#Mother Gin Sling

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 120 years ago: actress Ona Munson (16 June 1903 - 11 February 1955). Munson is inevitably best remembered for her role as bordello madam Belle Watling in Gone with the Wind (1939), but I love her best for her majestic performance as the villainess Mother Gin Sling in Josef von Sternberg’s decadent masterpiece The Shanghai Gesture (1941).

#ona munson #belle watling #gone with the wind #the shanghai gesture #mother gin sling #josef von sternberg #lobotomy room

[silkscream]

CHAPTER 4: EYES WITHOUT A FACE

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He’s never known what to do with his feelings, always choosing to bury them where no one else could reach until all of it would rot by itself. It didn’t concern him. It was why he lived life somewhat carelessly. Avoidant.

He’s never known what to do with his feelings about you, either.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content, angst, dub/noncon, underage alcohol usage

ੈ✩ wc: 4.3k

ੈ✩ a/n: chuckles nervously... the plot thickens

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

November, 2008

You are downing your third gin and juice when you start to feel your bones loosen. Anxiously, you had already downed a glass of wine before you arrived at Satoru’s house, and that wasn’t enough to settle your nerves. You’d only been here for about an hour and a half and had mingled with a few classmates you recognized from school, otherwise keeping to yourself amidst the chaos.

That is, until a wired Shoko slings her arm around your shoulder, nearly tripping over herself.

“You came!” she beams. You’d only met her a few times, mostly in passing, each time at Satoru’s house while you were with your mother working and not as a guest. 

She’s deer-like, with a dazed, sleepy expression on her face and a joint hanging out of her mouth as opposed to her usual Seven Star. She leans on you close enough for you to smell the smoky scent of her hair, which is currently adorned with small black devil ears.

“Happy birthday, Ieiri-san,” you smile, fishing a small box out of your coat.

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything! Those idiots only got me like two cases of beer as a present, anyway,” she laughs. She unwraps the gift to reveal a zippo lighter with a scorpion design on it.

“I thought cigarettes would’ve been too on the nose,” you shrug.

“I love it,” she smiles, hugging you. “Suguru always steals my lighters. He’s definitely not getting a hold of this one.”

“Do you know where he is? Or Gojo-kun?”

She looks at you, then, with an unreadable expression. Something of simultaneous confusion and amusement.

“Probably doing something illegal. I’d guess upstairs or outside, maybe? I just saw them.”

You snort. There wouldn’t be one without the other. You blame your eagerness to drink on why you hadn’t caught them earlier, though when you check your phone again for the fifth time tonight, there are no messages. Satoru is inconsistent in his texting anyway – either silent for a few days, then blowing up your phone in the middle of the night with his random thoughts.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, let me know if you need anything, okay?” She squeezes your hand like a friend would. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thank you, Ieiri-san,” you nod. 

You explore the kitchen, frowning at the clear spills on the countertop and the nearly empty cabinets that used to be full of glasses and mugs. You roll your eyes at your immediate thoughts of cleaning up. Always your mother’s child, never a real guest in a place like this.

You don’t think you can handle another gin and juice, though the drunken devil on your shoulder still goads you to drink more. You were a lightweight, less so than Satoru, but enough to feel blurry at the moment. You settle on a forgotten bottle of plum wine, justifying it with its lesser alcohol content.

The taste is sweet, sickeningly so. Something that Satoru would like. It tastes like he would.

You ignore the slight ache in your head. The music is too loud, blasting in your ears, and the number of people who have arrived at the party since you’d spoken to Shoko has multiplied tenfold. 

You stare at your phone again. Nothing.

You’re too warm in your coat now, huddled shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. There’s probably a safe chance that the boys were upstairs, and even if they weren’t, you could take a breather in Satoru’s room and leave your coat there.

It’s humid once you get to the top of the staircase. Your hair sticks to your back a little as you carry your coat in your arms. The black slip dress you decided on feels too thin, suddenly, but you think it suits your body. Shows just the right amount of skin because of how short it is. Satoru would like it.

The door to Satoru’s bedroom is slightly ajar. You hear more than one voice – a round of them, boisterous. There are several bottles of alcohol on the floor that you can see, a full ashtray, and a small group of strangers that you assume to be Satoru’s friends, though you realize they’re all women. When you tilt your head, you can see him.

