together as you kept your back turned to the window. The windowpane was open, in order to allow the wind to flow through your bedroom, and due to this little fact, you could hear a faint sound coming from the plants right in front of your window.

A quiet, almost indiscernible (if you weren't paying close attention) plap plap plap sound.

You bit your lip to keep your grin from spreading through your lips.

The dumbass was masturbating! Right there! Right in front of your room!

You sighed, feeling the heat pool in between your legs, but controlled your instinct to pull him out from wherever he was and fuck him silly in your bedroom.

You desired him so fucking much. You thrived in his attention, like a sunflower leaning towards rays of light.

The thing is: while you loved his obsession, you were also deathly afraid that he would lose interest in you as soon as he found out how much you also wanted him.

Much like a cat who discards a prey. Except this cat was wet, sad, pathetic and still, you were ridiculously eager to keep playing dead so he would put his grimy, sticky little paws on you just a little bit more.

How would Kuuya feel, you wondered, if he knew you were as obsessed with him as much as he was with you?

[bear-remn]

Reiji's headcanon please as you did with Shuu!!!! I need them😭😭

— reiji headcanon's

omg thank you for enjoy! and since you ask, i came to deliver!!! and a little of my art as well!

tw: this post has nsfw content (+18) , so if you dont like it dont read it!!

this draw came out so much better than i thought, reiji is so fun to draw i love him so much!!!

his looks and selfcare

for start, reiji, unlike shu, do enjoy taking care of his skin and hair, at the begining of reiji's teen years, some acne began to pop out, and could'nt stand the fact that shu did not have any acne, not even once, so he started to take care of it, he often buys expensive lotion, soaps, and other skin creams, he totally watch tutorials on how to clean his skin properly, and always tries new suncreens on the market.

and i think that reiji does also buys expensive shampoo's and conditioner, he need it for his dry hair, so he totally buys profesional stuff. he prefers probably scents like jazmin, wooderish, also honey... even maybe lavanda.

and bc he cares a lot for his appearance, he showers very often, at least his body, reiji washes his hair like four times a week. and a little detail is that when he wash his hair, reiji uses hot water, but when he showers only his body, reiji uses cold water.

and to keep himself good looking reiji excersive sometimes, like two times a week and its intense, no one really notice bc he does it in his room.

and when it come to clothes, reiji does enjoy fancy clothes, i like to think reiji go through a face where he was looking for his real aesthtetic, he tried vintage, victorian stuff and in some point he tried the bad boy aesthetic, he find it a little too much casual for him, until he reached a more refinated, fancy but not too flashy style. even so he loves the turtle neck sweaters.

i think reiji is very aware of how handsome he is, his face is similar to his fathers, meaning, a sharp jaw and having a pretty nose, wich bone stand out a little. id say his nose and his eyes are the most atrative thing about his face. love a big nose on reiji, and his eyes are the most similar to his father, with that magenta color and a very intimidating gaze. In addition to having slanted eyes like his father, reiji gaze is like that of a cat, a little arrogant and seductive.

and for his body id say reiji is more of a slim kind of body, he has some good muscles for working out, reiji has good arms and shoulders, but his hands are really pretty, has long fingers and well treated nails. and as shu he also has a prominent v line, but reiji waist is more small.

reiji also takes good care of his body hair, the man shave for having a good smooth skin everywhere, yes, everywhere. and as shu, has that thing that dont let him grow a hole beard so he often shave it.

random stuff

soo... reiji is a little freak and you can't change my mind, he definetly has some obsessions and cant get over it, he just love things much he cant live without doing it, and to begin with one thing is his obvious collection of fancy plates, cups, teapots and has a little collection of rare spoons. reiji puts them in diferent parts of the manor just to look at them everywhere he goes, and he does not use any of them. he cleans them once a week.

and speaking of his obsessions, reiji has a secret but popular social media where he post is collection, he is very famous and dont show his face.

and he totally has OCD when it comes to order, without realize reiji is always ordering everything symmetrically and harmoniously to the eye, even when it comes to food, reiji orders the food on the plate in an elegant and orderly way.

also, i think reiji dont eat half of what he cooks, he prefer cooking than eating, but he enjoy's more doing desserts or really fancy meals. he also post this in his secret famous social media.

reiji is the kind of ADHD people that needs to do things right away, like the first thing in the morning to do is do his bed, when he finish cooking he cleans everything, when he take off dirty clothes he does laundry instantly, and like that with every little activity he does. maybe bc his mind is a little complicated and if he does'nt do something right away he might become anxious.

i think that bc of reiji doing ocasionally excercise, for some reason, reiji does not stretch his muscles before or after exercising, which causes him to cramp at the worst times, when he is in class, when he is studying or even while sleeping, on those occasions he is still asleep but cannot wake up completely, which causes his cramp to only extend until he wakes up from the excruciating pain.

i think reiji also has photografic memory, ofc bc of his childhood he memorize a lot of book and it just became something normal to him. he can remember every little detail he read, hear's or see's. having an almost perfect memory.

and maybe something cruel, but reiji hates animals, he has killed a few with his bare hands. he cant stand them, but secretly likes some cats.

i think that reiji has a secret shelf full of romantic books, the man loves romance novels. he read them before going to sleep.

and even if he does'nt get along with his brothers, reiji always takes píctures of their "good" moments, like ayato's matchs, subaru's plants, dinners or bals in the demon world.

nsfw

oh and this man? in bed? lord have mercy.

for starting, reiji has a big dick, straight foward, he is big, i cant deny it. its long but not so thick, and when hard it looks up proud and shiny. only one big vein that comes from his croch. just hot. 18.5 cm and if he is really horny he can get to 19. wild.

reiji is totally dominant, but for the right person he is such a bottom, a power bottom tho. reiji dont like the feeling of being dominated and controled, but he does enjoy when someone put him in his place, mommy issues thing.

oh, and when reiji is interested in someone, is really... slow.

i like to think that reiji, for his childhood and the little love he recieved, he does not quite undertand how to express correctly how he feels, and speaking of a vampire its double hard. reiji craves for having something close to affection, so he always watches how people or other vampires in love interact, but he does not belive that love is something a vampire can feel. deep shit i know.

the only thing close to reiji giving affection is by acts of service, he would spoil you without notice. if you two live together reiji will be around you everytime he can, and if he feels confortable enough, he will start to invade your personal space to make you nervous, or to make a reaction out of you. a at sometime he would'nt realize he is invading your personal space.

like if in the morning your shirt it's not buttoned properly, he would come really, really close, and button it right. all of that while looking into your eyes, and amazingly, building sexual tension. after that he would just act normal and shit. such an ass.

in other occasion, like if you two are in a casual conversation, reiji would come closer and just take a little eyelash off you cheek, but he gets so close that you can feel his breath while telling you "just... keep steady hun..." and also would just do that thing where he puts your hair in place and touch your skind with delicacy.

and when you kiss him, bc he would not start it, reiji would be so amazed, since the firts kiss he would kiss you any place when you two are alone. and after every kiss, reiji smile warm and softly at you, cute.

and more into that, reiji would devour your mouth, but he is imponent about it, meaning he like to surprise you while kissing, bc he loves to get your reactions. i think that while you two kiss reiji is touching your lowers back to push you againt him, would smile during the kiss and then pull your hair a little to look into your eyes. he likes the feeling of you being his.

"what? wanting more i see...?" and his little cocky smile is everything.

and if the kiss got heated, reiji would push you to anything to be on top of you, he loves that, being on top of you.

i think reiji is embarresed of being sucked off, mostly bc i also think reiji is very... vocal during sex. and a little more sensible than normal. and the little times you get to suck him reiji woud stop you at some point to give you pleasure now. and he is a dick about that too. but he stop you bc he dont want you to see him breaking during his climax, the man is a little shy.

reiji likes bending you, putting your knees in your chest while giving you oral, and he does it right, he gets how the female anatomy works so he knows what he is doing, also loves to hear you plead him to make you cum, but sorry for you, reiji loves edging you... a lot.

"not yet darling... keep it a little more.."

oh... and the nicknames, he say thems with a low and seductive tone that would literally would make anyone weak just to hear. amen.

and ofc, he can make you squirt, the man know things.

and about his favorite positions, reiji loves bending you, making your body hurt a little by how strength he puts into his grip on you. specially the one where you are on your back, with you anckles in his shoulders, and he just press you on the bed hard. he wants to be so deep on you that just thinking about it makes reiji tremble. he find being inside you something special, he doesnt do it just for having sex, the man wants to feels the conection, deep shit for him.

i think reiji loves every position he gets to see your face, but he needs to be on top, just love to see you so little under him.

i also think reiji is very versatile with the speed the puts, like it depends on the mood, if he is very horny and needy he would break you, he is fast and hard, loves to hear his balls slap your ass in every trust, reiji would smack you ass sometimes and definetly slap your face during it, after that he would kiss you hungry and stick his fingers in your mouth. in other moments reiji can be more passionate, like more romantic about it, but the thing that reiji keep doing it at every mood, is that he keep eye contact.

and god have mercy bc reiji has some good precious eyes.

reiji loves looking at your eyes, doesnt care if you look back at him, but will force you to look at him if you are about to cum.

"just like that love... give it to me... let me see you love.."

and is into it for creampies, he just loves the idea of filling you up as many times as his and your body can handle. and cums a lot, probably bc he dont masturbate too much.

"yea?? ill give it to you love... take it all..."

another position he might like would be maybe standing up or againts a wall, just loves to see you trying to hold onto something but failing and just hold him for support, he loves when you touch him, in any kind of way tho. but also bc he loves to see your legs tremble.

thats a little detail i like, reiji does'nt get satisfaced if your legs dont tremble when you cum, or during sex, he likes to feel how they tremble, see them giggle and lost its strenght, makes reiji feel powerfull bc of how he can make your body break. but does'nt say it out loud.

and the man dont get tired like... never, but do knows his limit, and his aftercare? maybe the best one. if you need water, a candy, food, cuddles, a bath, reiji will make it for you, instantly, dont doubts. and the cuddles are so cute, he will give you a masage and maybe give you oral again, he cant keep his mouth away from you.

the man just want you to feel good, and he knows how to do it. makes reiji feel powerfull.

── more of my content here!

[dead-lights]

simblreen 2024 gift #2 // witches of war

ok but I'm obsessed with that hat on Tess. yes, that's kristopher volkov's mom up there on the right.

I have for you a companion to my previous simblreen set - 4 pieces of wall art depicting witches who fought in the war between spellcasters and vampires. These are meant to be older than the previous set, but in color bc magic!

If you're interested in learning more about the Century Conflict (the war between vampires and spellcasters) I compiled information about it from in-game text here.

@simblreenofficial

All of the frames come with all 4 witches in all 4 frame colors, for a total of 16 swatches each.

I don't want to ramble on forever because there's kind of a lot - if you just want to get to the download, follow the link below. Tess's frame requires Realm of Magic. Maria's frame requires Werewolves.

download all here (requires werewolves & realm of magic) [SFS]

or keep reading for:

previews of each frame & individual download links

information about the witches

full-sized renders

list of cc

flora's revelation [SFS]

Florencia learned long ago that the only way to survive chaos is to become chaos. That's her excuse, anyway. Florencia Dillon is an oc spellcaster-turned-vampire who later became Elle DeVampiro's mother-in-law. I don't want to clutter up this post more than I already have, but she shows up in my previous set and you can read more about how I've developed the DeVampiro family here.

keisha's plunder [SFS]

No one knows how Keisha got this frame. Best not to think about it too hard. Keisha Hughes is a premade from the Realm of Magic Sages household. She is L. Faba's predecessor as Sage of Mischief.

maria's historical prints (requires werewolves) [SFS]

Maria understood the importance of photography in maintaining and communicating a robust historical record. She designed these frames to house her favorite moments. She may have gone slightly overboard in duplicating literally hundreds of them on the assumptions that her colleagues would be as passionate about the preservation of history as she was. Someone will find something to do with the excess - they’re really quite cute! Maria Volkov was a Mooncaster (one of the spellcasters who successfully fought vampires by becoming werewolves). She was Kristopher Volkov's mother and died a very long time ago.

tess's discovery (requires realm of magic) [SFS]

After the invention of the camera, Tess began experimenting with different chemicals and development methods in an attempt to invent color photography. Weeks spent inhaling noxious fumes in an unventilated basement led her to one conclusion: Just use magic. Tess Dyer is a premade from the Realm of Magic Sages household. She is Morgyn Ember's predecessor as Sage of the Untamed. According to this trailer, she was the one who ascended them.

