#warleggan ball

[flipperbrain-awakes]

The Warleggan Ball by flipperbrain-awakes

Ross leans against a wall in the large room and contemplates the tumbler of brandy in his hand. George does not skimp, this amber liquid is quite good. Ross is well acquainted with fine brandy, risking much himself to import the best available through less than legal means. He scans the room, it is between dances and most of the guests are clustered together in groups, engaged in flattery and idle conversation. He had quarreled with his wife an hour ago, he knew his surly attitude and lack of attention had angered Demelza, and he could certainly understand why. Yet at that moment he was incapable of bending, of admitting he was wrong. And rather than making it up with her, he continued playing cards. His grief and outrage over the disgusting treatment of his friend Jim Carter, which ultimately led to his untimely death, had rendered him powerless to rise above his mood. But by God, Demelza is the last person to deserve the sharp-edge of his ire, and now he feels incredibly ashamed at his behavior. 

He watches his wife chatting merrily with several solicitous gentlemen across the ballroom, without a doubt she has many would-be suitors were her husband not standing in the way. She glances at him, her eyes still flashing with annoyance and hurt, she is ravishing and haughty and so very tempting. Demelza is wearing a new gown, its fabric selected particularly for this occasion. It is the color of Spring and covered with delicate leaves and stems. Her décolletage is framed with the tiniest diaphanous ruffle which projects the opposite of demure, rather than disguising, it accentuates her bust and she is fully aware of its effect. 

Ross has had enough drink this night, he sets his glass aside and walks over to speak quietly with the leader of the small orchestra assembled in the southern corner of the room, a few coins are discreetly handed over. While likely the poorest of manners to divert the musical program toward his personal goals, he cares not and strides determinedly toward Demelza. She sees him coming and her brows gather in anticipation of protest but Ross does not give her an opportunity to refuse. He takes her by the hand and leads her to the center of the dance floor. Demelza initially resists his embrace, she is still put-out and a little embarrassed by their earlier exchange… but then she turns her head and looks into his eyes and her anger melts away, he can be damnable at times but his feelings for her are written on his face. 

Ross takes her in his arms as the music strikes up and begins to dance a dance that he has only seen once before, he holds his beautiful wife, his hand sitting familiarly at her waist, and leads her in The Walse. The steps are not truly known to him but he believes he can manage a fair representation, he has some skill at dancing though rarely used. The onlookers at the time he first witnessed this exercise were scandalized by the closeness of its participants, and from the expressions on many a face, they are once again. He grins inwardly at this but Demelza’s visage, her fine features gazing up at him, he is nearly overcome with desire. She is his complete focus, the only thing in this world that truly matters. That he could act an idiot and lose sight of that, well, he is an imperfect man.

They are a vision to behold on the ballroom floor, Ross expertly guiding in his version of this dance, Demelza following his lead like a woman who has been trained in this since girlhood. Their bodies move together instinctually as one, gracefully drifting and turning and whirling together. All eyes are upon them, but theirs are only for each other.

[nervousladytraveler]

Fic title ask:

For All The Tea In China

The Dressmaker's Dilemma

@jomiddlemarch thank you for these. Such a fun diversion for a dull Saturday afternoon. Both my titles are Poldark based.

“For All the Tea in China”

Upset by what she understands to be a snub by Ross, Demelza returns to her place–and finds her resolve–in the kitchen.

Snippet:  “Fuck it. We’re having the rapini for dinner!” Demelza said aloud to nobody and slammed the slightly wilted bunch down on the work surface.

Dinner was hours away–in fact she was still preparing lunch–but this decision felt like an act of defiance, and that was precisely what she was in need of at the moment.

Ross, or Mister Poldark as he was to her today, disliked rapini. He hadn’t said it in so many words but the absence of praise the last time she served it allowed her to solve for x.

--AND---

“The Dressmaker's Dilemma” (also Poldark but not a modern AU).

Mistress Trelask, respected Truro dressmaker, stares down a very grave problem indeed. She has taken an order from Mrs. Francis Poldark for a lovely robe à l’anglaise of soft brown silk taffeta with sleeve ruffles and matching silk ribbons. But she has only now learned that her daughter, Miss Florence, has already fitted Mrs. John Treneglos for a quite similar gown (only fewer ruffles and no fichu). And both are to be ready in time for the upcoming ball at Place House.

Mistress Trelask must now decide which patron to disappoint while protecting her own reputation.

Snippet: No doubt, she’d lose the patronage of one of these fine ladies. And who might blame them? Such an insult to one’s standing to be jilted by a dressmaker! But on the one hand, there had been very few visits of late from Mrs. Poldark (soon to be Mrs. George Warleggan if the rumours are to be believed). And wasn’t it odd that she’d come out of mourning so soon?

[ethereal-maia]

HIYA MAIA

number 9 for ask game please

I’d love to hear about your other work - I wonder if they are still in the Soc verse

AAAAAA I have so many ideas always. Always..

So as you know. Lola my dear friend. I am Always Thinking about marya and dahlia and I’ve created like a billion aus about them in my mind and Have Not Started them! Ever! These include “what if they had met as little kids” “what if they had been able to be together in the first place” “what if one of them was working for the family of the other as a maid and they had a relationship that way instead and it was a big deal bc of class differences” “what if they plotted a certain someone’s murder”… et cetera. GOD they make me insane.