He’s sitting on Suguru’s lap, laughing. You notice the way Suguru’s hand rests on Satoru’s stomach, while Satoru absentmindedly taps his fingers along Suguru’s thigh. He’s sprawled out on the boy, taking up space the way he always does, and it looks… intimate. Like they belong to each other.

Satoru whines when Suguru bites at the exposed skin of his collarbone playfully, swatting him away. It’s a similar gesture you do to him when he sneaks up behind you at school. When he gets you alone. When he gets you to follow him home until you end up in his bed.

You know that Satoru is a touchy drunk, but you’ve never seen such adoration in his eyes before. It makes you feel sick. 

But you can’t find it in yourself to be angry or shocked. Rather, you feel a bit pathetic. Looking from the outside in, in a place you practically grew up in, feeling more alone than ever.

You want to watch them for longer. Like a voyeur. 

There’s an itch in your body that wants to see if the boys will kiss. Satoru has never been this touchy with you in the presence of others. With Suguru, it looks like muscle memory.

Your knuckles pale as you grip the bottle of plum wine in your hand. You chug the rest, not caring about the taste making your insides swirl. After discarding your coat in one of the hallway closets, you take a deep breath and retreat downstairs.

Shoko bumps into you in the middle of the dancefloor. The way her face lights up almost dissipates the pit in your stomach. Almost.

“Hey, baby! Come dance.” 

“I need a smoke, actually, but I will after.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she says, handing you one of her Seven Stars cigarettes and her zippo.

“I can get matches from the kitchen, don’t worry.”

Once you’re outside, the music is a dull ache in the back of your head. The November air is colder than you expect considering the recent days of decent weather, but the alcohol keeps you numb. You inhale smoke, eyes fluttering at the memory of intimacy. 

“If you guys drank all my birthday sake, I’m seriously going to castrate you both.”

Shoko pulls the bottle out of Satoru’s hands while he’s in the middle of sipping. He nearly chokes from the force of her, liquid dripping onto his chin. Suguru wipes it off and laughs.

“This isn’t your birthday sake, dumbass!”

“Gross,” Shoko says, wrinkling her nose at the off-brand label. It’s cheap and sweet, just the way Satoru likes it.

Fiending for more alcohol, Satoru frowns when he examines the other liquor bottles scattered around the circle of them, only to find that there’s only hard liquor. He drinks from a bottle of Sprite instead to satiate his craving, in addition to stealing a maraschino cherry out of Yuki’s cocktail. 

“You finished every bottle of sake, Satoru,” Suguru frowns.

“Great! Let’s play spin the bottle.”

“No,” Utahime interjects. She throws an empty beer can at Satoru’s head.

“Yeah, I’m downvoting that, too,” Shoko adds. She takes the joint that Suguru finishes rolling and lights it. “It’s my birthday and I’m not letting this idiot try to fuck everyone like he does at every party.”

“That’s because his type is everyone. He’s a whore,” Yuki chuckles.

“I don’t try to fuck everyone–”

“Go find your girlfriend if you want to get your dick wet so bad,” she interrupts, mumbling with the joint in her mouth. “We should find her and get her to play poker with us. She looked a little sad when I saw her.”

“Huh?” Satoru blinks.

“Oh, and why does she call you by your last name? Is it because she technically works for you?”

“No fucking way Gojo found a poor soul to be his girlfriend,” Utahime mutters. She settles her head on Shoko’s lap in the bed, stealing the joint out of her mouth. “Do you pay her?”

“No, she’s like a servant or something, right?” Yuki says.

“Gojo! That’s sick. The poor girl.”

“Stop, you’re making her out to seem like she’s my fucking concubine,” Satoru asserts, a bit too fiercely than he means to. His lips twitch at the mention of you.

Suguru raises his brows at Satoru, knowing the boy is too drunk and too befuddled to know what to say. The girls stare.

“She’s not my girlfriend, either.”

“You should fuck her, then,” Shoko slurs. “She’s so cute.”

“She’s our friend,” Suguru drawls, tipping back vodka like it’s water. “You haven’t seen her yet, Satoru?”