1. maria volkov

hat: helia hat by @clumsyalienn

hair: marjorie by @buzzardly28

dress: from victorian visions by @gilded-ghosts

pose: from model poses by @starrysimsie

2. florencia dillon

hat: bewitching hat by @nolan-sims

hair: franny by @buzzardly28

dress: governess dress (SFS)

pose: from simblreen 2023 part 3 by @simmerianne93

3. keisha hughes

hat: harvest witch hat by @litttlecakes

hair: meg by @simkatu

dress: summer swells dress by @gilded-ghosts

pose: from emotions: mix 2 by @akuiyumi

4. tess dyer

hat: bad witch hat by @akalukery

hair: beatrice hair by @simkatu

dress: elphaba dress by @sentate

pose: from 18th century portraits part 1 by @anachrosims

cover

keisha's pose: from halloween magic by @helgatisha

other poses: from simblreen 2023 #3 by @simmerianne93

[korpuskristae]

Verdict

Warnings: 18+, Smut, public sex, blowjobs, slight femdom, language, mentions of past injuries

Pairing: Fem Reader x Judge Turpin

Word Count: 2600+

Summary: Once Turpin's whore, you find yourself in the position of his wife, although with your new status as Lady Turpin, you find yourself still lacking the manners usually expected of a high-ranking Lady such as yourself. AKA: I had too much fun writing this and got carried away...

AN: I started tweaking at a concert I went to last month because the guy in front of me had long hair and a big nose... I have a type, to say the least... Anyway, I make do with my promises, even if it takes me three whole months. Requests are open, so feel free to drop something in my requests, keep in mind I write at my own discretion. Be wary of spelling and grammar errors! Point them out so I can fix them :) !!

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

In the eyes of Victorian London, Lord Turpin and you, Lady Turpin, were amongst London’s most unusual couples. Your relationship came not long after Richard lost his ward, Beadle, and nearly his life after a brush with Benjamin Barker, a lowly barber he sent away on false charges who miraculously, found his way back even after being sent to Australia to serve out a life sentence of harsh manual labor. Richard emerged from the events, not as the man London had once trusted implicitly, but as a man teetering on the edge of mania, grasping at what little fragments of sanity he had left. Returning to the bench a mere three weeks after his attempted assassination, the subjects of London couldn’t help but notice a change in their infallible judge. Almost every circle in London was whispering about the shift in the judge’s demeanor and it didn’t take long for the doubt of his competency to reach his ears causing his already harsh sentences to become even crueler and unpredictable, casting a further darkening shadow over his once-certain judgment.

 Most people expected everything to return to normal once the judge’s attacker had been brought to justice, after all, as a judge of the high court in service to her Majesty the Queen, he reserved the right to convict and sentence whoever dared to cross him, or the law. He was by definition, untouchable… Yet in the case of Sweeney Todd’s attempt on his life, it seemed that Lady Justice had already dealt her hand, taking Todd for herself, depriving the judge of the cruel justice he so desperately desired to feel in control. Spiraling further into a dark path of retribution that bordered on obsessive, Richard was a mere shell of the proud man he once was, seemingly falling further into the clutches of insanity with every passing day.

After being compelled to step back from the bench due to mounting public concern for his mental health and well-being, he was granted a month to rest and recover. One whole month—a dangerous opportunity to ruminate on his unexamined consciousness that Richard was not eager to take. By no means had Richard attempted to fix his wrongdoings, he was a bad man, an unjust, and cruel man who wielded the law as a weapon of his desires. He was a sinner, a liar, and a reprobate. He attended church only to enjoy the company of a whore the very next hour, he knew his life was one big contradiction. And still, he clung to the illusion that as a judge, he stood above the law and public opinion, he was a judge who answered to no one but himself, believing his actions bore no consequence beyond his own scrutiny.

 In the wake of Richard’s recovery from the attempt that nearly claimed his life, your relationship, and subsequent marriage, seemed to unfold at lightning speed. The fact that Richard had forsaken many a beautiful, and no doubt rich, highborn lady for you, irked the British aristocracy who were all throwing their daughters at the judge to have even a chance of marrying into the esteemed house of Turpin. It would’ve been one thing if you two were young lovers but your scandalized affair only grew more scandalous as people started to frequently draw attention to the fact that you had, practically, in the eyes of the public, not existed at all, prior to your engagement. 

The last woman Richard had shown any interest in was Lucy Barker, but even then, it was public knowledge he merely lusted after her, his longing for her was based not on feelings of love but ones of conquest and control, seeing her as a prize to be won. But his feelings for you seemed to stem from an unknown source… one that was less centered around himself and his personal motives.

In a society that prized status and reputation above all, Richard’s marriage to you, someone deemed “lowly” in the public’s eye, sent shockwaves through the cobbled streets of London. Unshaken by the public’s doubt of his choice of wife, Richard managed to pull out all the stops for your wedding, wasting no expense on the extravagant affair, with nearly every citizen near and far from London clamoring to attend the wedding. As guests observed the warmth in his gaze, they began to piece together a narrative that suggested genuine love that transcended societal boundaries. It wasn’t long before the public, hungry for scandal, sought to uncover the mysterious story behind your unusual romance.

The story given to the public was that you were one of the nursemaids who had so gracefully nursed him to back him to health, lovingly tending to him and eventually falling in love with him. While that story couldn’t be further from the truth, every tall tale had some grain of truth to it, certainly no nursemaid, granted, you did tend to him, in a much more… intimate way than originally specified, you two were indeed a rare occurrence of genuine love. Initially, you were just a contract—an arrangement for the night, a whore, to put it crudely. Once you, rather, he finished, you had noticed him wincing in pain along with the stiff movements of his neck, originally wary of the notoriously foul-tempered judge, you, strangely enough, found yourself hesitating to leave. Despite being expected to leave as soon as you two were finished, you couldn’t just leave him to suffer like that. This man, one who commanded London’s High Court with an iron fist now laid bedridden, his physical wounds matched only by a wounded pride. His growls and biting remarks about you staying to offer him help sounded more like thinly veiled pleas for help, revealing a side of the judge that he himself even resented, one that was weak. 

Not even half a year later you were the highly feared and equally esteemed, Lady Turpin. While the fear came from your husband’s reputation, you yourself were quite the opposite of him. Instead of intimidating people to get your way, you often made use of your snarky wit and cleverness, a trait that Richard himself found endearing and discovered proved far more useful from time to time when intimidation wasn’t a viable option. 

Seated at his bench, high above the court giving him the illusion of an almost godly appearance, Richard sat, tall and rigid. Dressed in his black robes, the long wig he wore—an obligation of his station—itchingly reminded him of the traditions he had little patience for. Leering at the people entering his courtroom he huffed uninterestedly. While his wife had managed to salvage his sanity and coax a flicker of gentleness from him, she could not penetrate the fortress he built around himself in public. Fixing his posture, he moved only to accidentally bump something underneath his bench with his knee, seeing you, his wife there, he glared at you kneeling between his legs. Smirking up at him with a lustful haze in your eyes, you placed your hands on his knees slowly parting them as you winked at him. 

Grumbling, he snarled at you without any real venom behind his words, “What the devil are you doing?”

Currently sat in front of a fully occupied court he had to preside over, you clearly had no sense of decorum when it came to respecting the authority that Richard had, slowly parting his robe at his waist, you placed your hands over his pants, palming his already growing erection. The ruthless judge, so quick to condemn others, quite literally, was nothing more than putty in your mere presence.

“Taking care of my husband, of course, you must be so stressed, huh? All those responsibilities… my dear judge, my poor, poor judge,” you purred softly, your fingers tracing languid circles on his thighs. The heat emanating from his arousal was unmistakable and he was clearly getting impatient but you ignored him for the time being keeping the tension high.

Growling lowly, he narrowed his eyes at you grabbing your hand and placing it on his clothed cock, “Do not play games you little minx, if you want to act like this then carry through with your teasing,” he demanded gruffly.

“Oh, my…” you gasped, feigning shock, “right now? Dare you disrespect the sanctity of this here court?” God you were such a tease, how was he ever expected to behave around you when you acted like this? So clearly reveling in your role as an unrelenting tease… if he was in hell, you were most certainly the demon sent to torture him till the end of his days.

Snarling at you, Richard tangled one of his hands in your hair, a firm grip that asserted control without causing discomfort. “Careful now, love. Keep with that insolent tongue of yours and I'll put it to far better use," he growled with an arch of his perfectly manicured eyebrow, his threat laced with a hint of desire.

Laughing lowly, you slowly dragged your fingers up his inner thighs before reaching his zipper and freeing him from the confines of his awfully tight trousers. Already rock hard, his cock was thicker than your wrist and his tip was an angry red color with a small bead of precum leaking from it, a testament to his undying lust for you. “So impatient and rude… you’re supposed to be a Lord, my love, one with manners who treats ladies with respect,” you chided dramatically not caring to whisper considering the courtroom was still settling in.

“Last time I checked ladies don’t terrorize their husbands multiple times a day for sex,” he grumbled letting out a low sigh of relief, feeling the pressure lessen on his aching cock. Eyeing you, he huffed in amusement as a smirk played at his lips, watching you blink up at him innocently. A little actress you were, one who was anything but what she pretended to be.

Grabbing his cock, you slowly stroked it, watching as his face contorted in pleasure, not explicitly as he was still seated in front of a room full of people, but enough for you to get the satisfaction of seeing him unravel slightly. Exhaling a long drawn out strained sigh, he spoke gruffly, evidently, trying to have some restraint. “What a naughty little thing you are, playing with your husband's cock so brazenly in a courtroom full of people…” 

 Running your thumb over the tip of his cock, you heard his breathing hitch and felt him cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb over it lovingly. Letting out a small whimper, he felt you take him into your mouth and swirl your hot tongue around the edge of his tip, tasting his salty precum on your tongue, savoring its slight musky taste. “Yes, mhm… just like that my love…” he hissed, his grip on your hair growing tighter as he pushed you down further onto his cock, forcing you to take him deeper.

Letting out a strangled squeak, you glared up at him with a mouthful of his cock as tears pricked your eyes. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” he teased slowly bobbing you up and down his girthy shaft.

 Hearing the thunderous boom of the courthouse doors opening, Richard glanced up to see the defendant being ushered into the courthouse by a guard from the jail. He barely glanced at the list of accusations before re-establishing his cold, detached expression. As if he wasn’t being serviced by his wife at that very moment.

Richard raised his eyes and immediately the court fell silent, making the usage of his gavel redundant. He struck it lightly for the sake of formality before he cleared his throat, resting his hand atop your head to signal you to stop your ministrations. “You are being charged with petty larceny and the garrotting of several women, what say you in defense of these charges?” he said, his booming voice reverberating through the courtroom, fixing a cold glare at the defendant. How dare he ignore you! Use you for his pleasure and tell you to stop at his own convenience? God, he was way too privileged!

Glaring at him, as you kneeled on the floor, your eyes flashed with anger and defiance, Richard, ever so oblivious didn’t seem to notice the anger radiating from beneath him. Ignoring his wishes for you to halt your movements, you started to bob up and down again, swirling your tongue around his shaft just the way you knew he liked it, feeling him throb against your tongue, you glanced up at him cheekily as he glowered at you. Consequences be damned, you were no convenience, and you certainly weren’t controlled by him!

Barely stifling a moan, Richard’s thighs tensed as he fought to keep his composure. Watching the defendant bow his head in defeat, he heard him profess his guilt, “I plead guilty and ask you for your mercy, your honor.” If he didn’t have a little minx between his legs he’d sneer at the fool in front of him for even thinking he’d be merciful. 

Feeling you take him deeper, he watched as your hand reached up to wrap around the base of his shaft to pump what you couldn't fit in your mouth, with his breathing growing ragged, he only hoped that nobody could see his very obviously flustered state. His grip on your hair only grew tighter as he tensed further, his muscles pulled taut as he felt his orgasm approach rapidly.

Realizing the entire courtroom was awaiting his verdict, he coughed, trying to cover up any of the obvious hints of his arousal, “The jury will deliberate and your fate will be announced at a later court date, this court is adjourned.” He said banging his gavel before watching everyone file out of the courthouse in confusion. 

The Esteemed Juge Turpin, widely revered and equally feared, had rarely relied on a jury—his rulings were law, laws he often wrote without deliberation. Murmurs filled the courtroom as the gallery began to question whether or not even Richard was second-guessing himself. The reason behind his stalling was, in truth, much simpler than what they suspected. Richard was merely just a pawn in his wife’s new uptaking of mischief and suffering the consequences.

After everyone filed out and left, Richard’s head fell back against his chair as you continued to suck him off. “You are so dead-” he groaned, not even able to finish his snarky comment as he felt his cock throb with his impending orgasm. With a strangled gasp and a deep guttural groan, Richard’s hips bucked into you as he came hard, his seed spilling down your throat in thick, hot, spurts that even you struggled to keep up with. After his orgasm subsided, you released his cock with a wet pop, the sound reverberating through the empty courtroom.

Slumping back against his chair, you watched with a satisfied smile as he struggled to catch his breath, his chest heaving. Tucking him back into his pants, you heard him hiss, his cock was incredibly oversensitive after that mindblowing orgasm no doubt. Standing up, you dusted off your dress, looking at him with a wicked smirk, “Hmph, what was that love?” 