Id also like to do a hurt/comfort fluff fic about Odette and the dance instructor from the movie Leap! (I forgot his name help) one day but uh. Yeah.

I need more Poldark content like I need another hole in the head but last night I got stuck with the idea of a George Warleggan and Dwight Enys friendship fic and they won’t get out of my mind. They’re so fucked up actually. <3.

AND OMG idea in my head since two years ago about Kaz and Inej having to blend in at a fancy ball for a job… and they have to dance together…. oh no whatever will they do…

[captain-ross-poldark]

My Favorite Poldark Social Event: a The Warleggan Ball

Ross, Demelza, and Verity are best friends

Ross takes a drink. He is fucked up over Jim Carter’s death.

Yet, he had the forethought to buy Demelza jewelry

Ross has a drink and is  rude to his host 

Though Ross ignores his wife, Demelza has no problem fitting in

Verity gets together with Captain Blamey

Ross plays cards with Francis, Matthew, and Dr Hulse

We get to see  original Ross and current Ross

George comes on to Elizabeth

Francis catches Verity with Captain Blamey

Demelza gives Ruth Teague and Mrs Chenoweth  a polite put down to Elizabeth's amusement 

Elizabeth chastises both Ross and Francis for ignoring their wives

Roses picks a fight with Demelza because he's still drinking

I wish I’d finished this. I especially enjoyed Ross fighting with Cousin Matthew. 

[legopoldark]

Demelza, Book Two, Chapter 23

Sanson had said when they met at the door, “I have been looking to the opportunity to play you again, Captain Poldark. The good cardplayer is very rare and it is a pleasure to sit with such an expert one.” “Thank you. I’ve no taste for gaining tonight,” Ross had said. “I find that most disappointing, Captain Poldark." ... “I’m here to escort my wife. That being so, it wouldn’t fill my purpose to spend the evening in the card room.” ... “She seems well attended, if I may say so. Might I suggest a short game, just while the evening is warming up?” “Ah, Sanson,” George said, “there’ll be no pleasure dancing in this crush. Have you got a table?” “I have seats saved. But they will be gone if we don’t hurry. I was prevailing on Captain Poldark to join us.” “Come along,” said George. “With Francis we can make a foursome.”

There were too many people there, people of the kind who had sent Jim to prison. Painted and powdered up, dressed to the eyes, high heeled, fan flicking, snuffbox clicking. People with titles; people wanting titles; placeholders; place seekers; squires; squireens; clergymen with two or three rich livings; brewers; millers; iron, tin, and copper merchants; ship owners; bankers. People of his own class. People he despised. He turned. “What do you want? What do you wish to play?”

[historical-beauty-lily]

Poldark (2015-2019)

[redtallin]

My dear Warlock Taziel, dressed up for the Everwinter Gala (an art promt started on twitter to draw your D&D characters invited to a grand winter ball!). She lost her brother recently, so needed some cheering up for sure.

[thisbluespirit]

Ross and Demelza at the Warleggans’ ball in Poldark S1 (BBC 1975).

[romantic-hero]

The Night Ross Went To Elizabeth

Warning if you hate the idea of Ross and Elizabeth, scroll on by. Ross repeatedly asks Elizabeth if she wants him to continue. If spanking is a trigger, scroll on by. I hope the keep reading break works.....If not, don’t look!

When Ross read the note from Elizabeth, all he could see was red. The fury was all consuming. He could see that Demelza was speaking, but he could not hear the words. She was an impediment that he had to get past, and later when he thought about that night, he was ashamed he had pushed her out of his way.

Ross didn’t remember the ride to Trenwith. The next thing he remembered was kicking in the front door and making his way upstairs. And then there was  Elizabeth, her long hair brushed and brilliant in the candle light. He had never seen her in nightclothes before, and even though they were arguing, part of his mind was preoccupied with taking her. It had been hard enough to know Francis had stolen what he had always felt was his, but he’d be damned if he gave her up to George Warleggan.  

When she spat at him that she loved George to distraction, the red anger turned to black and he roughly pulled Elizabeth and found her mouth and started kissing her. He was furious. Here he was finally kissing the woman he thought he loved and his kisses were harsh. His lips were bruising her’s and he forced his tongue past her mouth, but he felt her yield and she returned his kisses just as forcefully.

Ross picked Elizabeth up and threw her on the bed. Though she was protesting,  she laid back against the pillows, if she hadn’t wanted him, she could have screamed.  She could have hit him, but instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and let him kiss her. Ross was more tempestuous than he meant to be and pulled back. He licked his lips and kissed her again. He tentatively ran his tongue over her  lips, and when she didn’t protest, he put his tongue fully in her mouth.  Elizabeth instantly responded kissing him back. She didn’t stop him when he pulled her nightdress off. At last, after years of dreaming, her body was his.  