Satoru shakes his head. His heart pounds quicker now that you’re the topic of conversation. That feeling comes back – the one that makes him panic, as if he’s discovering that something he owns is lost. It twists in his stomach, knowing how selfish it is. He wants to keep you in a way that’s separate from the rest of his life because you were his.

He gets up and mumbles something about going to the bathroom. In the hallway, he opens his phone and stares at your contact. Your photo hasn’t changed in years – a goofy close-up that he took when he was thirteen. 

When he calls you, his heartbeat quickens the longer the phone rings, only to realize that he hears the sound of your ringtone from behind the closet. He finds your phone and your coat, but there’s no trace of you.

It sobers him up considerably. The lights in the house flicker.

The temperature drops as the night drags on, which is why you have the firepit to yourself. The fire is still glowing, warming your bare legs. 

Fuck. You want another cigarette.

You jump at the sound of another’s presence. When you turn, you see your classmate, Haru, nursing a half-empty bottle of wine in his right hand.

“Getting up to trouble, I see,” he grins.

You laugh. It’s more of a scoff, but you smile at him.

“Yeah, some crazy delinquent activity. Some might even call it mischief.”

The joke makes him laugh, which makes you laugh, genuinely. Haru had the demeanor of a puppy, always excitable and easy to please. It used to be a little annoying when you were first years but he’d mellowed out since then, it seems.

Under the glow of the fire, he looks handsome in a boyish way. His hair has gotten longer over the year, like Suguru’s, but he lets it fall to his shoulders. You scoot over on the patio couch, welcoming him to sit.

“You look very pretty, by the way. I like your dress.”

“O—Oh,” you stammer, surprised. “Thank you.”

He offers you the bottle of wine in his hand and you accept, taking a swig of pinot grigio. Future you is going to kill you for mixing so many different alcohols in your stomach. Current you is basking in the warmth of your surroundings.

“Sorry if this is awkward, but uh—” He fiddles with his fingers, but the eye contact he makes with you feels oddly intense. “Are you, like, seeing Gojo?”

His name makes your face burn. You almost choke on the wine.

“Uh, no. Just—um, what made you think that?” 

“He just seems possessive over you,” Haru shrugs. 

“Yeah, right. He never talks to me in school.”

“But he does, sometimes, and I notice it. He looks at you in a certain way. S’why I was kind of scared to approach you, actually.”

You furrow your brows at the idea of Satoru scaring other boys away. Other boys didn’t talk to you, never have. You didn’t think you were exceptionally attractive in a way that made other people pine over you. You were always focused on academics anyway. But has Satoru always driven other boys away?

“He’s not my bodyguard or whatever,” you try to joke. “And I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that.”

Haru widens his eyes. You curse yourself in your head. It’s the wine talking. It has to be.

“I think I might be.”

When did he get so close to you? You notice you’re both thigh to thigh. Your stomach drops when Haru caresses your jaw. His touch doesn’t feel right. It’s not what you’re used to, not what you want.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, face inches from yours. You freeze when you realize what’s happening, closing your eyes to accept it. A drunken kiss won’t hurt anyone. Maybe it’s what you need.

He’s soft at first until his tongue pries your mouth open. From there, there’s spit and teeth, his hand squeezing your throat the tiniest bit in a way that makes you whimper. The sound of it encourages him. He has his other hand on your thigh, underneath the hem of your dress.

You’re brainless. A used toy. Your head is swimming rapidly, too messy to register all of it. The panic subsides into blankness as your body surrenders. Everything feels so heavy.

“H-Haru–”

“I’ve always liked you,” he mumbles in between kisses. How is his grip on you so tight?

“Haru, I don’t–”

You can’t get a word in with his tongue down your throat.

You’re barely kissing him back now, but he takes from you anyway. Licks your teeth and inches his hand higher and higher up your thigh. When he finally releases your mouth, he has his tongue on your neck instead, and it feels sordid. You are numb and he is molding you in his hands.

Satoru’s voice is in your head calling you weak.