Sneering at you with half-lidded eyes, Richard huffed, unable to punish you for the time being, “Your arse is going to be so red when I get my hands on you,” he rasped out, watching you saunter away. He was so going to get you back tenfold, despite his mostly playful annoyance, deep down, he couldn’t deny the obvious satisfaction he got from surrendering his control to you…

AN: First time writing smut, how'd I do? ;)

[wholoveseggs]

Hi there!! I been reading your works and I love your writing. This my first request ever.

I had this idea, and I was thinking about a gothic vampire reader with the personality and the looks of Morticia Addams, and the love for the macabre. And Elijah catches her attention and she catches his attention. Of course, they meet at a gala, a opera etc. And for weeks, they have been getting to know each other. Until one day, he comes over to her house, they are having a good time then the visit turns steamy and smutty, it is passionate and feral. And maybe with blood sharing between the two.

But of course, if you don’t want to then you don’t have to and you can ignore this.

Decadence

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Elijah meets an intriguing woman at the opera, leading to an evening of music, wine and vampiric indulgences.

♡♡ Thanks for the request @thealienartist!! Absolutely obsessed with this idea, I LOVE gothic romance & horror!!! This was an absolute dream to write. Can Elijah please be the Gomez to my Morticia heart? ♡♡

5.9k words - Warnings: smut, oral sex, blood drinking, I was self-projecting hard with this one... {I just want to be her}, black cats, chocolate cake, vintage wine, a love letter, Victorian gothic everything... I listened to Totentanz on repeat while writing this... {its a vibe}

Elijah had always enjoyed the arts, whether that be in music or literature or even painting and live performances. He found that the arts were one of the only things that made him feel truly alive. Even with his undead heart beating within his chest.

Around the turn of the century, Elijah discovered his love for horror. It amused him to see how humans depicted the supernatural, their interpretations of his kind were rather off. Vampires living in run down castles, with no regard for the world around them, their main purpose to drain the blood of the innocent. It was almost laughable, though some of his kind did enjoy that lifestyle.

It was during this time that he fell in love with opera, something his siblings didn't exactly agree with. Rebekah found it to be dull, Klaus found it to be pretentious and Kol didn't care either way.

They just didn't get it, the music, the drama, the costumes, had him completely enraptured.

So, when he heard that La bohème was being performed, he immediately made plans to go. He had seen it many times, but never got tired of the performance. He just wished that he could have somebody to go with, but none of his family wanted to attend.

He put on his favorite four piece suit, combed his hair, grabbed his black trench coat and made his way to the opera house.

As the lights dimmed and the stage lit up, Elijah couldn't help but feel a little sad, wishing he had someone to share this interest with, but he was content watching alone.

He watched as the curtains parted and the actors began their first scene, he immediately fell into a trance as he took in the performance.

Intermission was announced and he went outside for some fresh air, he was surprised to see a woman, who looked like she was plucked straight out of the past, standing on the balcony.

She was smoking a cigarette, the long stick held elegantly in her fingers. Her nails were red talons and her dark hair cascaded down her back, stopping at her hips. She was dressed in a all black Victorian style dress, which complimented her pale skin, making it look almost ghostly.

She tilted her head at him in acknowledgement, then went back to staring out into the night.

Elijah usually wasn't the one to approach women, he preferred for them to make the first move. But something about this one intrigued him, he was curious about her.

He stepped onto the balcony and approached her slowly. Watching the wisps of smoke rise into the air.

She looked up at him and smiled.

"Elijah Mikaelson, I presume?" Her voice was deep, but still feminine, her eyes darker than his own. She was strikingly beautiful, there was no doubt about that.

"You know who I am?" Elijah raised his eyebrows.

She chuckled, gracefully flicking her cigarette butt away.

"Who doesn't? The infamous Mikaelson's, who rule the streets of New Orleans with blood and fear... I'm a big fan," she said.

He smiled and shook his head, "We do not rule the city, we simply protect it from our enemies."

She hummed, a smirk gracing her ruby red lips.

"You do have a reputation," she replied.

Elijah nodded and stepped forward.

"What is your name, darling?"

She chuckled and leaned against the railing, gazing up at him with a smirk. "Y/n," she said, extending her hand out to him.

He grasped her hand gently, his lips brushing against her knuckles, her eyes sparkled as she watched his lips.

"Hmm, they don't make them like you anymore," she mused, her eyes traveling up and down his body. "You are so very old-fashioned," she added with a sly smile.

"Well I am quite old," he jested, matching her smile.

They stood and stared at each other for a moment before Elijah broke the silence. "What do you think of this performance?" He asked, gesturing towards the theater.

She shrugged, "I've seen worse, I've seen better," she replied.

Elijah found himself smirking at her response, not really knowing why. Maybe because he had found himself feeling the same.

"May I ask what brings you here?" He wondered why she was attending an opera alone.

"I was bored, looking for someone to eat," she stated. Her eyes roaming over his body once more.

Elijah let out a chuckle and ran a hand through his hair. There was only a handful of times in his long life that a woman actually made him nervous, this being one of those times.

She reached forward and placed her hand on his chest, leaning closer towards him, her lips ghosting against his ear, her scent surrounded him, it was intoxicating and Elijah found himself leaning into her.

"I'll see you around Mr. Mikaelson," she whispered and gently pulled away from him, giving him a wink before going back inside. Elijah watched her go, letting out a sigh as he shook his head, not being able to wipe the smile off of his face.

You considered yourself a solitary creature. Even in your human life, you tended to keep people at a distance. You felt misunderstood, even a bit judged by your peers, you didn't really like being around people.

After you were turned, things hadn't really changed that much, you still found it difficult to connect with others, but now you were mostly untethered and unburdened by society's rules.

The freedom of being a vampire was nice, to be able to go and do whatever you pleased, whenever you pleased and live however you saw fit.

You spent most of your years traveling, seeking out new places, experiencing new cultures and meeting people along the way. And with all this knowledge you learned exactly who you are and what you like.

New Orleans was one of your favorite places, full of vibrancy and life. It was an aesthetic heaven for you, a place that celebrated death, promoted the macabre, had strong connections to magic. Not to mention their appreciation for the arts.

For the last few decades, you had taken up residence in an old Victorian home. You compelled the local historical society to allow you to paint the exterior completely black. Planted dark red roses along the windows and hung little chandeliers made of animal bones along the porch.

You had spent quite a bit of time decorating the interior, making it a space that you could feel truly comfortable in. Something that made your home feel like it truly reflected your personality.

The house fit you perfectly; outside looking like something from a B-horror film, but the interior was homely and feminine, decorated with macabre pieces, gothic furniture, tapestries adorned the walls and candles were scattered everywhere.

You never really acclimated to modern society, you were turned in the 1800s and preferred to live according to the time. You liked old things, dark antiques, things that held a certain kind of energy within them.

So when you met Elijah Mikaelson at the opera house, you knew you had to add him to your collection.

You had heard about the Mikaelson family for a long time, whispers of them among the vampires. You had become intrigued, they were the oldest of your kind, the knowledge they possessed fascinated you.

You couldn't help the smirk that had stretched across your lips when you finally came face to face with Elijah, he was exactly how you imagined him. Tall, dark and handsome, dressed to perfection, emanating wealth and power. Finding him at the opera added to your attraction, knowing that his interests matched your own made it all that more charming.

Elijah Mikaelson was the fine wine of men and you wanted to bathe yourself in it. Wanted to drink up every drop of it, savoring the taste of it on your lips.

You sat in your living room, your cat on your lap, purring contently as you ran your fingers through his fur. You were dressed in a large silk robe, your hair tied up in a bun, dark wine colored lipstick on your lips. A mug filled with blood sat on the table beside you.

You were writing out a letter to him, with ink and parchment, your favorite fountain pen adding a certain flourish to your lettering. Your cat jumped off of your lap and you grabbed an envelope to place the letter inside. You folded the parchment and stuck it in the envelope, sealing it with wax and writing Elijah's name onto the paper.

You hoped he would like the gesture, you knew he was an old fashioned man, so sending him a letter with a gift was bound to catch his attention. It had been a long, long time since you felt nervous, and it had been at least a hundred years since you had a crush like this.

You grabbed the parcel with his gift in it and walked over to your front door, slipping on your heels, you headed out of the house and down your side walk, plucking a rose along the way.

The postman was close to leaving, just as you approached his mail van.

"Hello," you greeted, and watched as he turned and jumped, clearly startled by your sudden appearance.

"Jesus lady, I didn't hear you coming," he stammered, looking you up and down, a nervous smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to catch you before you left."

He shook his head and smiled, waving away your concern.

"I have a parcel for you to deliver," you said.

He nodded and held out his hand for the letter.

"What's the address?" He asked, staring down at the envelope, taking note of your fine penmanship.

"The Abattoir, in the French Quarter. For Elijah Mikaelson," you told him, running your fingertips along the thorns of your rose.

The postman nodded his head and placed the letter in his van.

"Have a nice day," he said as he walked away.

You watched him climb into his vehicle and drive away, a smirk playing on your lips, hoping your letter would get the attention you desired.

Elijah was spending the day lazing about, enjoying a rare day of peace and quiet, catching up on his reading. He wasn't expecting any visitors, but a knock sounded at the front door, which was a highly unusual occurrence.

He wandered downstairs, a nervous looking postman was waiting at the gate, looking around the old compound with fascination and hesitation.

"Elijah Mikaelson?" He asked timidly.

"Yes?" Elijah looked at him in bewilderment, it had been a long time since he had received anything in the mail, it wasn't like he had a registered address.

"This is for you," he said, handing him the envelope and a small package, wrapped in crimson coloured paper and tied with a black ribbon.

Elijah thanked him and made his way back into his home, he wondered who could have sent him a letter, the handwriting was immaculate, a skill that wasn't common in today's world.

He realized who it was from instantly when he saw the initials, y/n. A smile graced his lips, feeling like a giddy schoolboy instead of a thousand year old vampire.

He quickly undid the black ribbon and opened the paper, revealing a beautiful piece of art, depicting a flying demon eating a young woman's heart. The detail was incredibly fine, and he realized after a quick sniff, that the red of the painting was not paint. It was blood.

A thought crossed his mind, he wondered if it was a piece of your art, he found your work to be truly frightening, beautiful and enchanting, reminding him of the piece Nighthawks, though darker and macabre.

Opening the letter, he read it carefully,

Dearest Mr. Mikaelson, I hope this letter finds you well, if not please pardon my forwardness. I never understood the flirting etiquette of the modern woman. I find myself longing for the company of a man with your refined tastes, such a delicate palette. I was intrigued from the moment we met, our meeting felt fortuitous. I must confess that I have not felt this way in centuries, being in your presence awakened something within me that I wasn't aware still existed. I find myself completely enamored. Perhaps my feelings are returned? If not, then please accept this gift in hopes of extending our friendship. Though I do wish you share in my hopes of something a little more. I will be home tonight, perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for a drink? Until then I remain Your Admirer, y/n.

Elijah couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he gently folded the parchment and placed it on his desk. He immediately went to check himself in the mirror, fixing his hair, combing it neatly to the side. He found himself anxiously changing his tie, nothing matched what he was wearing, but he wanted everything to be perfect.

He found a pair of ruby cufflinks, feeling that they complimented the letter and would perhaps set the mood.

Grabbing his black wool jacket and adjusting his tie, he made his way outside before stopping and running back inside, he couldn't possibly come empty handed and he knew just the thing to bring you.

You waited nervously inside your house, you had decided to wear a simple black slip dress, your hair flowing over your shoulders in waves, your black winged eyeliner perfectly defining your eyes.

You needed a way to quell your anxiety, so you decided to play a tune on your organ, something to fill the silence, create a soundtrack to go along with the nerves that bounced around inside your mind and heart.

If he didn't show, you would understand. It had been quite a while since you've expressed your affections to anyone. It had been a lifetime since you were courted.

Your fingers idly drifted over the ivory keys, producing a somber yet melodic tune. Your nails were filed into sharp talons, painted a deep crimson, matching the lipstick on your lips.

The melody flowed through the house, the tune reverberating against the walls, seeping through the floorboards. Your cat jumped up and settled in your lap, the soft vibrations from the organ lulling him into a purring trance.

A soft knock broke the melody and you felt your heart stutter. Placing your cat on the seat you walked over to your door. Taking a steadying breath, you grabbed the handle and opened the door.

Men usually didn't have you so utterly flustered, but with Elijah, it seemed like even your centuries old blood could grow warm.

"Good evening, I received your letter and gift, thank you."

He greeted you with a genuine smile, an excited glint in his eyes. You let your eyes wander over him, taking in his appearance, he was dressed to perfection, like always, obviously following along with your old fashioned aesthetic. You liked that you didn't have to ask him, he just got it.

"Please, come in," you stepped to the side to make room for him, you shut the door as he walked inside.