Her breasts were milky white and her nipples were large and deep pink. He started to massage both breasts. Then he sucked one nipple and then the other. He’d never heard Elizabeth moan in ecstasy before. “Elizabeth! Do you like this? “

“Oh, Ross. Please don’t stop.” Elizabeth tangled her fingers in his hair and arched her back.  Ross licked one nipple, then blew on it.  It tightened into a point and he gently took it between his teeth, before turning his head and kissing her other nipple. Then while he still squeezed her breasts he started kissing her belly. He took his hands and pushed her knees apart.

A bower of dark curls crowned her womanhood. Without thinking he kissed her between the legs.  

“Ross, stop! You mustn’t do that!” She was yanking his hair and he took both of her hands in one of his and held her arms behind her head.

“Why, Elizabeth? Didn’t your husband ever kiss you there? Taste your honey?” He growled and bit her neck and was pleased her hips bucked up.

“I..I n-never let him.”  

“Then you will let me.  If you don’t keep your legs apart Elizabeth, you will be sorry.” Ross stroked her cunny. It was wet and and her knees fell open. He took his fingers and opened her gash. “You’re beautiful, Elizabeth.” And he stoked her with his fingers before lowering his mouth and covering her mound completely. His tongue found that little nub of pleasure and he circled it gently until Elizabeth was crying his name over and over. He knew she’d never had any release if this was the first time her flower had been tasted. He would be the first to pleasure her completely. And for the rest of her life she’d think of Ross Poldark every time George made love to her.

“Do you like this, Elizabeth? Should I stop now?”  His cock was rock hard and he had to take his clothes off.

He stood beside the bed and undressed. Elizabeth was heaving.  She looked at his cock, standing at attention. She didn’t know it but she was licking her lips. “I like it, Ross. I like it very much.”

“I am glad.” He got back in the bed and knelt between her legs. Again he he ran his fingers up and down her dripping slit. When he felt that little bud harden he rolled her over on her stomach. He straddled her hips and rubbed her shoulders. He kissed her neck and worked down to her buttocks.  He squeezed her cheeks and kissed her soft skin. He lightly ran his fingers over her bottom. And then his mind went red again.

“Elizabeth, You deserve a good spanking.  You lied to me. You married my cousin and now you want to marry my greatest enemy. “ Ross got up and sat on the side of the bed. “Come here. “ He knew he was being unreasonable. He pulled Elizabeth over his lap and he held her legs down with one of his. His cock was hard and stood erect between his belly and the side of Elizabeth’s breasts. Her ass looked ripe. He bet in her life it had never been struck. And now he would make her beg for him. To strum her after. Margaret had  taught him that a little spanking made a lady’s bits tingle and want more.

Elizabeth was unnaturally calm and didn’t squirm or protest. Ross caressed her gorgeous derriere.  He spread her cheeks and her hips raised as she gasped. Then without warning, he spanked first one cheek and then the other. Twice. Then he lightly ran his fingers over the slight redness.

“Should I stop, Elizabeth?” he asked as he put his finger in her vale, surprised at the amount of jelly he found.

“No, Ross. I think you should spank me hard.” She looked at him, her eyes glowing. “Shall I get my brush?”

Ross held her arm and helped her get to her feet. She glided to her dressing table and returned with the brush and handed it to him. “Kneel on the bed,” he told her and Elizabeth obeyed. Put your face down and he pulled her hips until her ass was in the air.  Again the sight of her bower was too much to resist and Ross dipped his fingers in.  Then he spanked her. Slowly, one side and then the other. When her posterior was bright red, he threw the brush across the room and picked her up in his arms. He placed her in the bed and wordlessly she spread her legs. Again he could tell she was shocked but he knew unless he worshiped her alter with his tongue, he would not be satisfied.

Ross licked her center of attraction and when he again found that secret little bud, he circled it with the tip of his tongue until he thought Elizabeth might pull all of his hair out.  “Should I stop, Elizabeth?”

Her breath was ragged. “Oh my god, no!” And he again slurped and licked and finally her whole body quivered and her bower pulsated and she let go in his mouth.

“Ross what happened?” She lay back panting.

“That is what pleasure is, Elizabeth.” His cock was ready he stroked it and said rather primly, “May I plow the field?” To his surprise Elizabeth took him in hand and guided him to her sugar-hole.

He was finally balls deep in the place he’d dreamed of since he’d gone to America. Elizabeth wrapped her legs around his waist. They didn’t kiss or talk but Ross rode her hard and long until at last he filled her kitty with his cream.

In exhaustion they fell asleep. The sun woke Ross. He jumped out of bed. His head was clear. Clear at last to know he had committed the worse mistake of his life.  He couldn’t look at Elizabeth and could hardly answer her questions. He vaguely promised to come back and talk but at that instant he realized his heart belonged to only one.  

He couldn’t kiss Elizabeth. He just hurried down the stairs and thanked God the horse hadn’t wandered off. He flew along the coast path to Nampara and he had never been more frightened in his life by anything as he was by the sight of Demelza hanging the laundry in the courtyard, her face  as thunderous as any storm that had ever  battered Cornwall. Ross had no idea what his punishment would be, but he had no doubt he deserved every thing that was to befall him for his idiocy.