You recoil when you feel calloused fingers grazing your core. You make a weak attempt to push him away, small fists to his broad chest. When your gaze drifts, you see a pair of burning blue eyes.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing—”

Haru’s hair is yanked, and his body is pulled backward and thrown onto the ground. It’s all too fast—a whiplash of crushed bone and bloody knuckles. White hair and burning blue eyes.

“What the fuck, man–”

You watch in horror as Satoru kicks the boy on his side. You don’t even notice that Suguru is pulling you away with a hand on your waist.

You’ve never seen Satoru so angry. Never seen him be violent outside of playfighting Suguru in the grass. He’s a whole other being in front of you now, and it scares you, and it’s somehow… beautiful.

“Touch her again and I fucking kill you,” he seethes, spitting on Haru’s cheek. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

He’s breathing heavily and glances at you. There’s a look of betrayal and disbelief that you see briefly before Suguru sweeps you away. When you’re back inside, you let go of his hand to run to the bathroom and vomit.

Your eyes fucking ache.

It’s the dried tears and strained pupils underneath the disgusting overhead light of the downstairs bathroom. Your head pounds. You don’t remember when you came to, but you find comfort from the arm around you. Shoko sits next to you and runs a reassuring hand through your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you croak. “I ruined your birthday.”

“Are you kidding?” Shoko chuckles. “That was entertaining as hell. Even if I only saw half of it. Leave it to Satoru to steal all the attention on my birthday.”

You frown, staring at her. How can she be so nonchalant that someone left her party with a broken nose? 

The ghost of Haru’s touch makes your skin crawl, making you reflexively shut your thighs together. The bathroom floor is cold underneath your skin.

“I’ve never seen him so mad before,” you lament quietly.

“Neither have I,” she exhales. “It takes a lot to work him up. He had no room to be jealous, though. He said you weren’t his girlfriend.”

Her words prick you like the blade of a dagger. Slowly. Drawing blood. 

“I– I wasn’t trying to hook up with that guy,” you say. “I was so drunk. I didn’t want it.”

Shoko looks at you with pity. “Oh, fuck.”

When she wraps your arms around you, you’re too numb to cry. The door opens and the boys enter. Your eyes stay on the floor. Your gut twists inside out.

“How is she?” you hear Suguru ask.

That again. Talking about you instead of to you.

Shoko mouths something, you think. A soundless gesture as she rubs your back soothingly like a sister would. 

“You want a ride home, princess?” Suguru asks.

“She can sleep here. There’s a room for her.”

You look up at the sound of Satoru’s voice. His face is cold, unreadable. You don’t expect him to lift you and carry you to his room, but he does. There’s a pang in his heart when you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Take this.” He tips your head back for you and parts your lips with his hands so he can get the painkillers on your tongue. Water down your throat. 

“Good girl.”

“I can take care of myself,” you grumble, curling into yourself on the edge of his bed. 

“Clearly you can’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have fucking blacked out.”

“I’m sorry, Satoru,” you say with dejection. “Just—please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. Not with you.”

But he is, just a little. The mere idea of someone else touching you makes him see red, and having it be real and at his fucking house made him livid beyond repair. How dare that piece of trash touch you. Like you aren’t Satoru’s and his alone. 

He’s also upset at himself because he knew it wouldn’t have happened if he’d found you sooner.

He lays on his side behind you and pulls you close. 

“I don’t understand you,” you say, weakly. Your nose feels fuzzy again the way it does before you cry.

“I don’t, either,” Satoru sighs.

You turn to face him, then, and the look on your face devastates him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. I didn’t know what was happening. I mean, I did, but I didn’t—I didn’t want all of that,” you sniffle. “Didn’t want him to touch me.”

You say it like you’re confessing. Pleading. Guilt swallows him whole.

What you want to ask: Why am I only something to you when someone else touches me?

“I’m so sorry,” Satoru whispers. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to stop it and that you had to see me like that. I’ll never let anyone hurt you like that again. Okay?”

Touch her again and I kill you.

You nod weakly, smiling. He holds you and lets you cry until you fall asleep. It feels like he’s committing a crime to be able to hold you like this.

Satoru closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He’s never known what to do with his feelings, always choosing to bury them where no one else could reach until all of it would rot by itself. It didn’t concern him. It was why he lived life somewhat carelessly. Avoidant. 