"Quite a lovely home you have here," he said, admiring the interior of the house.

You took his coat and led him into the sitting room, pointing to one of the antique sofas.

"Please, take a seat."

He sat and placed the bottle of wine he had brought on the table.

You took the bottle and marveled at the label, your interest peaked, feeling slightly taken back, it was one of the rarest reds, bottles of this were difficult to come by, most of them now lying at the bottom of the sea.

You knew it was not a simple gesture, this was the kind of thing you save for very special occasions. Knowing that he considered this date that special made your stomach flutter.

"Now how did you manage to get your hands on this?" You asked, placing the bottle beside the two glasses you had set out earlier.

"My brother was the culprit behind a number of shipwrecks, during the golden era of piracy," Elijah responded, a smirk gracing his lips.

You chuckled as you grabbed the corkscrew. "That is no surprise," you replied as you popped the cork out.

You grabbed the glasses and walked over to him, passing him one of the glasses before sitting across from him.

You both raised your glasses and clinked them together, taking a drink, closing your eyes and savoring the taste.

"I heard you playing as I approached the house, you have a lovely talent," Elijah said.

You smiled and nodded your head, looking down at your wine.

"That was very sweet of you to say," you looked up at him through your lashes, admiring his handsome features.

You took another sip and watched him over the rim of your glass, his eyes watching you as well.

"What were you playing? Totentanz?" He asked.

"Indeed, it’s one of my favorites," you said, tilting your glass in his direction, "and it felt appropriate," you jested.

A beautiful smile stretched across Elijah's face as he let out a chuckle. His smile made your lips curl up, mirroring his expression.

"So tell me," he began, "What made you decide to come to New Orleans?"

You shrugged and crossed your legs, the sliver of skin left exposed as the fabric cascaded over your thighs, capturing his attention.

"I love it here, the culture, the art, blood tastes sweeter here," you said, letting a sly smile grace your face. "I like the way this city weaves death and beauty," you paused and took a sip, "it just feels like home to me."

Elijah nodded his head in understanding, he appreciated what you had said. "Yes, there is a certain allure about this city,"

"Your family helped build it back in the 1800s, no?" You asked, running your finger along the lip of your glass.

He nodded, "yes we did, from swamps and brothels to one of the wealthiest cities."

You chuckled and shook your head, "yet the swamps and brothels remain," you mused.

"But not nearly as much," he joked.

You both sat and talked for hours, getting to know each other, laughing and drinking. Elijah was surprised to find that you didn't mind listening to him talk about his travels and life, in fact you hung onto his every word. To him, you were utterly enchanting, the way your eyes lit up as you talked, your laugh, the way you looked at him.

At one point he got up and sat closer to you, his hand gently grazing your thigh, leaning in close as you spoke, his eyes locked on yours. Your lips parted and you felt his breath ghosting across your mouth, his eyes flicking down to your lips. He was such a gentleman, waiting for you to initiate the kiss, but you wanted to do one last thing before you tasted his lips.

"I made something for us, if you would like to try it," you whispered.

He leaned back and tilted his head, his eyes curious.

You smirked and placed your wine glass down, slowly standing up.

"Follow me," you told him.

Elijah trailed after you into your dining room, a large wooden table in the center of the room, filled with silver platters and a centerpiece of black and white roses.

You had made a decadent chocolate cake using human blood, the dark rich blood mixing with the cocoa, making a sinfully dark and delicious dessert.

You pulled out a chair for him and motioned for him to sit.

"This looks delicious, did you make this?" Elijah asked.

You nodded and cut a slice for him, placing it on a plate.

"Yes, I made it from scratch," you said, a small smirk playing on your lips. "Gathered all the ingredients from local suppliers."

Elijah hummed, taking his first bite, his eyes widened and he let out a soft groan.

"This is divine," he exclaimed, the veins around his eyes darkening.

You sat and watched him eat the entire slice, his eyes were blown out, the bloodlust apparent in his expression. You bit your lip, trying to hold in your excitement.

You pushed your plate towards him, a wicked grin on your lips. "Would you like another slice?"

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, the bloodlust making him look feral, his eyes completely black.

"I would prefer to taste something else," he said.

Your lips curled into a smile as he stood, pushing his chair back and pulling you out of yours.

His arms snaked around your waist, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, pulling you flush against him. You ran your hand up his chest and wrapped it around his neck, your lips meeting his.

He tasted like red wine, chocolate and just a hint of blood, his mouth soft and pliant, his tongue brushing against your lips. You nipped at his bottom lip and he growled, pushing his hips against yours, walking you backwards, pinning you against the wall.

"Where did you come from?" He marveled, his hands grabbing your ass.

You laughed and ran your hand through his hair, giving it a light tug.

"Does it matter?" You whispered, pressing your lips against his again, kissing him hungrily.

"You've been in my city for so long, yet I only just met you, how very unfortunate," his voice was gruff as he spoke, his hips rolling against yours.

"I guess we will have to make up for lost time," you said, your voice dripping with lust.

Elijah picked you up and flashed up the stairs, his hands cupping your ass, his lips attached to your neck. He walked you into the bedroom, tossing you on the bed.

You laid there, propped up on your elbows, staring up at him, a teasing smirk on your lips, your dark hair fanning out on the pillow.

He looked at you in awe, your red lips were swollen from his kiss and the hem of your slip had risen up your thighs. He climbed onto the bed and crawled towards you, hovering over your body, his mouth finding yours again, his hands running up to the hem of your stockings, his fingers teasing the skin under the material.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and flipped him, straddling his hips. Your hands ran over his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt, revealing his toned chest.

His hands roamed over your body, slipping the straps of your slip off your shoulders, revealing your black corset, his hands trailing over the boning, the lace covering your breasts, the garters that held up your stockings, and the panties that were already ruined.

"I miss when women would dress this way," he sighed, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, a look of hunger in his eyes.

You chuckled, bending down to nip at his bottom lip, your lips moving along his jaw.

"Happy to keep the tradition alive," you whispered, nuzzling your nose against his neck, your fangs running along the artery, feeling his pulse against the tip of your fangs.

Elijah flipped you over and pressed his body against yours, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing the sides, his thumb tilting your head back. His other hand found the ties inn the front of your corset, slowly undoing the knots, the ribbon sliding through the eyelets, the corset loosening with each pull.

You watched his eyes flicker over your breasts, his fangs extending, his breathing heavy. He looked up and met your gaze, his face shifting, his veins spreading underneath his eyes.

He bent down, his fangs sinking into your chest, your blood filling his mouth, dripping down his chin. Your eyes rolled back as he fed from you, his hand squeezing your breast, his fingers pinching and twisting your nipple.

The pain of his fangs and the pleasure of his hands were overwhelming, you felt drunk, you felt euphoric.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back, your mouth colliding with his, tasting yourself on his lips. He groaned into your mouth and rolled his hips against yours, his bulge pressing against your core.

You both frantically began to undress, his pants and belt tossed aside, your dress and corset ripped off, thrown onto the floor. You laid back, wearing nothing but your stockings and panties, his boxer briefs the only piece of clothing left on his body.

He grabbed your hips and pulled you back underneath him, his lips finding yours, his hand running up your leg, hooking his finger into the thin strap of your panties, tearing them off.

"That was entirely ungentlemanly," you said, a teasing glint in your eye.

Elijah smirked, kissing his way down your stomach, stopping at your pelvis, his fangs lightly scraping the skin above your pussy.

"You don't seem to mind," he mused, his hand pushing your thighs open, his lips wrapping around your clit, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your hips bucked and your hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging it, urging him on. You appreciated his enthusiasm as he indulged in pleasuring you.

His tongue felt deliciously warm against your skin, your eyes shut, your breath ragged. It had been so long since you had a man between your legs, and Elijah was no ordinary lover, his skill level matched his age.

You moaned and writhed beneath him, his thumb pressed against your clit, your wetness covering his chin.

"Fucking hell," you panted, your body starting to tense.

Your hands gripped the bedsheets, your body a ball of pent up tension, with one final stroke of his tongue, your orgasm broke through the last sliver of control.

You shook and gasped as your climax took over, your whole body erupting in pleasure. Elijah lifted his head, watching you, his lips curling into a sly smile.

"That's a sight," he praised, sitting up and wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

You slowly opened your eyes, a blissful smile plastered on your face.

"Indeed it is," you replied, your breathing uneven.

"But you should watch your language, I thought you were a lady," he teased, his eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

You narrowed your eyes and smirked, leaning forward, grabbing his shoulders and rolling him onto his back. Your bodies were slotted together, your faces close to each other.

"When have I ever claimed to be a lady?" You asked, kissing along his jawline, nipping the soft skin at the end of his neck.

Your hands trailed down his body, running over his chest, letting your nails run down his torso, breaking the skin, long bloody tracks appearing.

You kissed your way down his chest, licking the blood up, your fangs scraping against his abdomen. You looked up and caught his hungry gaze, his body tensing under you, his erection straining against the fabric of his boxers.

Smirking, you kissed the fabric that separated you from his cock, your hands reaching up and tugging at the waistband, pulling them down slowly.

Your lips wrapped around the tip of his cock, licking the pre-cum. His eyes fluttered shut and he hissed in pleasure, his hands tangling in your hair.

"Mr. Mikaelson," you said as you slowly descended on his cock. "I may look like a lady," you popped off him and kissed the head. "but I fuck like a dirty, filthy whore."

Elijah groaned at your words, the hands in your hair tightening, gripping your strands, guiding you back down, taking in more of him.

You bobbed your head along his shaft, sucking and lapping at the vein along the underside, one of your hands pumping the part you couldn't fit in your mouth, the other gently cupping his balls, squeezing and massaging them.

Elijah slowly began to rock his hips, matching your rhythm, his breathing heavy and rapid, his voice hoarse as he murmured your name.

Pulling his cock out of your mouth, you looked up at him, tilting your head, "yes?" You smirked, blowing air onto the tip.

Elijah pulled you up and kissed you, flipping you over and once again pinning you underneath him. He pulled your thigh up to hook around his waist, gripping your ass, letting his cock rub along your slit. He pulled on the hem of your stocking, letting it snap back against your skin.

"Gorgeous, intoxicating thing," he cooed, slowly sinking into you.

You threw your head back and let out a moan, your leg hiked up to allow him deeper access. He placed one hand under your thigh, holding your leg in place, while the other found your neck, his thumb grazing your windpipe, applying the perfect amount of pressure. The hand under your leg holding you firmly. You knew that a part of him wanted to give into the bloodlust, the animalistic side of him that was desperate to sink his fangs into your neck. His gentleness mixed with his aggressiveness drove you wild.

You felt every inch of his cock as he slowly rolled his hips, pulling out of you almost fully before entering you again. He leaned down and kissed you deeply, his tongue dancing along yours. It was intense and overwhelming, the way he had all your senses tied up in his touch, his mouth, his taste, the sound of his breathing, his movements.

You struggled to hold it together, your pleasure building with each stroke, and he knew, he loved seeing you come undone.

He began to pick up his pace, his hips snapping against yours. It was like the perfect dance, his hips moving so smoothly and perfectly in time with yours, both of you chasing the inevitable crash.

Your eyes met, and everything else seemed to fall away as you lost yourself in his gaze, everything slowing down. He kissed you softly, tenderly, making you melt in his hands.

You brought one hand down to rest on his cheek, holding his face against yours, kissing him back just as tenderly. You ran your index finger along his jaw line, your sharp nail drawing blood, dipping your finger between your lips. He tasted so much better than you imagined, like pure power and divine lust.

Elijah groaned at the sight of your blood stained lips and he sped up, his lips on your neck, his fangs running over your skin.

You tugged on his hair, urging him to bite you, to drink his fill, you wanted nothing more than to give yourself over completely.

His fangs sank into your neck, your blood spilling into his mouth, some of it dripping onto your chest, his teeth slicing into your skin.

The sensation pushed you over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you, your hands grabbing at his shoulders, a strangled cry of his name leaving your lips.

He didn't stop, just as he was reaching his peak, he sank his teeth in deeper. He growled, his hips losing their rhythm as his climax hit him. You were both a gasping, moaning mess, clinging to one another, your fingers digging into each other's skin.

The two of you collapsed in a sweaty heap, tangled in the sheets, your skin glistening, breathing heavy.

You felt light headed and euphoric. His gaze was piercing and loving, his fingers brushing across your neck, softly wiping the blood off. His mouth gently caressed yours, his hands cupping your face.

He brushed your hair behind your ears, pulling you into his embrace, his fingers tracing your skin. It was hard to believe that you had only known him for a night, it felt like a lifetime.

A long overdue release of tension and you were happy to be the object of his affections. He was by far the most interesting man you had ever met.

You melted into him, his hands wrapping around you, holding you close. Everything felt perfect, the dim lights, the sound of rain in the background, the weight of him beside you.