[upstartpoodle]

So it’s been a ridiculously long time since I’ve updated ‘Moving Forward’ now (I’ve quite possibly run into the most troublesome couple of paragraphs ever to refuse to be written - seriously I’m so close to finishing the chapter but my brain just won’t let me fill in the gaps for some reason). But anyway, I’m hoping to get my brain back in gear pretty soon, but until I do, here’s a second extract of the new chapter for anybody who’s interested!

@harry-leroy, @forcebros, @ticketybooser, @lashbrook11

***

“Surely there is something that can be done,” Cary scowled, suddenly. Taut as a bowstring, his eyes burning, he looked for all the world as if he were some confined beast ready to tear apart whatever lay within his grasp the moment he had the chance. “Something more than mopping his forehead and hoping he doesn't—”

He cut himself off, turning sharply away from the sight of his distressed nephew, jaw clenched. Dwight bit back a sigh, willing himself, despite his own overwrought nerves, to be patient. He shook his head.

“The fever must burn itself out before he can recover,” he said. “There is only so much we can do to keep it under control, but I promise you, we are doing everything we can to keep him comfortable through the worst of it.”

Cary sneered, his eyes flashing.

“Ah, well, as long as he's comfortable before he goes to the grave” he snarled, bitterly.

Dwight swallowed. He did not want to contemplate the possibility that George might not pull through the fever, but he, perhaps more than any of them, knew all too well how close to the brink he was hovering. He could not give in though—not yet—and as much as it was clear that Cary was a man all too inclined to prepare for the worst than hope for the best, he could not in good conscience allow others to do so either.

“He isn't lost to us yet,” he murmured, his eyes flickering up towards the man opposite him even as he felt George shifting restlessly, flinching away beneath his touch. “It may not seem so now, but your nephew is strong. He will not give in without a fight. We owe it to him not to give up hope that he may yet survive.”

Cary snorted. Another soft whimper from the bed, and though he still kept his face turned sharply away, Dwight saw something raw and pained creep across his features like a shadow.

“Yet,” he said, his voice suddenly very rough. “What use is 'yet' to me? If he—”

“Uncle...”

George's voice was soft, barely even a whisper above the hammering of the rain against the window, but that single utterance was enough to mute Cary's reply in an instant. His gaze finally turned away from the door, and back down to his shivering, trembling nephew, his eyes blazing.

“Uncle...” he murmured again. Dwight, who had been halfway through wetting the damp cloth in his hand, paused. He could see his eyes flickering back and forth behind his lids, his fine features contorted with fear at whatever bizarre visions were plaguing him. “Uncle, please...don't let him...”

Cary turned white, his jaw clenched so tight now that Dwight half wondered whether he would be able to open it again once the time came for him to speak. He swallowed. He could guess well enough what—or rather, who—was haunting his patient's feverish imagination, and it was clear from Cary's expression that he was not alone in the assumption.

“Hush, George, it is alright.” He pressed the cloth firmly against his burning forehead, trying to soothe him as he flinched at the contact. His other hand came to rest over one of the man's balled fists, clutched tight at the dishevelled sheets, tracing a gentle, calming rhythm over his white knuckles with his thumb. “There is nobody here but your uncle and I. You are safe.”

He wasn't sure if George could hear him—or if he could, whether he had enough presence of mind to understand him—but he knew that it was the best he could hope to do to relieve his patient's distress. He whispered words of comfort, over and over, until the man's quiet, troubled murmurings faded into incoherent little whimpers, and his wild shifting into slight shivers from the fever. All the time, Cary watched on, strange flashes of disquiet flashing across his face, as if somebody had forced him to watch something disturbing and unnatural.

“Has he been...speaking often?” he spoke up eventually. With George having finally quieted, and the repetitive pattern of the rain on the windowpane, his rough voice sounded harsher even than usual, for all that he had been trying to speak softly.

Dwight frowned.

“Not coherently enough to reveal anything you might wish to keep secret,” he said, guessing the old man's worries easily enough. Several demands of complete discretion—and one notable threat of being sued—both throughout and after his previous treatment of George had been enough to demonstrate to him Cary's insistent and unrelenting desire for absolute secrecy regarding his nephew's particular ailment, and the business with the horrid Penrose. “Nobody shall make anything of it.”

Part of him thought it an odd priority—to see one's nephew deathly injured and wracked with fever, then to think first of what he might reveal in the midst of his delirium to those in whose care he had been placed. It was the sort of thing that would outrage Ross, who cared little for reputation and whose concern had never been for malicious gossip and and the consequences that might ensue. Dwight, though, for all he disliked the hard and unfeeling elder Warleggan, thought he could understand it. For all that he was sure that none at Nampara would use it against them, evidence of suspected lunacy was a dangerous thing, especially should it fall into the wrong hands.

“Poldark might make the connection,” Cary replied, his features contorting into a truly impressive sneer as he spat out Ross' name. “He saw enough to know there was something going on. And that's leaving aside what Valentine might have told him, fool of a child. Or you.”

Dwight's head shot up, shocked for a moment into silence by the vehement accusation. His thumb, which had still been running gently over George's knuckles as they spoke, slowed to a stop.

“I have told him nothing, sir,” he said coolly, fighting the urge to bristle at the insinuation—as if he made a habit of blurting out pertinent information concerning patients to his friends like a child who understood no better. “You asked for complete discretion and I have done my utmost to adhere to that request.”