He’s never known what to do with his feelings about you, either. 

He didn’t think they would come back. Ideally, you both would’ve finished school and he would go to Jujutsu Tech and forget about you. Maybe you see you on the off-occasion he’s home, but he doesn’t plan on being home that often. But he’s young and stupid and hungry, and when you were there for him on a platter, he wanted to take you. Consume you.

He feels powerful when he knows that you want to consume him, too. He can’t live with himself knowing that that power will only hurt you in the end. 

He almost wishes you were angry at him. You could scream at him if you wanted and it would be justified, but you’re here in his arms again instead. Apologizing.

Something ugly twists inside of him. He remembers what you said in bed the other day. 

You could do anything you wanted to me and I think I’d let you.

It made him sick with desire then, but it makes him sick with remorse now.

November, 2008 (Three days later)

“Is she okay? She hasn’t responded to my text,” Suguru asks.

“You text her?” 

Satoru tries not to look annoyed. Instead, he looks away and kicks away a discarded Ramune bottle across the pavement. On Mondays, he liked to skip his last class and force Suguru to accompany him for a late lunch that usually consisted of konbini sweets.

“Not really. She has my number, though,” Suguru says, taking a puff of a cigarette. Shoko’s influence. “Why, you jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are.” Suguru gives him a sly grin. “That’s why you knocked the lights out of that guy.”

“He was assaulting her.”

Satoru sighs, sprawling his legs on the bench (which is too short to fit the length of his body) and puts his head in Suguru’s lap. He flinches when Suguru pokes his nose.

“She’s okay, though?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.”

Satoru thinks of your dejected gaze and the limpness of your body when he touched you the next morning. He was softer than usual given the situation, and you bound yourself to him like you always do. Clung to him, almost. He blushes at the memory of your face after he made you cum from his mouth. 

You seemed fine at breakfast Saturday morning when Satoru treated you to pancakes. But even with your sarcastic remarks and usual banter, the light in your eyes seemed dimmer.

It had barely been 36 hours since then, but he missed you.

“I think I would’ve done the same thing as you,” Suguru says.

Satoru sighs crankily, throwing an arm over his face to block the sunlight.

“I probably would’ve killed him if you guys weren’t there,” he grumbles. “Sometimes I want to kidnap her, I swear. Never leave her out of my sight. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking drunk.”

Suguru looks down at him, raising his brows. One of his usual looks – astute and slightly shaming. 

Satoru is grateful for the darkness of his lenses, though he knows that regardless, Suguru can easily tell what expression he’s giving him. He’s looking away, anyway, examining a stray cat on top of the roof of the konbini.

Satoru takes a moment to trace his eyes along the sharp lines of Suguru’s jawline. Clenched at the thought of you being hurt, a similar sentiment that Satoru’s had for the past few days. His fists burn with the ghost of that bastard’s blood. He wishes he could do it all again—punch his fucking teeth out harder than his nose.

While he thinks of you and the fragility of your far-away stare, he also thinks of your skin. At the moment, the thought is subtly replaced with Suguru’s hands absentmindedly scratching his head. It’s funny — you and Suguru had the same habit when it came to giving Satoru affection.

Prodigies, the two of them. Their abilities would rank them as Grade 1 by their first year of Jujutsu Tech, special grade by the time they complete their first few missions. Satoru really did see Suguru as his other half. It was why your inclusion made him uneasy despite how much he cared for you. 

It wasn’t anything personal. He was simply wrapped around Suguru’s finger first. They had drunkenly kissed two years prior, fresh-faced and seventeen, and would continue to on random occasions that weren’t dictated by anything other than hormones and energy shifts in the air.

Maybe Satoru would consider Suguru as his first love, if he knew anything about it. He didn’t know what you were, yet. He couldn’t describe his feelings for you. It was something beyond words, which scared him.

“Do you think you’re going to take her to the New Year’s Party?” Suguru’s voice shakes Satoru out of his thoughts.

“What? I think I’m taking Mei Mei or something. Mother’s orders.”

“Mother’s orders?”

“Dude, I don’t know. She was like, assigned to me months ago. I still don’t get why it’s such a big deal for the clan, but Mei Mei and her family are close to the family or whatever.”