The slow creak of your bedroom door opening, cut through the stillness of the night. The soft mew of your cat greeted the both of you, followed by the sound of him jumping onto your bed. The comforting feeling of his paws walking along the sheets as he came to investigate the disturbance in his home.

He walked along Elijah's body, bumping his head against Elijah's outstretched hand, purring happily.

"And who might you be?" Elijah asked.

"Erebus," you responded, stroking Erebus' fur. "It means darkness."

Elijah nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk.

"An appropriate name," he mused, watching the black cat turn around on his chest, finding a comfortable spot to settle.

Erebus yawned and curled into a ball, closing his eyes.

You smiled and snuggled in closer to Elijah, your head resting on his shoulder.

"I guess Erebus wants me to stay," He chuckled.

You laughed and reached over him, scratching the cat behind the ears.

"It does seem that way," you teased. "And I have no intention of kicking you out."

Elijah smiled, kissing the top of your head.

"Good," he said. "Because I intend on staying right here."

You looked up at him and smiled, your heart skipping a beat. You had never met anyone who could make you feel so special and desirable.

Elijah's face was gentle, his eyes crinkled, his mouth curled into a smile. He kissed you again, a sweet, chaste kiss, and then he turned his attention back to Erebus, who was now fast asleep on his chest.

"Did you know that Erebus fathered Eros, the god of love and desire?" He asked.

"I did," you chucked, watching your little cats chest rise and fall.

"There is a play house not far from here, they are putting on a performance about it, the play is called Sweet Eros. Would you like to go see it? It's quite twisted, it seems like something you would enjoy."

You nodded and kissed him, a grin on your face.

"Mr. Mikaelson, I think this is the start of something beautiful," you teased, your fingers tracing his collarbone.

"Oh my darling," he said, his lips brushing against yours. "It already is."

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

♡ @gorgeouslydangerous ♡ @starkleila ♡ @lydia1369sworld ♡ @notleylaaa ♡ @vampiresluv ♡ @myanmy ♡ @xflowerbombxo ♡ @maryvibess ♡ @always-and-forever-daydreaming ♡ @criminallminds ♡ @theesexystallion ♡ @rosemarypotion ♡ @spnaquakindgdom ♡ @amournoir ♡ @loving-and-dreaming ♡

♡ @meeom ♡ @damienmorton ♡ @wickedmuse ♡ @sunkissedebony97 ♡ @idk00sblog ♡ @savannaounana♡ @cs-please ♡ complicatedandconfusing-25 ♡ @hamiltimes ♡ @akala6670229 ♡ @yeaiamme2 ♡ @itsjulzandmydiamonds ♡ @spideysbabe ♡ @witch-of-letters ♡ @elijahmikaelsonsboy ♡ @rosecentury ♡ @sekaishell ♡ @ziayamikaelson ♡ @amanda08319 ♡ @starshipcookie

[kandy-sticks-zaza-blogs]

Sir Pentious Redesign (Again,Again and Again)

His real name is Percy Pentious

He/Him Cisgender man Closeted Pansexual

Voice claim Preminger.

Sins:Wrath,Envy and Sloth.

He braided his hood hair so his long hair wouldn’t be stuck on the wheel.

Since he’s a King Cobra Naga he would be South Asian and from India.

Make him poison green and blue red and yellow bothers me.

I made him more snake like and he’s a naga.

He’s a ladies man ofc.

He looks average but got a strong physic on his arms instead of skinny.

He’s a wheelchair user because I need to see disability representation also his arms are very strong since he moved the wheelchair with his arms also added his cane is on his wheelchair.

(Help the chat said he’s handsome on discord because I did make him look like that lol XD)

He’s a Victorian inventor who is the minor antagonist for the whole cast instead of being the resident of the Happy Inn.

Ever since he was a child his home got taken over from colonisation from the British army as he moved to England to his new home as he got a new playmate that is the duke young daughter,he began to fall for her but doesn’t understand English since he’s a immigrant.

When he got home schooled by his own by sneaking into the library and taught himself English as the music box broke Sir Pentious or Percy fix it as he became obsessed with fixing and inventing new machines.

He began studying more doesn’t care what anyone says he can’t do as he became a genius at college and university.

He invented every machine he have made from cogs and metals as he is ready for showing his new invention to the whole England.

He show everyone his giant blimp as he ride his blimp the next week it exploded causing it to fall into the farmland as his legs got broken by heavy objects.

He tried to over come his trauma after the incident but couldn’t since he’s been stressed everyday.

When he lost his ability to walk he stopped building his invention as his housemaid Mary helped him get over his depression as she’s always getting overprotective of him when he stands up on his own with a walking cane and going downstairs on his own.

The Poison green killed slowly when he’s wearing it from his colleagues as he felt weaker every hours.

He got shot being death threats by his rival and ex colleagues so his death will be very slow to him due to the green poison on his skin.

Pattern suggestions from @dnpanimationstudioclone and the pose sketch concept @hotter-than-hell-rewrite

[cutiepieloves131]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝔂 𝓞𝓯 𝓓𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓪

Aaliyah 🌟 Dhanistha Ascendant

The most famous and charismatic stars of the bunch, Dhanistha represents the bombshell beauty and not to mention classical beauty. Their face shape tend to be rectangular or triangular, with a broad and defined jaw. They're the type of beauties that inspires the entire world, you could say that with the power of stardom and fame they naturally have many in awe wanting to photograph, be noticed, and associated with them, it's really amazing when after their death they'll always be remembered and be the main topic of multiple conversations around the world.

Gigi Hadid 🌟 Dhanistha Moon

The lips are medium to full that's long, downturned giving off a pouty, moody, and tempting look. Dhanistha is not just popular but extremely entertaining, it's not them that's popularized but their beauty is as well, all they have to do is walk into a room or building and they'll have onlookers jaws dropping and captivated by their stunning visuals.

Chung-ha 🌟 Dhanistha Sun

Their eyebrows are full, bushy, rounded, and high-set making them look a little intimidating in a kind of sense because of Mars influence. The Saturn influence however gives their faces structure and defined cheekbones, with Mars and Saturn combined with this nakshatra Dhanistha receives facial features just like victorian secret models it's also no wonder why a lot of models have Dhanistha prominence in their charts.

Jayne Mansfield 🌟 Dhanistha Moon

Dhanistha women possess voluptuous and shiny hair like the yoni animals which is the famle lion, female celebrities that's involved in the iconic hair flipping scenes of movies and shows are Dhanisthas. Men and women of this nakshatra remain relevant in the eyes of viewers with their charming and abundant energy they know how to put on a show immediately grabbing the attention from dozens of people. Similar to Rohini everyone loves and adores them so much that it can turn into obsession living rent free in the minds of a large number of the masses.

Rosé 🌟 Dhanistha Sun

I also noticed Dhanisthas noses are narrow and upturned, it's usually sloped down. Their eyes are small to medium in size tending to be hooded sometimes but I also see a light gleam in them, Dhanistha women gazes are incredibly fierce and dominating leaving individuals to be astonished and fully beguiled by the power these stars hold in the eyes, it's a whole lot similar to a predator watching their prey every move.

Sophia Loren 🌟 Dhanistha Moon

The smiles are beautiful and gummy (Like trine Mrigashira and Chitra) with amazing whitened teeth, their chins are flat appearing to shortened the lower part of the face. Dhanisthas holds significant star power and grace, they know how keep those in power or higher positions entertained by their natural enthusiasm and skills, Dhanistha men and women are found in the music industry and kpop industry, many is starstucked by their presence, aura, and beauty. They're truly born to be famous and in the spotlight.

[cycat-carisi]

Take From Me My Lace

Pairing: Hetty x Trevor

Summary: Trevor learns about Hetty's most well-kept secret. (Takes place sometime before "Holes Are Bad".)

Tags/warnings: Spoilers for CBS Ghosts 3x08 "Holes Are Bad", some pg content, (implied) suicide.

Words: 1026

A/N: Heyyo! I'm new around here *waves frantically* I've been watching the show casually for 2 seasons. A rerun of the episode where Pete meets his grandkid SOLD me hard, and then the whole Tretty/H-Money affair started up, and I was a total goner, lol.

After watching "Holes Are Bad" I'm on the side that's convinced that Trevor knew. The look on his face, I think, is more sympathetic as if he's sad on her behalf that she had to reveal her secret, and not even on her own time. And when the other ghosts talk to Trevor afterwards, it feels like he's covering up what he knew.

So yeah, long story short, all of that inspired this little fic thing. I have not read any other fics in this fandom yet, but needed to get this out in the world to help kick off my full-blown obsession 😁🫶🏼

AO3: link (or below the cut!)

The pulse point just beneath her jawline.

He would never admit it out loud, but that was Trevor's favourite place to kiss Hetty. He loved that spot because his tender touch would send her eyes fluttering shut amidst hushed moans.

At first Hetty was apprehensive when Trevor's lips would trail close to the intricate neckline of her dress. Yet, as their relationship progressed, Hetty allowed Trevor to explore more and more of the places she had never let anyone else reach.

Still, most nights she would redirect Trevor's affections when his lips strayed even a little too far down towards the lacy seam. Trevor initially wrote off the abrupt change simply as Hetty's insatiable passion taking over, until one night he finally learned the truth.

"Mmm, Trevor," Hetty sighs, her voice heavy with sleep. Limbs tangled with hers, Trevor continues his ministrations, enjoying the feel of her soft murmurs echoing under his lips. "Ready for round two, are we?" quips the Victorian woman as she rouses from her slumber.

"Just lemme make you feel good instead," Trevor insists as he finds the spot beneath Hetty's ear that makes her keen.

She instantly gives in when his hand trails up the front of her corset, arriving to cradle her face. His thumb rubs delicately along the apple of her cheek while Trevor leans overtop his lover to place a languid kiss to her plush lips.

Hetty arches into the kiss, groaning when Trevor begins to trail his lips down to her pulse point. One of her hands grips his shoulder while the other seeks purchase in his styled hair. "Don't stop," she whispers when Trevor suckles lightly on the tender flesh beneath her jawline. And who is he to say no?

Trevor moves his lips inch by tantalizing inch along her neck, pausing to nip and lave his tongue over her ivory skin. He works further down towards the delicate lacework, and this time, without realization, Hetty tilts her head back to grant her lover greater access.

With her fiery red tresses pressed into the pillow, Trevor takes advantage, soothing her features with his thumb and slowly navigating his fingertips underneath the lace.

He feels it at the same time that she does.

Hetty's bright eyes fly open. She recoils, panic surging through her as she scoots herself up towards the headboard.

Trevor pulls back, startled; concern is written all over his face. "Hetty," he speaks gently. "What was that?"

The Victorian woman's vision turns glassy. She has kept her secret for so long, and now she has slipped up. She could lie. She could run. She could get angry at her pantless, horny lover. But she knows that none of those options would be fair. She is just as responsible for their affair as he is, and she concedes that this moment was ultimately inevitable.

Hetty swallows hard; fear and something akin to defeat are etched deep into her features.

Trevor leans in cautiously, his hand coming to rest reassuringly upon her clothed thigh. He sits patiently, waiting for her to be ready to speak.

"Ohh hoo," she exhales shakily, shifting to sit up further. His dark eyes never leave hers as she does. Except instead of speaking, Hetty simply reaches upwards, and her nimble fingers work to roll down the lacy fabric.

Trevor's brows pinch, and his heart sinks when the bruises and golden cord come into view.

Hetty scrunches her eyes closed, bracing herself for judgement–for Trevor to draw back in disgust. Instead, a soft voice engulfs her. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry."

What Hetty sees when she opens her eyes is a handsome face laden with tenderness. There is no aversion, only warmth. And so, Hetty Woodstone, for the first time in the 120 years since her death, confesses the truth surrounding that fateful day.

Trevor listens attentively as the headstrong woman he is familiar with suddenly becomes so vulnerable, revealing her shame and deepest regrets. And as he takes in her words, Trevor feels privileged that Hetty–his Hetty–trusts him enough to bear her soul to him in this way.

Trevor allows her to speak until she has said all that she needs to. And somehow, Hetty finds her hands in his–an anchor to keep her from drifting away.

"Thank you, Trevor," she concludes, voice low and crestfallen. "Thank you for listening."

"You don't have to thank me, Hetty," Trevor soothes. "I just wish you had told me sooner so I could’ve been here for you."

Hetty gazes deeply into Trevor's eyes. Details leading up to his own death had been a secretive topic for the man who hides his compassion beneath a frat-boy persona. Hetty came to understand that part of him, and now Trevor is privy to a similar part of her. "You are here now, and that is more than I could ask for," she replies with a small smile.

Trevor nods, bringing the back of her hand up to his lips.

"Just… please don't let on you know." Hetty whispers, her eyes brimming with the desperation of her plea.

Trevor gives her hands a gentle squeeze. "Your secret is safe with me."

The pair's gazes fix as they drink one another in. The moment is raw, unveiling, and somehow deeply intimate.