With the exception of Caroline, he thought, swallowing down a lump in his throat. True, it had been an honest mistake—on both their parts, he realised, despite what he had said to her at the time—but he had been unpardonably careless, leaving his notes, however briefly, to be so easily found. He felt badly for being so sharp with her on the matter. In hindsight, it was a relief to him that it had been Caroline who had stumbled across them rather than an inquisitive servant—or perhaps, he thought, remembering his wife's insistence that Horace had been poisoned, somebody with very ill intent indeed. He wondered perhaps if he should inform Cary of the incident, but just in that moment, the man let out a snort so fierce he was instantly discouraged.

“And you would do well to prove that by ensuring that nothing happens whilst my nephew is under your care to lead your...companions to dredge up certain truths,” he growled, and the look in his eyes was so piercing, so pointed that Dwight was halfway considering whether the man had read his thoughts before he came to his senses. “It would be a poor exchange for him to wake only to have that man poking his nose into old wounds.”

Dwight looked away, his attention drawn back to his patient. George seemed finally to be sleeping peacefully—or as peacefully as one could at least, when one was caught in the grip of such a fever. He let out a quiet sigh. He wished that he could say for sure that Ross would not act in any way detrimental to the man's health should he discover the truth, but, though he knew his friend would not act in malice, he feared that he might be inclined to be...indelicate at the very least, no matter how well-intentioned. But regardless of what Ross—or Demelza, or Prudie, or anybody else who might happen upon him in such a state—would do with such knowledge, he knew that it would be a breach of George's confidence to stand back and risk allowing any of them to discover it. His patient would hate them knowing, he knew, and it was his duty, he thought as he looked into the sleeping man's pain-filled face, to make sure that his secret was kept safe whilst he could not. He may not have guarded it closely enough once, but he would not fail again.

“For his sake,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Cary's gaze head-on. With a deep breath, he sent him a sharp nod. “For his sake, I shall do it.”

[harry-leroy]

Warlenys + Artist/Writer AU + Mutual Pining, maybe? :)

Hi! Thank you so much for this ask - and for waiting five million years for me to get this fic written. Y’all all know I’m a mess when it comes to these things but I get around to everything eventually so here we are. Remind me to write everything with the premise of mutual pining because this was really fun to write. I hope you enjoy! Tagging the Warleggan fam: @upstartpoodle, @ticketybooser, @lashbrook11 

“Just a little to the left, Mr. Warleggan,” the painter poked his face out from behind the canvas as he and his sitter nearly locked eyes. George tilted his chin up and turned his eyes to the window. It had been a pleasant day, much like the others in that rather pleasant summer, but there was something particularly lovely about that day of all days. George made a mental note of it in his head, composing poetry and rhythms in his head that he could only hope would sound just as nice coming from his pen when he had the time to write. 

Dwight turned back to his canvas, half-admiring the work he had done, but also cursing himself that the likeness was not exact. There was something more behind the eyes of the man who was sitting before him than he could capture with his brush. The portrait would serve the point it was intended to, certainly, but it would frustrate him to no end every time he looked at it. It was the curse of every artist. All the best things were created with the power of hindsight. He frowned, and set the brush down on the small table beside him. 

“Everything alright?” George turned his eyes to the canvas, not moving his head in case he were chastised for it. 

Dwight picked his head up, only to bury it in his chest again. He nodded, suddenly unable to look at George’s eyes altogether. Any artist would be lucky to have a sitter such as George Warleggan, for there was handsome pay, but furthermore he was a handsome subject. 

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s take a break for now. You must be tired from sitting,” 

George relaxed and rose from the chair from which he was posed, making his way to the sitting area at the other end of the room. 

“And you must be tired of standing,” he said as he walked past the painter and made his way to another seat, infinitely more comfortable. “Come and sit. I’ll call for some tea,” 

Before Dwight could respond, George was ringing a small silver bell set on the end table beside him, so the painter could only manage a stifled laugh before removing his apron and deciding to make himself welcome. 

“Have you many other friends here in Cornwall?” George asked, following Dwight with his eyes and finding the rhythms beat in his mind again. If he were someone of George’s status, there would be many fine ladies to ask for his hand, no doubt. Perhaps he would introduce him at a ball. It was the least he could do in an attempt of a friendly gesture. No sooner had he had the thought before he began to hate the very idea of anyone else even speaking to the painter. George recognized it as selfishness, an interesting flourish to the little poem dancing in his head, but a flourish of anguish nonetheless. 

“I would be privileged to call my subjects acquaintances, let alone friends,” Dwight managed a smile, but behind it was a man tormented by his own loneliness. 

“Then I shall introduce you to mine,” George decided. “In fact, Caroline Penvenen is meant to be here later today along with her uncle. I’m sure you would all get on charmingly,” 

Dwight shook his head, and managed another smile with that little laugh. 