“I just thought you would bring Y/N, s’all.”

“Why?” Satoru asks.

Suguru smiles, giving him a knowing look before he rolls his eyes.

“You like her.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to lie to me, dude. I figured you were fucking her since she started hanging out with us.”

“She’s… my friend,” Satoru defends. His brain feels fucking scrambled. “My oldest friend.”

“Okay,” Suguru chuckles. “I was kind of thinking of asking her, then.”

“To– to what? The party?”

“Yeah.”

Satoru sits up from Suguru’s lap.

“It’s not really her scene.”

“She hangs out with you, I’m sure she can handle a little party thrown by your family.”

“It’s not little. It’s—fucking annoying and extravagant. I literally only go because I have to and there’s always an open bar,” Satoru prattles. “I thought you’d take Shoko.”

“Jesus, then I’d have to take care of her drunk ass. She’d probably want to get wasted with Utahime anyway. You know how much she wants to fuck her.”

Satoru is screaming in his head. If his worlds collide more than they already have, he might just break open completely. He straightens his posture in an attempt to not appear particularly haughty, though he knows Suguru can probably see right through him. 

He makes a non-committal noise, stone-faced when he looks at his friend. He hides his face as he rolls his eyes. 

His tone is bored, lips quirking in a bitter smile.

“Right, okay,” Satoru yawns. “Do whatever you want.”

#gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you

[inkareds]

First Time Modern Aegon Targaryen 3 / 10 - Unreal Unearth Event

nav // event masterlist // hotd m.list (tba) // ko-fi ✧.* word count: 4.3k (a long one lmao) ✧.* genre: angst with good ending ✧.* warnings: Aegon is an alcoholic trying to be better, Alicent and Otto aren't the best people, a lot of pining and self hatred (Aegon)

When Aegon meets you, someone so fun and yet so kind, he doesn't think you could ever love him. But when you do, he doesn't know if he deserves it.

Modern Aegon makes me so soft, like I hate canon Aegon sm but Modern! Aegon who wants to do better whose just a sad, depressed, little attention seeker whose trying. Now that, that pulls at my heartstrings.

As always lyric breakdown and analysis of this fic is at the end of it.

Also only ONE slot is left for my October writing event!

"Remember once I told you about // How before I heart it from your mouth // My name would always hit my ears // As such an awful sound // The first time that you called me 'baby' // and some part of me came alive"

“Aegon!” His mother calls. 

“Aegon!” His brother calls.

“Aegon!” His father calls. 

Aegon, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon. 

It is his name. The one given by his father and mother. Aegon Targaryen, second child of Viserys Targaryen, first child of Alicent Hightower. And yet, he hates it when he hears it. 

His father yells his name in contempt, as any and all mistakes his older sister feels the brunt of are all blamed on him. His mother yells his name in disappointment, hatred coating every syllable of his name when she speaks it. His brother yells his name in disgust, reprimanding him as if he is his brother’s keeper. 

Aegon hates it. Though he knows it to be fair. For he is a Targaryen through and through with his dashing good looks, dazzling white hair, and delightful violet eyes. And with his charming looks and even deeper pockets, the public is much more lenient on him. Especially when he fucks every woman in his uni and drinks every kind of liquor until his eyes glaze over and he can’t speak. 

His father hates him, he disappoints his mother, and he disgusts his brother. And so, he hates himself, he’s disappointed in himself, and he’s disgusted in himself. 

But like an attention-seeking mutt who knows touch only when they are hit, he continues his ministrations. His drunken parties, his whoring attitude. If not to dull the ache of feeling less like a human and more of a mistake, then to get his family's attention, even if that attention is a terrible one. 

It was pathetic and he knows it, everyone in his family and in his life tries to tell him that it’s pathetic as if he doesn’t understand that more than anyone else. But he laughs, a chagrined grin decorates his face, and he pretends like it doesn’t bother him. Then the next day he is drowning himself in gin at a frat party, shoving his tongue down a random person’s throat. 

“Hey stranger,” he muses as he sits on the couch next to you. 

You roll your eyes, “Not interested, pretty boy.” 

“Oooo,” he feigns being hurt, dramatically placing a hand on his chest, “Playing hard to get are you, baby?” 