Hetty's eyes fall to Trevor's lips. She begins to tilt her body toward his when Trevor decides to break the silence. He wants to hold her, wants to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and to kiss away the pain she has locked deep inside herself. Instead, he murmurs, "Does it still hurt?"

Hetty feels Trevor’s breath tickle her lips. She pauses for a moment before answering solemnly. "A dull ache that never truly leaves."

Hetty nods, and Trevor slowly closes the distance between them. His nose grazes against her jawline before warm lips softly meet the bruises encircling her neck. Trevor's movements are gentle; there is no lust, only affection, and something that borders on the line of love.

Trevor draws nearer. "May I?" He asks, eyelashes flickering as he drags his gaze between her collar and the ocean swirls of her irises.

Feedback is loved 🥰

[peachy-wolfhard]

The Lair Games

a/n: raaa i love the lair games best mfing episode so whimsical and fun raaaaa also im obsessed with lair games cheerleader hc, italics are interviews (i didnt put everyones interview in only the readers)

Let me know if you would like to be on my tmnt taglist!

Warnings: donnie is a drama queen, The Incident, throwing up mentioned

Word count: 702

I love the lair games and Donnie sm

Sigh the lair games, the time when only Leo wins and then spends an entire year gloating

While it is very fun watching everyone compete a part of you feels bad for Donnie because he NEVER even gets close to winning

That is…until this year

Every year you take it upon yourself to be Donnie’s cheerleader because oh man he needs it. As long as you’re there cheering even as he's losing miserably, he's a little less bitter about it

This year was going to be different though you could feel it! History was about to be made

April had told you before that she was going to record the games, and everyone was even more excited

“Sigh, my legacy of losing will be cemented in film history”

It's now the most anticipated day of the year, the day that everyone looks forward to and trains for this year the prize would be…Leo’s room!

The first game of the day was Handstand Hill Bomb and like every year Leo won first place but this year Donnie won second!

“Let’s go Donnie Let’s go!” you cheer as it’s almost time for the next game, Pipe Goop Chicken

“My personal least favorite game if Donnie wins this one he's not kissing me for a month I swear”

“Let’s go Donnie Let’s go!” you cheer once again

“Do you have any more creative cheers?”

“No, get what you get, and don't throw a fit”

And he won! (Kind of a win-lose scenario, beat Leo and rub it in his face and lose smooches)

Win after shocking win Donnie acquired with Leo hot on his tail and you as his loyal cheerleader yelling catchy cheers while shaking purple and black pompoms

That was until…the incident

“y/n can i get a comment about…the incident?”

“Sleep with one eye open Leo. That’s all I will say on the matter”

While Donnie was recovering Leo began his winning streak

“Cough cough…y/n is that you?”

“Donnie you’re not dying stop acting like a sick Victorian child”

“Take me to the surface…one last time…” he says pulling the blanket up to be under his arms

“Shut up,” you say scratching under his chin then sadly going back to the games

“My moment!” he shouts as you walk back to Splinter announcing Leo’s next victory

Just as Splinter announces Leo’s perfect 10 Donnie appears!

“Not so fast, my friend!” Donnie announces masked in smoke (drama queen I love him)

“I’m here brother, lets bowl”

“When Donnie showed up I was stunned! Just a minute before he was pretending he was a sick Victorian child,” you explained to the camera

After all of Donnie’s dramatics, it was time to bowl. He launches himself off and attempts to get his ankle into his shell

Just as he was able to he’s launched into the mannequins knocking all down…

…But one making it a tie and after consulting the rules the next event was left up to a…

Splinter’s choice

“I knew that rat man would come up with something sinister but I didn't think it would be THAT sinister!”

The final event would be the Slippery Whippery Woo?

“If I vom please hold my hair April”

“We can hold each other's hair”

“Hold my nonexistent hair please”

“We will Mikey”

Your cheerleading was quickly forgotten about not knowing if you should root for your boyfriend to catch his slipper rat father or just leave

The match was quickly over with the words “Do you know what rhymes with second place? Leo’s face!”

“I-i- need a shower…I will claim my prize when i'm clean”

As Leo moves out of his room, April closes in for a final interview, and Donnie gloats

“I’m very proud of you Donnie,” you say kissing your hand and touching his forehead

“You’re very lucky i’m touching you right now,” you say, a lovesick smile plastered to both of your faces

Later that night the two of you are unable to sleep

The one thing Leo didn’t mention is that Splinter’s snores are amplified by the vent directly in his room

Needless to say, Leo got his room back very quickly

[flowerandblood]

Sweetly desire, bitterly deprive

Halloween Request Oneshots Series

[ Victorian Horror • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, partial rape, choking, violence, murder and suicide, obsession ]

[ description: Lost in his own emptiness and cold, Aemond lives with his family in their large estates, wandering their halls like a ghost, lost in his own madness. One day, his mother's friend arrived at their manor with her husband and daughter. He becomes obsessed with her, which leads to a series of unfortunate events. Obsessive, delving into madness, poetic, very dark! Aemond. ]

This oneshot is my idea and a reference to the wonderful work of Edgar Allan Poe, his Eleanor and Morella and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these fisc will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

_____

It seemed to him that something in him had disappeared, collapsed when he lost his left eye − he had partly ceased to be human and had become some kind of caricatured creature, menacing, tall as a tower, pale and cold as marble.

He had never lacked anything − his family was wealthy, owning many mansions all over the country, all identically decorated, sumptuously adorned with portraits of their ancestors looking at him melancholy and proudly out of the canvas, continually judging him.

He had the impression that at night their faces changed − his great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers seemed suddenly to be some kind of phantoms, their faces contorted, displeased at the sight of him, his existence.

He still felt watched, he felt overwhelmed, he felt that something hovered over him, but he could not name this premonition, this certainty.

He had tried to explain it to his mother once, but she had looked at him with such concerned, frightened eyes that he decided he would never mention it again.

He knew that his family considered him insane − a man out of his mind, irrational, aggressive in his words, with a gaze that cut like a sharp blade, making interlocutors turn their faces away from him, unable to bear it.

He saw her for the first time when she arrived at their residence with her parents, Mr and Mrs Orwell, at the invitation of his mother, who had been friends with Mrs Orwell as a child. He watched closely her small, graceful figure standing in the corridor behind her parents, her gaze lowered downwards, thoughtful.

She shuddered as if she subconsciously sensed that she was being watched and glanced in his direction − her pupils dilated suddenly, as if from a dream world she had returned to earth with the cruel pull of some unknown force, as if his figure, his silhouette had crushed her.

They stared at each other for too long to be considered in accordance with good manners − only when her parents walked into the living room where he sat did he rise from his chair, reminding himself of such a basic thing as breathing, and straightened up, folding his arms behind him, allowing himself to introduce the people who would be guests in their home from now on.

He knew that Miss Orwell could feel his burning gaze on her, fleeing from him to the far end of the room, looking at the books stacked on the shelves of the old oak bookcase.

He watched from behind her beautiful neck, her hair pinned up in a bun and braids framing her head on either side − her gown was sewn from a delicate, light-coloured fabric, its cut was simple, perfectly emphasising her figure, her almost bare shoulders.

Her neck and her shoulders drove him mad.

The perfect curve of the transition of one part of her body into the other, her shiny, soft skin, the softness of the shape that was forming.

Then he lifted his gaze higher and discovered her slightly rounded, short, proportionate nose, forming a perfect angle with her straight, smooth forehead, the totality of this view framed by her eyes like precious stones, bright, shining, surrounded by long lashes like veils, emphasising its depths, giving her an aura of mystery.

Finally, he struggled to dare to shift his attention to the most intimate exposed part of her body, her fleshy, full, pink lips, both pressed against each other, still remaining virtually imperceptibly parted, the point of their contact seeming incredibly soft and moist.

He saw her throw him an uncertain, frightened look and clench her hands in front of her, not knowing how to act, how to dissuade him − she only relaxed when his sister, Helaena, walked into their living room.

They greeted each other as if they were old friends − even though they were seeing each other for the first time, they grasped each other's hands and from then on they were inseparable.

He often watched them through the window, seeing their silhouettes move unhurriedly ahead of them through their vast park, discussing with each other something in a cheerful voice and laughing, their pearly sounds reaching his ears muffled by the glass.

In his presence, her smile disappeared from her face, her laughter died in her throat and a faint dread coated her, her pupils dilated suddenly, her lips pressed together in fear.

His tall figure standing over her frightened her, his hands folded stiffly behind his back seemed frozen like a stone − unable to make a sound near him, she lowered her gaze quickly, terrified.

One day, however, she dared to take a step towards him − a step towards the unknown, as, realising that he spent every evening by candlelight sitting in their library reading books, she joined him.

He watched her every move vigilantly, not taking his eye off her − her delicate figure strolled around the room in a light, slow motions, her hands folded in front of her in a humble gesture.

He could not express how melancholic and heavenly she looked walking like that in the faint light of the candles, her person seemed as if enveloped in a mist, a glow.

He felt himself to be merely an observer of events, a point to which all her presence referred, being a counterbalance to her subtlety, spread out around her like the blackness of the night that surrounded them.

She looked at him at last, for the first time as if she really wanted to see him, what was inside him, what was inside his heart, inside his mind − he looked at her with empty eye, knowing that there was only nothingness there, an abyss, a coldness without end or measure.

He was surprised at her courage, at how confidently she walked towards him, standing by his side, looking over his shoulder, wanting to see what he was reading.

He did not turn his head behind her − he only watched the shadow of her silhouette out of the corner of his eye − he could feel beside himself the warmth emanating from her body, her scent, the rustling of her gown made him feel a tickle in his fingers.

"Machiavelli. What a brutal choice." She whispered, but there was no disapproval or judgement in her word, more a soft surprise − there was something in the way she said the last sentence, in the way the tip of her tongue clicked as she uttered the syllables, that made him lick his lower lip involuntarily, turning the page.

"Brutal?" He asked lowly, hearing the timbre of his own voice, glassy, cutting like a blade, clear, assured, cool.

He heard her swallow quietly and draw in the air, her body standing beside him somehow enveloping him in her existence, pleasantly teasing all his senses.

"Cesare Borgia was his ideal of a ruler. That says enough about him." She said lowly − he heard her avert her gaze thoughtfully, looking at some point in the distance.

Involuntarily, the tip of his tongue ran over his lower lip, moistening it − he grinned at her words, shifting in his seat.

"They are both no longer among us and have no way to defend themselves from your cruel judgement." He murmured softly, lifting his eyes to her at last.

Their gazes crossed, her eyes at once full of uncertainty and curiosity − he had the feeling that her figure was quivering and trembling, too filled with life, the desire to breathe, to move, to feel.

They looked at each other and he knew that they had both experienced this when he first saw her, when they were unable to stop, when they both realised that something was happening between them that they could not tell anyone about.

He didn't know how it happened, what moved his loins to stand up, towering over her to grab her with ease and seat her on the table. He decided that it was just purest curiosity, as his fingertips ran over her shoulder, over that gorgeous arm, and traveled up the hill of the length of her neck, his hand tightened around it, again, merely in curiosity, and he found to his surprise that it fit there perfectly.

He looked at her face, into her eyes glittering like the most expensive precious stones darkened by the veil of her lashes, looking at him hazy, hesitant, at once fearful and devoted, wanting and demanding. When he took a step towards her her thighs spread in front of him like a book, as if it were the most natural of reflexes that didn't even surprise him.

Without letting go of her gorgeous neck he began to travel and explore the mysterious nooks and crannies of her body occupying his mind, the finger of his free hand lifting tentatively the material of her gown and her petticoat, running over her ankle covered from him by the soft material.

He ran his hand upwards, higher and higher, as if running his finger over to the surface of the water, until he reached the soft, surprisingly hot skin of her naked thigh and they both parted their lips, looking at each other wordlessly, breathing deeply.

His fingers ran over her flesh as if it were the keys of a piano, pressing her skin, and made their way to what was between her thighs, to what he could feel the pulsing heat from, the source of her trembling, of her sleepless nights.

She let out a shuddering, sweet sigh as he touched her there and found her sticky moisture, with circular motions collecting it on his fingers, both of them looking at each other as if surprised by this discovery, this disturbing, intimate act.

With each movement of his fingers, with each circle across her warmth, her thighs spread wider and wider in front of him, her body finding support on her palms placed on the table top, her breasts hidden under her gown rising and falling, her hips beginning to meet his movements.

He had the feeling that they were both in a trance, that they didn't understand what they were doing and didn't want to understand it − they weren't thinking about it or judging it, they were simply discovering a new experience, testing the taste of the sweet, unspoken secret that hid deep between her thighs, the loud, shameless click of her wetness accompanying every flick of his hand.

He licked his lips when at last the tip of his finger met the tight slit between her folds which throbbed with heat, wet and pulsing. Encouraged by this intriguing discovery, he slid his finger there, wanting to see what she felt like inside − he found with interest that her core was rough and fleshy, throbbing and slick, clenching steadily on his skin, her head arched back with a cry of exertion.