“Ms. Penvenen and I have met before,” he said, his heart falling into his stomach. The thought of her was an equal agony. “Perhaps I should stop painting the portraits of those above my social call,” 

“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” George said. “I hope she did not vex you. A temper and will as hers can be near maddening at times. She said nothing to me about you. Nothing ugly anyway,” 

“Right,” Dwight said. She had no reason to mention his name to George. Now, as he sat before this man of near equal beauty, he did not feel cured of his affection for her, but instead a double deep misery at the thought of his affection for them both. He was saved in time from a total breakdown by the arrival of a servant carrying tea for them both. 

“Ah, thank you,” George said to the servant as he set down the glasses and handed one to Dwight. He then turned to his new companion, “I must have you over some other time then. Tell me, does an artist ever get a spare moment outside his profession?” 

“Perhaps physically,” Dwight said. “But I am always thinking about my work, so I can’t say that I really do get a spare moment,” 

“I know exactly what you mean,” George smiled before taking a sip of his tea. “Our minds are always turning,” 

“I’m sorry,” Dwight leaned forward slightly in his chair, something of a rough habit. “Are you an artist yourself?” 

George shrugged slightly, “I’ve published a few poems here and there,”. 

He then reached for a small stack of papers on the other side of the table they had been sharing, and handed them to Dwight. The painter hesitated a moment before accepting to take them, at first unsure of what they were. 

“I really shouldn’t leave them lying around,” George managed a nervous sort of laugh. To anyone listening through the walls, the whole conversation between the two men might as well have been nothing but nervous laughter. It was the language between men who felt immensely, for better or for worse. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Dwight said, rubbing the corner of one of the pages between two slightly trembling fingers. “I -” 

“I want you to have them,” George said. “If you will not stay the afternoon. Perhaps they shall inspire you. That is all I could wish for, ” 

Dwight looked at George, but found that this time it was the poet to turn his head away in shyness. The painter looked down at the pages again, and found himself not wanting to part with them anymore. 

“Forgive me,” Dwight said. “For being so short with you about staying. I wish I could spend the afternoon here, but I am needed elsewhere. I will, however, take these poems with gratitude,” 

Dwight Enys was not needed anywhere else, except perhaps in the room where he was presently. He had, however, decided it was for the best for him to never lay eyes on Caroline again, and with this new, strange affection pulling at his heart, the idea of staying to see them both would certainly tear him in two. 

“Oh, I do not mind it,” George said, minding it intensely. “An artist must go where he is called,”. He would miss the company of the painter until he returned again tomorrow. The thought was terrible, so much so that he had half a mind to accidentally ruin the portrait in some manner so that Dwight would stay to fix it. It was intercepted by the mental reminder that he had a stern and unforgiving uncle. To Uncle Cary, time was money. 

George then raised his teacup in a fashion that encroached on haphazard, but his refined manner still controlled it enough so Dwight did not notice.

“Well,” he said. “To art, and to the love of art,” 

Both the men smiled, hiding their pain behind manners and propriety, just as thousands of lovers had done before them. 

[anditsxsorrows-archive]

WELCOME TO SANDITON:

Sanditon is a seaside beach resort designed for your relaxation and comfort. it is outfitted with the most modern inventions geared toward your benefit. saunas and beach side games have all been developed to give the guests a good time. the streets are lined with shops and cafe’s while the night is scheduled with balls and lavish dinner parties. all sorts of guests are allowed to stay in one of the many cottages - families, gentlemen, ladies, young ladies ready to be introduced into society or couples eager for a romantic getaway. so enjoy your stay, you are certain to be rejuvenated by the end of it!

the beachside resort is owned by siblings Klaus and Rebekah Mikaelson. they are a very wealthy family and have decided that this venture will only further their inheritance. they do, however, need investors that will aid them in this venture, especially since Rebekah is rather hesitant to marry. they created this resort for all sorts of things: relaxation, to get away from their parents, for wealthy investors, to scheme possibly, and to encourage marriages. (IT’S AUSTEN GUISE all the tropes and trappings are good)

RULES:

zero to none all ocs/fandoms invited no duplicates this a regency era group verse however (between the years of 1811-1820) so bios must be plotted accordingly ships are more than welcome in group events are encouraged send all apps to ME! use the tag gv; welcome to sanditon please no drama NOW THE BIGGEST RULE OF THEM ALL: please join?

APP:

muse name: muse age: muse occupation: face claim: mun name:

CHARACTERS:

klaus mikaelson - 27 - owner - @anditsxsorrows rebekah mikaelson - 20 - owner - @ofimaginarybeings bellamy blake - 30 - soldier - @amongthcwreck finan - 30′s - prince (disinherited) - @inprometheanfire penelope elliot - 37 - @thehellyouputmein sydney lewis - 27 - @nottobecrossed emma macdowell - 19 - @astormofagirl hayley marshall - 23 - @badasshybridqueen esther lovell - 20 - @tothedevilsshow francis de valois - 25 - @tothedevilsshow charlotte palmer - 37 - @thehellyouputmein adele kaufman - 22 - @ofimaginarybeings uhtred ragnarsson - 25 - @ofimaginarybeings Elizabeta Petrovna - 29 - @ourredxmption Faith Lehane - 28 - @faiththesinfulslayer George Warleggan - 24 - @inprometheanfire  draedys targaryen - 30 - @draedys

[bowieandqueen11]

Morning After / George Warleggan Angst

Thank you for the idea @caxceberxvi! (George waking up the first morning without Elizabeth)<3

Warning: this may be difficult to read for some, so please don’t feel as if you have to if you’d rather not!