His arm goes to sling itself around your shoulders as he leans himself to your side. You only laugh and sip your red solo cup. Letting the burn of whatever strong alcohol Aegon bought with his limitless money ease you into his touch. 

“Nope, just not interested.” 

“Oh come on, everyone’s interested in this,” at this point Aegon was so deep in his cups that his words slurred and he was leaning on you so much that in a few moments, he’ll have collapsed on your lap. 

“Maybe that’s the issue dumbass,” you hummed grinning as he does somehow lose his balance even when seated and collapsed on your lap. 

Aegon looks up at you from your lap, with a dopey grin and messy white hair. You couldn’t help yourself to rake your fingers through his silky locks, slightly tangled from sweat. He all but purrs at your touch, crooning his head like a cat towards the palm of your hand. 

“I’m going to have to force you to sleep earlier than you usually do tonight pretty boy,” you spoke barely loud enough to be audible through the loud music. 

Though Aegon was sure that even in the loudest of loud rooms he’d be able to hear you whisper in a crowd. 

He pouts, “Why? The night’s still young.” 

“Well, it’s 2 a.m. and in a couple of days, we have our grading for our final portraits collection.” You reminded him of the art class the two of you share together. 

Much to the disappointment of Aegon, when he had graduated high school his mother had practically forced him to attend University for an undergrad. A major in Business Media and Marketing and a minor of his choice. To the surprise of everyone, he chose a minor in Fine Arts. That choice of minor is what led him to be in the same classes as you. 

A major in Fine Arts and a minor in Art History, you lived and breathed the world of visual art. As his true self blossomed in all of his art classes, he couldn’t help but be more attentive to his classmates in those classes than the others. When a majority of them were the classic introverted, hermit, of art students, he repeatedly saw you attend frat party after frat party. 

Drink yourself to drunkenness and partake in the pleasures of the flesh, though not as much as he does, but more than the other classmates that’s for sure. That’s what pulls him to you. 

The juxtaposition of your existence was proof that someone intelligent can also be wild and fun, unlike his siblings. You were like him in that manner. You thrived on the recklessness of being young and free, yet when the sun rose you glowed with passion and thrived for a happy future. He didn’t think that was possible. 

Didn’t think someone could think and have so much hope for the future and not be a stick in the mud like Aemond, Helaena, or hell even Daeron is. 

But there you were. 

Not surprising anyone, even your friends, you became quick friends with Aegon Targaryen. However, what surprised people was how long you were friends with him. They thought the two of you would be friends for a little while, screw around here and there, get bored of each other and then move on to your separate lives. 

Yet here you were, almost three years into your undergrad and almost three years into your friendship with the Targaryen and neither of you have ended up in each other’s bed. 

Though not for a lack of trying, Aegon was a merciless flirt. He tried at first to woo you into his bed, but when he realised that didn’t work he thought the friends-to-friends-with-benefits pipeline would serve the two of you better. When you wouldn’t relent to that, he finally accepted that the two of you won’t fuck. Though the flirting never stops. 

“Come on dragon,” you hauled him towards his bed after finally convincing him to get in the Uber with you. 

Aegon, with his face smushed into his pillow, smiles at the nickname you gave him after finding out his family was one of those rich old ones that somehow had a family sigil. 

“God, you’re going to regret drinking that much tomorrow morning.” You chuckled moving to take off his shoes and placing them down and going out to grab him a glass of water. 

“I always do!” he yells out and gets himself comfortable on his bed. 

“But you never learn!” You call out from the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher of water and an empty glass, as well as something for the morning when his headaches wrack his brain. 

The two of you did this so often now that it feels like routine. It wasn’t like you were always the responsible one, there were also times when he’d have to pull you away from bad decisions. It’s just that he makes them more often than you do. 

When you return, his eyes are already closed and his body is somewhat wrapped in blankets. You silently chuckled and for the second time that night, after putting down the things you were carrying, you weaved your hands through his hair.

You always loved them, envied them to a degree, how effortless gorgeous his curls were. Even when he was hammered beyond insanity, they were always there to frame his gorgeous face. 