He slid his finger deeper, feeling it stretch her entire structure, pushing deep into her flesh, and a quiet, ungodly mewl erupted from her lips, her eyes clenched, her mouth parted in something akin to elation, delight.

He felt his body react, a pleasant heat and pulsation in his erection, the same as he felt inside her − he thought they were like two parts of the same thing, like two sides of the same story, beginning and end, day and night, sun and moon.

Just as everything had its companion, just as the world had for centuries misunderstood the nature of loneliness, telling people to discover the joys of living with someone, man and woman were destined to explore themselves with amazement.

He slipped his finger out of her and, with a light, unhurried movement, untied the fabric of his breeches, lowering them slightly so that she could not see what was beneath them, hiding that sickeningly physical, animalistic sight beneath her gown.

She knew what was about to happen, and though she didn't understand it, she felt subconsciously that from the moment they looked at each other they were destined to connect, to take something and give something to each other.

She trembled all over as he directed the tip of his length with his palm against her burning, hot entrance, her body instantly refusing this sudden, unholy act of divine violation.

"− don't −" He hissed coolly, and she froze, looking at him tearfully, letting him force the pink head of his erection, dripping with his moisture, inside her.

With surprising patience and devotion she endured the discomfort of fitting him inside her, a weary, helpless sob came from her lips − he opened her slowly on his manhood, bit by bit, stretching her tight muscles, sinking into the warmth of her flesh.

He realised suddenly that he was inside her, that he was her and she was him.

That they were a whole, that he would never be complete again without her.

His hand tightened around her neck and did not let her escape, slamming into her with a quiet grunt of sickening pleasure, sliding into her so deeply that she throbbed, seeking fulfillment in it, any kind of relief.

He gave in to his animal instinct, the feeling that he craved to rub against her, craved for her to squeeze him, craved to move inside her − the thrusts of his hips were violent, intense, deep, sure, as if taking her, filling her with himself again and again, physical stretching of her body with his flesh was written into his nature.

Their bodies pounded against each other with wet, loud clicks of her moisture as if they were fighting, as if he was about to pierce her with himself − her head was tilted back, her expression showing simultaneous delight and horror at this unexpectedly pleasurable act.

She was panting along with him, giving herself over completely to his brutal thrusts, needed to be filled, to be satisfied.

"− you won't escape from me − you know that, don't you? − I'm going to fill you −" He growled between one quick, hard slap of his hips and the next, and she only mewled a desperate plea, refusing and at the same time asking him to do it, writhing beneath him, her face all flushed with pleasure.

"− no − please − God, forgive me −" She cried out with difficulty, tears of effort, pain and delight running down her cheeks, her body leaning back, surrendering at last.

He felt her insides suddenly clench violently against him and begin to convulse, a moan of sweet suffering came from her lips, her body shook with a wave of something he was yet to understand.

This sight made him speed up instead of slowing down, feeling that something was about to happen, that he was already so close.

"− yes − don't resist me − fuck! −" He cursed for the first time in his life, feeling that his whole body was in a hot frenzy, his hips moving deep inside her throughout her fulfilment, her hands trying fruitlessly to push him away with her loud, broken moans, unable to take any more, overstimulated and sensitive.

He made a low, throaty, animalistic sound as a wave of pleasure shook him − he felt his own fluid spilling over her insides, filling her like wine fills a chalice, and he thought it made him feel the most natural reflex in his life, the filling and that she felt exactly the same way about the sensation of being filled, as if it was her primal, most important need.

Not to be empty.

They stared at each other, breathing loudly, feeling the fog around them begin to blur and disappear, their vision began to sharpen, their cool judgement returned to their minds, and with horror they realised at last what they had done.

They pulled away from each other in pain, both feeling that the fact that they were no longer one was unnatural, ungodly, against some fundamental law.

They were incomplete again.

They were imperfect again.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she corrected her gown in despair − she stepped down from the table and ran out of the room with a loud, broken sob, terrified of their act, of what consequences it might bring.

He tied his breeches back, sitting down in his chair with difficulty and listened to the intense pounding of his heart, staring blankly ahead, trying to calm his breathing, feeling more empty than ever.

Over the next few days she avoided him again, her face even paler than when he first saw her − he had the feeling that she was in a progressive agony, that she was dying before his eyes.

Wanting to put an end to their torment, one morning he moved after her, seeing that she had gone for a walk through their park, and asked for her hand.

Only then did she confess to him, crying with unspeakable pain, that her fiancé had been waiting for her for weeks.

He felt like he had fallen into a state of complete emptiness and wasn't sure he understood her words.

He even thought they were amusing as he sat in the living room, taking a sip of wine from his glass, chuckling under his breath, much to the consternation of those gathered.

It wasn't until several hours later that people began to be concerned about her disappearance.

He took no part in the search.

As he walked down the corridor of his mansion in the evening heading towards his room, he looked at the appraising faces of his grandparents, their eyes seemingly bulging, terrified, their lips clenched as if in rage.

He began to rip portrait after portrait off the wall, destroying frames and canvases, causing a commotion all around him − his mother tried to calm him down, but he broke free from her embrace.

It was only when he walked into his bedroom that he noticed her silhouette, pale and corpse-like, her eyes wide open, looking towards the door as if she was waiting for him, his bedclothes all covered in her blood.

He saw out of the corner of his eye an open window facing straight into their park and realised that she had broken in here, taken his letter knife and slit her wrists.

He approached her slowly, feeling the pounding of his heart, the sweat on the back of his neck as he noticed the bruises on her neck, a clear marks matching his hands that he was sure he hadn't seen when he had spoken to her that morning.

How could that be?

He glanced at the floor out of the corner of his eye and saw his shirt, all dirty from the sand and grass.

He began to breathe deeply, feeling the whole room swirl around him.

He pushed from his mind the sight of her terrified face, the sight of her tears when she fell with him to the ground, when he told her that he was empty without her, that he had filled her with himself and she could not be anyone else's, just as he could never be anyone else's again.

It seemed to him that she had come to terms with his words, for she stopped struggling, looking at him with affection, and he praised and comforted her, telling her that the end would come soon, that she would fall asleep, that she would not be in pain.

When she stopped moving and fainted he took her body in his arms, numb and spilling in his fingers, and walked as if in a trance through his open window into his bedroom.

He laid her on his bed, where she belonged, right beside him, and left, longing to return to her in the night, believing that she had fallen into an eternal sleep.

She woke up.

She finished his work.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[laurapetrie]

HEROINES OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE: the maid Enveloped in an aura of nostalgia, she seems to come from the world of fairy tales or from an idealized Victorian epoch, in which women, in the form of Archadian shepherdesses, or country aristocrats, were still granted private spaces and secret gardens. They long to take refuge in hidden places off-limits to men. These qualities evoke an age of innocence dressed in night gowns, and undergarments all in white, with embroidery and applique, ribbons and lace - a timeless look. And, of course, their obsessively brushed hair is inevitably long and curly, held in place with ribbons, bows and combs. This nature-loving romantic heroine loves to walk barefoot on the dew-drenched grass of dawn, to read fables and study music. She can be a free woodland creature or a highly refined damsel. - GIULIA PIVETTA

[fortheloveofallthings]

Steddie Florist AU - Part 2

Part 1

Steve watched in a haze as Eddie stepped out the front door with his new dahlia. Of course this mystery man gravitated towards them, he thought to himself. They stick out in a crowd, are revered for their beauty, often symbolizing kindness and everyone that loves dahlias is obsessed with their moody aesthetic. Perfect for Eddie. Thankfully Robin wasn’t here today to poke fun at his now blossoming crush. He continued his usual tasks, happily letting thoughts of the bartender fill his mind. 4 hours, he can stop by the bar in 4 hours.

Eddie practically skipped the remaining block from the Flower Shop to the bar. Chrissy was already pulling down chairs from the tops of tables as he entered. “I finally walked in!” He announced. Her blonde ponytail whipped around as she placed another chair down. “You walked in? Like actually step foot inside?” she questioned, excitement woven into her tone. Eddie nodded as a smile stretched across his face. He held out the dahlia with Shakespearean flare knowing it would be proof enough. “He gave it to me on the house, so I offered him a drink tonight,” he smiled walking past Chrissy towards the rows of liquor behind the bar hoping to find something empty enough to use as a vase. It didn’t take long skimming through the shelves before he landed on a Tanqueray bottle he could rinse out. Chrissy made her way towards him to start prepping the garnishes, “A flower on the house?” “Yes, on the house.” Eddie reiterated. “I can’t believe the first time you actually step foot in there, the florist who you’ve been eyeing for months, flirts with you within what? 5… 10 minutes of you being there! And you arrive with a dahlia of all things,” Chrissy says in almost disbelief. Eddie had already rinsed the now completely empty bottle of gin and carefully unwrapped the flower from its tissue paper to place it in and out on the bar in full display, “So? It’s just a flower, he’s a florist, it’s a flower shop. He’s probably given loads of customers free flowers.”

The statement was as humbling as it was disheartening. Eddie wanted the flower to be a special moment between the florist and him. But romance was never company, not for any of the Munsons. Romance was a daydream. So the realist in him crushed any hopes of love before they could take root. No one had won the key to his gated heart. “Oh come on Eddie!” Chrissy scolded as she placed the lime knife down, “Dahlias represent long lasting bonds, love, devotion. Flowers have their own language and meanings. This man thinks you’re beautiful and I’ll bet he also has a crush on you.” Eddie was struck, dumbfounded, “What do you mean flowers have language? You can tell all that by a single flower?” “Yes, Eddie, I can. Lesbians know a lot about Victorian flower language. It’s a whole gay thing,” she explained. He humphed in curiosity, contemplating this new information, “Well don’t get my hopes up too high. I barely spoke to him and I can only pray to whoever’s out there he’ll even make an appearance later.”

Steve wrapped up his shift soon enough. Thankfully a customer’s custom bouquet order held his attention for the last 2 hours making the time fly by. He left the keys for Vickie to lock up as she arrived and he ran out the door. He sprinted back to his apartment, and opened the door to the small studio decorated with plants, paintings Robin made for him, and photos of him and his step-brother Dustin. Steve rushed through his shower so he could spend a decent amount of time on his outfit and hair before racing towards the Red Dragon. After much deliberation and a quick FaceTime with Dustin and his girlfriend Susie he settled on his light brown bomber jacket with the olive tinted elbow patches, a perfectly fitted off-white button up with a small leaf pattern, blue jeans and his slightly worn down converse. Susie suggested most of his clothes which was new territory for them but Dustin reassured him he looked like himself and not the straight-passing jock he typically would anywhere outside the shop. Steve smiled in the mirror as he did a final fit check, laughing at the accuracy in which Dustin described him then was out the door without any further hesitation.

Part 3

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

🧐 Who are the Doctor's parents?

If you've ever wondered who the Doctor's parents are or are not, buckle up—this is about to get confusing. As with all things related to the Doctor, their parentage is, well, a mess.

👨‍👩‍👦 Ulysses and Penelope

One account claims the Doctor's father was Ulysses, a Time Lord said to be the greatest explorer of his age. He had a thirst for adventure and a desire to improve the universe. He was 'powerfully built', with rugged features, white hair, a clipped beard, and dark eyes. Ulysses was the first Time Lord to adopt a title in place of his real name—a tradition the Doctor would later follow.

Enter human Penelope Gate. Born in Victorian London, she found herself trapped in a dull domestic life with a typical Victorian husband. After the tragic loss of her infant son, Penelope grew weary of her existence. She had red hair, grey eyes, was "slightly plump," and—oh yes—she built a time machine at age 27 in 1883. With this invention, Penelope embarked on her own adventures through time, had a companion, and even crossed paths with her future son (the 7th Doctor) when he saved her during one of her time-travel mishaps.

Eventually, Penelope met Ulysses, and the two married. How they conceived the Doctor is a bit of a mystery—some say they used Gallifrey's Loom technology, while others suggest they took the more traditional route. Either way, this union was kept secret, as Gallifrey's Great Houses were obsessed with maintaining pure bloodlines. The Doctor became the fruit of their forbidden passion—forbidden passion fruit.

The Doctor's very existence was considered an abomination by Gallifrey's standards. When the Master's father, Marnal, discovered the truth and threatened to reveal it, Ulysses and Penelope wiped his memory and banished him to Earth to protect their child. Marnal subsequently went on to write an episode of Star Trek.

But, of course, nothing's that simple. One explanation ties the Doctor's biodata to another Time Lord named the Other. But that's a whole other long story for a whole other long day. And not everyone accepts the half-human theory. Some insist both of the Doctor's parents were 100% Time Lords, and others say they never had any parents at all.