George’s mouth stretches open to allow a giant yawn to erupt, stretching his arms by his side, careful not to rustle his darling wife, groaning softly to himself as the cold breeze of the autumn morning blew in through the open windowpane, the growing dim rays of hazy light gleaming into his eyes on this beautiful morning. His hand reaches over to ball into a tight fist, grazing Elizabeth’s hip in a gentle tickle, grasping her night dress tightly as his gaze settles from the falling orange leaves of the tall oak tree and the slight wisps of grey clouds in the morning sky to rest on her face.

Her face looks so peaceful when she’s asleep, all the stress and laughter lines untraceable upon her smooth, youthful face, her pale skin glowing slightly as her eyes begin to race backwards and forwards behind her drooping eyelids. Chuckling gently to himself, George reaches slowly forward to press a warm kiss against her forehead.

‘Good morning, my love. It’s a beautiful morning outside, perfect for taking an afternoon stroll with baby Ursula if you’re feeling up for it?’

Her eyes open suddenly, flashing brightly in surprise before finally settling on the grin lining George’s face. The dimple on his cheek raises slightly as his tired eyes take in her ethereal form, before he pulls the covers swiftly up to both their shoulders with a small hum.

‘Perhaps you’re right, darling, a couple more minutes in bed could do us no harm.’

Cary leans down by the door, a large frown lining his face as he puts his ear against the keyhole, shooing away a few servants carrying breakfast with his other hand as a content, lazy groan floats through the door. On this cloudy morning there are growing patches of blue, the sort of hue that is soft and bright at the same time. Though beneath the sheet of cloud is a grey that deepens to steel, the leading edge is a brilliant white that promises either rain of sunshine. With a sigh, Cary knocks on the door before entering, a sigh escaping his lips as he places his hands behind has back, rolling slightly on the heel of his feet as he takes in the imagine of his nephew lying on his side in the empty bed, his arm scrunched up against Elizabeth’s pillow as he nestles into it.

‘Good morning, nephew, don’t you think it’s time to get up and get on with business?’

‘But Uncle, Elizabeth is still feeling a bit frail after yesterday’s events’, he says with a small smile, his finger running over the empty cotton in soft swirls.

Squinting slightly in the darkness that swirls in front of his desperate doe eyes like sullen clouds covering the sun, George’s fingers crave the warm touch of Elizabeth;s’s arms, the intimacy of her skin, the smooth curve of her nose as he traces his finger over the tip. Smiling to himself, his hand clamps down onto where her side should be, ready to tickle her gently awake with a warm kiss peppered to the side of her neck, before his face drops as his fingers fall down heavily through the empty air.

‘But...where on Earth has she gone? She was right here!’

Standing up quickly, he hobbles towards Cary, mumbling: ‘she must have gone down to breakfast whilst you distracted me.’

Cary reaches out his arm, his fingers tight as they dig into George’s shoulder muscles, ignoring the confused and angry look he gets in return as George gazes up at him.

‘Do you really not remember?’

Valentine sits alone on the empty wooden staircase, his fingers scratching against swirling oak pattern of the banister as silence envelopes him. A silence that is suddenly broken by shrill cries that hammer into his ears like someone driving pointed screwdrivers into his skull. He presses his hands against his ears, staring blankly at the floor in fear, his eyes dipped as they gaze without really seeing, no one there to notice the tears that drip and streak down his cheeks so violently it feels like he’s been doused in autumn rain.

[thewuzzy]

Poldark Series 3: a cliff notes by me*

*CLIFFnotes because cornwall has lots of CLIFFS get it lmfao

-at nampara-

Ross: *broodily down a mine* *broodily chopping logs* *broodily eating some cheese*

Demelza: Ross y r u such an emotionally unavailable husband

Ross: ??? *angrily gets on horse*

Horse: oh judas not again

Demelza: you are clearly going to visit Elizabeth

Ross: ?????? *rides horse aggressively away*

Demelza: 🤦‍♀️

-meanwhile in trenwith-

Elizabeth: *nursing a migraine*

George: I AM THE RICHEST PERSON IN CORNWALL. AT LAST I HAVE DEFEATED ROSS ONCE AND FOR ALL. I SHALL INVITE ROSS HERE AT ONCE AND THROW HIM A BALL SO I CAN TELL HIM HOW MUCH I HATE HIM. I CAN'T WAIT TO WEAR MY NEW GOLD PLATED TOP HAT IN FRONT OF ROSS SO HE KNOWS I HATE HIM. DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THE TIME I LICKED ROSS ON THE FACE TO SHOW HOW I HATE HIM. ALSO WHERE IS MY HEIR VALENTINE DEFINITELY A WARLEGGAN JUNIOR

Elizabeth: um

baby Valentine: *has "Ross was here" tattooed on his forehead*

George: AH YES MY SON AND HEIR VALENTINE, IDENTICAL TO MYSELF AND DEFINITELY OF MY SEED

Ross: *lurking angrily in the garden*

Elizabeth: Ross why are you lurking in the garden again? did you come back for me at last??

Ross: ???? *angrily*

Elizabeth: Ross y r u such an emotionally unavailable boyfriend

Ross: ????? *aggressively rides back to nampara*

Elizabeth: 🤦‍♀️

-back at nampara-

Demelza: i be standing in the yard angrily for 25 hours waiting to tell you how angry i be at you -

Ross: i am sexy

Demelza: oh ok

Ross: also i definitely love you more than Elizabeth

Demelza: i definitely believe you in order to provide temporary resolution until the next episode

*they snog*

*horse dies of exhaustion*

-THE END-

[nervousladytraveler]

Poldark spin offs we need now

The Secret Toymaker: As his young daughter, Ursula, grows into an odd and quiet girl, banker George Warleggan is desperate to forge a meaningful connection with her. He soon finds that while the child is not interested in conversation with her sad and awkward widower father, she is willing to play for hours on end with the toys in her well-stocked nursery. In an effort to please her and perhaps finally attract her attention, George himself begins to secretly build her some toys. Simple creations at first, over time his designs become more and more fantastical. Always delivered under a veil of secrecy, these mechanically complicated yet whimsically themed inventions are the only things that bring joy to the lonely little girl. Together--yet separately--George and Ursula build a quiet world of imagination and escape. George eventually takes his secret to the grave and the true identity of the inspired toymaker is never revealed to Ursula nor to anyone.

A Most Honourable Friend: Dr. Dwight Enys and his charming, sharp-witted wife, Caroline, move from Cornwall to London in the early 1800s. While Dwight is hard at work studying communicable diseases among the urban poor, his bored wife longs for intellectual stimulation of her own. At first it seems she can only pursue the usual occupations expected of a lady of her class--visiting friends, attending balls, playing cards with the neighbours. Then one tedious evening at the card table, she makes a new acquaintance--Arthur Kidston Elliot, a newly elected MP who lacks both confidence and original ideas. At first Caroline offers some clever advice to the dull and timid Elliot, but before long she is ghost writing speeches and even drafting proposed legislation for the young MP.  Elliot’s sudden political success is a surprise to all, especially his patron back in his home county, who had no idea Elliot was so inspired and forward thinking. But as Elliot’s parliamentary career rises meteorically, he becomes more and more desperate to keep Caroline’s role a secret. How far will Elliot go and will Caroline now find herself in unexpected danger?

Life’s Greatest Treasure: Series One follows Verity Blamey’s evolution from gentle housewife to murderous pirate queen. While her husband is away on the Lisbon Packet, Verity’s son, a privateer, has gone missing at sea. Unwilling to sit at home alone and wait for bad news--or no news at all--she decides she must act, and convinces a local tub carrier to take her as far as the Scilly Isles to begin her search. But when uninvited French rogues come aboard one night, killing the captain and attempting to commandeer the vessel, Verity finds herself successfully defending its cargo and the fearful crew. Amazed at her skill with a dagger and ashamed at their own cowardice, the crew--indebted to her for their very lives--now hail her as their leader. But with blood on her hands and illegal cargo in her hull, Verity and her gang are soon hunted by both the Cornish excise men and the French, who seek revenge for the death of one of their own. Soon Verity finds herself embroiled in the dangerous world of piracy, all the while continuing to search for her lost son.

The Flag of St. Piran: Series One follows the developing friendship of two young wives who unexpectedly find themselves solving crimes in early 19th century Cornwall. Broken hearted but not broken in mind nor spirit, Emma Tregirls & Jinny Martin Carter have each recently married local men for companionship and survival--not for love. Stoically they both face their often difficult and always tedious lives, determined to put lost dreams behind them. But after a young village girl is murdered, Jinny and Emma join together to track down the killer. And when it is clear the genteel magistrates have no interest sitting the case, the two resolve to deliver their own brand of justice. (The title comes from the white cross on a black background of the Cornwall flag, representing white tin flowing from the black rock, or good overcoming evil).

[legopoldark]

Demelza, Book One, Chapter 11

Years before, when he had left the Assembly Rooms sick at heart and desperate and had gone to the Bear Inn and tried to drink his misery away, there had come to him a tall, gaunt young harlot, distinctive and unusual but down-and-out, importuning him with her wide bold eyes and drawling tongue. “Mrs. Cartland,” said George, “may I introduce Captain Poldark, Francis’s cousin. Mrs. Margaret Cartland.” Ross said, “Your servant, ma’am.” Margaret gave him the hand in which she held the dice shaker. How well he remembered the strong white teeth, the broad shoulders, the feline, lustful dark eyes. “Me lord,” she said, boldly using her old name for him, “I’ve looked for this introduction for years. I’ve heard such tales about you!” “My lady,” he said, “believe only the most circumstantial—or those that are witty.” She said, “Could any of them fail to be, that concerned you?” His eyes traveled over her face. “Or any not seem to be, ma’am, with you to recount them.” She laughed. “Nay, it is the stories that can’t be told that I find most diverting.” He bowed. “The essence of a good joke is that only two should share it.” “I thought that was the essence of a good bed,” said Francis, and everybody laughed.