🌀 Omega

Then there's Omega. According to some accounts, the Doctor is descended from the great (and slightly unhinged) Time Lord scientist who discovered time travel—yes, that Omega. After his original encounters with Omega, the Sixth Doctor learned that there was evidence suggesting Omega might be his grandpappy. Whether or not that's true is anyone's guess.

👫 Siblings

But wait, there's more! The Doctor isn't an only child, having at least one older (probably half) brother, Irving Braxiatel, owner of the Braxiatel Collection and occasional meddler in the Doctor's affairs. The Doctor's also got a niece, Maggie, via Brax, and at one point, the Doctor recalls having several sisters. Brax, however, hinted at a sister's or daughter's death, leaving things as clear as always. However, there is huge reason to believe the Doctor had a full sister named Ganeida, who served in the court of King Arthur.

🌳 The Ever-Growing Family Tree

The Doctor's extended family supposedly includes several grandmothers, an Aunt Flavia (who ran Gallifrey for a while), and a great-aunt, Inertia. There's also the mysterious 'Uncle', who's literally just referred to as 'the Uncle'. Oh, and don't forget about the Doctor's godmother, she's a thing, too.

🧒 The Timeless Child Theory

Oh, I'm sorry, did you think you understood all that pretty well? Don't forget the Timeless Child theory. According to this, the Doctor was discovered as a child by Tecteun, a Shobogan explorer, and adopted.

🤷‍♂️ So, Who Are the Doctor's Parents?

Is the Doctor the forbidden child of Ulysses and Penelope Gate? Descendant of Omega? An ancient being adopted by Tecteun? Just a cousin of a posh Gallifreyan house with no parents? Or is it all of the above? None? Some? Family reunions must be a nightmare.

Whoniverse Facts for Friday by GIL

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired😴

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Four

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none, but almost main character death lol

— WORDCOUNT: 2.5k

I

Tom stayed away for a few days. He stalked around some other rare book stores but found none of what Caractacus Burke was searching for. Still, it gave ample enough time for her to forget about him. He needed to be out of her mind before he carried out his plan.

He sat at a café outside her store one evening, waiting to see her go home again. Not able to stand another cup of coffee, hot and bitter, he decided to try something he’d seen so many other locals eating. It was called ‘gelato’. A frozen treat, it looked like clotted cream and was eaten with a little spoon. Tom regretted ordering it the moment it arrived, but with each bite, he became a little fonder of it. It was cold and vaguely sweet with a drizzling of cherry jam on top. He reached the bottom of the cup before he even realised, and licked the spoon clean afterwards.

She stepped out later this time, at around six o’clock. Tom got up not long after but he didn’t follow her. His gaze trailed after her from behind a pair of aviator shades — her white shirt fluttering with each step, hair soft upon her shoulders — and let himself enjoy the view until she disappeared beyond the curve of a building that bent like a wave. Then he turned the other way, the way she came from.

The lamp lights were just coming on, bathing the marble a sulphuric yellow. He took his sunglasses off and tucked them in his shirt as he slid through the narrow street the shop was on. There was nobody around, but he could hear the echoes of other people through the walls of the nearby buildings. The area was a mix of domestic and commercial, small old flats and little shops which made it quite unpredictable. It was a very intimate setting, and dangerous for that very reason — few escape routes should anyone appear.

He peered through the glass first at the organised chaos inside, the clutter and piles of precious old things that lifetimes would not suffice to explore. Between them, Tom saw his reflection staring back. He aimed his wand at each lock and muttered an Alohomora. The spell let him in like butter.

The shop was just faintly lit from beyond the large display windows, rendering every book and smooth wood surface into a little sunburst. The air was light with dust, and dry, and cold in the way libraries often were. The pillars that held the ceiling high were cinder-black, and carved so finely that the wood seemed lace and pillow soft. A sweet scent lingered in the cavernous construction. It really was a marvellous atmosphere… Tom wouldn’t have minded staying if circumstances were different. His grandfather’s ring trilled around his finger.

Regardless of how old the building was, the interior was certainly built to order. It had a hint of the Victorian with a Renaissance flair. Tom had been in enough rich people’s houses to tell. It amused him how much they were all alike in taste, as if they were part of the same secret breed.

He stepped further in. The floorboards creaked and, looking down, a small amount of dust flew up. Curious. Perhaps it really didn’t get that many customers so often. The other shops he had visited this week all seemed to have at least another two clients while he was there… Strange, as this shop was bursting with books, and in an accessible location too. Tom could only guess that either they were prohibitively selective with their clientele, or the place had a bad reputation.

He found her ledgers tucked underneath the desk. They were split into three themes: Letteratura, Religione, and Esoterismo. He opened the latter.

It was detailed, thick, and finely indexed with the most minuscule writing. Instead of listing their catalogue, it listed all the authors they seemed to have an interest in, whether or not they held any of their books. Prices were next to certain volumes, along with purchasing dates. Others were annotated with the shop or collector that held them. From Agrippa to Cheiro to Crowley, from Novalis to Paracelsus, Roerich, and Sepharial, they had their eye on everyone. He turned toward the end, pale finger brushing through the T’s.

They had nothing by Tamisso, another author on his list, although they did have a copy of The Lost Word by Trevisan — a more recent edition than the 1870 one that Mr. Burke wanted, but still serviceable. But what he was really looking for was Torchia.

And he found him. A whole half-page was dedicated to him, even if the books were few and three-quarters of the space was empty. They must’ve expected to find more of his works in the future.

But as he was reading, the ring started feeling heavier, like its black stone wanted to pull loose. Oftentimes, the splinter of his soul that was trapped inside was a bit of a canary in a coal mine, more sensitive to changes in Tom’s surroundings than he was… He gazed suspiciously toward the ring and put the ledger down.

Tom looked up at the ceiling. It was tall and too dark to see, absorbing the most highly placed volumes like a black hole, like a void. Looking down, between the floorboards, the same infinite darkness. It occurred to him that perhaps the place was cursed. An unlikely idea given that it was a building belonging to muggles, but he’d seen stranger things. And after all, he still didn’t know who the owner was.

He looked at the catalogue again.

Torchia, A.

Key to Captive Thoughts, 1653 — four three copies

A Curious Explanation of Mysteries and Hieroglyphs, 1655 — one copy sold to H. Àristos, 1949

The Three Books of the Art, 1658 — one copy, private ownership → Luce

He scanned further down the line, and there it was: Delomelanicon.

It wasn’t written up like the others. It had no number, no mention of its year of publication, nor even where it was. All it had was a strange symbol next to it, like a plus sign with a downward arrow. Tom couldn’t guess what it meant.

But they had it, they must have. He closed the book with satisfaction and an overflow of greed, and carefully put it back in its place.

II

With the bookshop all to himself, Tom explored at his leisure. He stepped lightly, almost reverently, through its misty dusty rooms veiled by growing darkness. He cast Lumos when entering the second room, which had no windows to the outside world. A thick red carpet muffled his steps.

His first stop was at the section where she had searched for Helena Blavatsky, assuming the shelves followed the logic of the ledgers and were organised thematically as well as alphabetically. He pulled the ladder over and started to climb, holding the wand between the tips of his fingers.

Names spread before him, ancient and powerful. Some of them were only mentioned in the most proscribed of texts, others he hadn’t even heard of. It was one thing to see them listed so economically, and another to see their naked spines, crack them open, part them, and touch their wavy pages.

He had to pause once he came across a 17th-century copy of the Cyranides. How many men died for merely reading this book… What horror, what beauty. He turned to the page on the use of bezoars and smiled. The illustration braided around the page was of a watersnake, unmoving, done with an almost childish hand. It was from a more innocent time when such magical knowledge was a thing of fear and wonder, exclusive and yet renown, whispered about, admired. Not hidden away.

Holding the wand between his teeth, Tom pulled the ladder and himself a bit further to the right. Its wheels were loud enough to make him wince.

He found a wealth of books in this place that made him feel things he had not felt in a while: greed, desire, admiration… He hadn’t seen so many wonderful tomes since Hogwarts. For long moments in large swaths, he forgot his mission. Eagerly, his hands picked up any volumes he could reach without the ladder tipping over, and he sipped in eager drops the ancient wisdom, a few pages at a time, admiring the crude but honest illustrations before, with a heavy heart, putting them back on the shelf.

Finally, he reached Torchia. A few of his works were there, the same ones mentioned in the ledger, but not the Delomelanicon. Tom brushed his finger on the shelf, and it came up with a fluff of dust. Hadn’t been touched for a long time…

It occurred to him as he climbed down the ladder that they could have had hidden compartments, as such bookstores sometimes did. Borgin and Burkes did too, although theirs was hidden by magic. Muggles would have had some contraption hidden behind a painting or shelf. He cast another glance around him before moving forward again, step by heavy step. Between those dormant shelves, he saw another surreptitious doorway toward another room.

III

The place grew labyrinthian. Tom felt as though he was disturbing a tomb, and without even needing to his steps grew gentler. The ring around his finger ached again, but he ignored it.

He was exploring a glass case with a pyramid of skulls in the corner of a room three doorways from the entrance, further in the building and blissfully chill on the exposed skin of his arms and neck, when suddenly he noticed something about the creaking of the floorboards: he couldn’t hear it anymore.

Tom looked down, his shoes soft on the carpet, and shifted his weight. No sound, but there was a bit of a tilt beneath him as the wood moved. He moved to the side and toed the carpet away. At first glance, he noticed nothing strange, but when he cast Revelio, a piece of metal shone and the edges of a trapdoor revealed themselves before him.

“I’ve got you now,” he grinned.

He stepped away, grabbed the edges of the carpet, and folded it further back. It was a trapdoor alright, large enough for two people to fit through. The area was clean, as if it saw regular use. Could it be a secret way into and out of the shop? Well, he’d seen her always use the front door, so it was most likely a storage area.

He dug into his trouser pocket for something, anything that he could use, and found the Swiss army knife he’d gotten from Clement. The thought occurred to him that it was a misuse of a gift to rob a bookshop with it, but that thought died quickly in Tom’s heated mind. He had a job to do.

He slid its blade between the folds of wood and pressed the handle down. Marvolo’s ring squeezed and pulled at his finger, and Tom cursed at it to be quiet. The trapdoor undulated at the strain as he moved the blade around, but the thing was as good as nailed down on all sides.

“Come on, you piece of muggle trash, open,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

He pushed, edging the wood upwards, and the bit of leverage made it flap as far as its hinges would allow. Holding the wand between his teeth for light, he moved it slightly, checking in every direction for a keyhole. The only thing he found was a burn mark that shone in the faint light, small and round and crested. It was probably a hidden button or a kind of keyhole, the kind of which he’d seen before in a couple of places both at Hogwarts and elsewhere. Tom grinned, moved the blade there, and pressed harder right beneath it.

“Aaaah!” he groaned, nearly dropping the wand from his teeth.

The ring was shooting pain all the way up his arm now, and his muscles strained. He clenched his teeth and pressed the blade in further, deeper, but the longer he tried to get it open, the more useless the attempt seemed, and he was overcome with a feeling of wrongness — as if he actually cared that he was trespassing.

He got up, sighed, and wiped the sweat off his brow. The feeling of guilt that had been bubbling in his stomach crested and crawled up his bones until he felt the sickness in his throat. He was overcome with the desire to leave and put this place behind him. A traitorous thought…

No, he wasn’t feeling sick. That nasty little door was enchanted. There was probably a curse on it, not too dissimilar to those placed on Egyptian tombs, meant to ward prospective thieves away. The emotions that swirled in his breast, the guilt, the shame, none of it came from him. It was something he was forced to feel by whatever enchantment guarded the place. What an insidious little spell… He frowned and pointed his wand down at the trapdoor again.

“Finite incantatem.”

Nothing happened.

“Finite incantatem!” he said again, more clearly and imperious.

The trapdoor mocked him with its silence. Tom looked down at his wand as if it were impotent.

“Of all the damned… Revelio,” he cast again, but nothing new appeared. “Alohomora!”

And that was when it struck him.

The spell worked, but just for an instant before it was undone and something fired back at him. A shard of death crawled up his spine and pooled inside his heart, pushing him backwards into the sharp edge of a table. The lamps on it rattled from the impact.

He felt dizzy for a moment, his body numb and cold, then nauseous when his senses came back to him at once. Pain billowed at his lower back so hard it filled his throat with bile. He clung to the edge of the table and kept himself just barely standing, managing the breath to groan.

“By Salazar’s f-fucking… Ow!”

Among all the sudden pain, he noticed that his arm was numb. The ring had stopped hurting him. It got its point across… The door was cursed, and so severely that, if not for his Horcrux, he surely would have died.

Tom clenched his teeth and hissed at the bothersome little entrance, cursing it in parseltongue. He kicked the carpet back over it and rubbed his aching hip where he already felt a bruise forming. There was nothing else he could do there, at least not tonight. He’d have to go back to his hotel, hopefully not limping all the way, and plan his next steps.

“I’ll get you yet,” he muttered with a parting glare. “And whatever mongrel of a mage made you.”