So maybe you did like him a little bit. More than how friends would but you won’t ever admit it. Not to him at least. You know he isn’t ready for anything serious and you didn’t want to put that burden onto him. So you were content in just being his friend. It wasn’t too bad. 

But when you are about to leave, his hand grasps your arm and he cracks his eyes slightly, “Sleep here just for tonight. It’s cold and late.” 

You know that it’s those extra feelings of yours for him that allow you to agree and slink into his bed. 

As drunk as he was, Aegon knows what he’s doing. He pulls you close to him and lets the slow rise and fall from your breathing lull him to sleep. Hopeful that you don’t see through his apparent affection and longing. And you think he is asleep when you place a soft kiss on his forehead. 

When he wakes the next day, it is close to noon and your warmth has left his bed, leaving behind a small indentation as the only proof of you ever being there last night. Other than the little note you left on his bedside table instructing him to drink the pill you’ve provided so that he could actually work on his artwork and not be too distracted by his clanging hangover. 

He grits his teeth and pretends he doesn’t wish you were still here. 

Picking up the note he can’t help but smile at your handwriting, “Don’t forget to drink lots of water pretty boy.”

Pretty boy, dumbass, dragon, sometimes, though extremely rarely, Aeg. He never hears you call him his actual name. It’s always the little nicknames and pet names. He likes it that way, it separates you from everyone else. 

From his family who calls it in contempt and from the people around him who calls it either in mock sweetness before they ask him for a favour or in lust. 

He doesn’t know when he started loving you instead of just liking you. Doesn’t know when the line between seeing you as a friend and as a crush started to blur together in his mind. But he knows when he does realise it, he tries everything he can to hide from it. Because he doesn’t want to think about how you might feel about him. 

But as the events of the night repeat in his mind, a deep guttural kind of sickness bubbles in his stomach. So much so that he runs to the bathroom to expel the bile and alcohol from the previous night. 

Aegon doesn’t know what is worse, you rejecting him if he were to pursue you or what is happening now, you accepting him if he were to pursue you. 

One of the choices means you saw what everyone else saw, someone not worth being loved. But the latter means you thought he was deserving of all your love and passion. Which he doesn’t think he does. 

Do you see yourself as that low to allow yourself to think his love could match your own? 

No, you deserve someone better than him. He knows that. 

But why does the thought of you being with someone else cause such a disgruntled fear and hatred within himself that he can’t help but wretch out more vomit from his system?

He hates it. Hates the war that’s raging in his heart, hates the way it twists and breaks him apart. 

He’s happy that you feel the same way he does, but he hates that it means you love him. Him, someone so undeserving of it. 

He wishes to see you spend your energy, time, and love with someone who actually deserves it but would rather die than see you with someone else. 

The war rages on in his heart, through days and weeks, you can see it too. Though you ignore it. 

You know better than most when to leave people alone to fight their own battles. And right now, though you didn’t know what battle Aegon was facing, whether that was between him and his family or him and himself. All you know is that he’ll come to you with his heart and problems when he’s ready. For now, you won’t force it upon him. 

He knows it too and he hates it too. He wishes you could just make his decision for him, just like the people closest in his life have done. But you’ve given him his own self to decide. 

So, there you were, still partying till dawn when you didn’t have exams. Drinking, laughing, having fun. All the while he laughs and jokes around, pretending like his mind isn’t just filled with one thing, you.

But then one day he’s at a party and when he sees you refuse a drink, controlling yourself as tomorrow you had to wake up early, he refuses the drink as well. When you bid him goodbye to go home earlier, he accompanies you home, going home early as well. 

When you decline his invitation to go to a party the next week as you have to finish your dissertation. He doesn’t push you to join him and instead ends the phone call and opens his laptop to study for an upcoming test in Media 101. 

When you rage to him about not being able to get the proportions to a painting correctly, he doesn’t offer to grab a drink with you to loosen your ministrations and paint easier. Instead of going over to your studio and giving as much constructive criticism as he possibly could. 

When finals finally ended and the two of you went to a party every night, he didn’t drink himself till he was close to passing out. Instead, he’s laughing and joking around with you. Oddly having deep conversations as the two of you idly make yourselves away from the party and to an empty field in the Uni where you could stargaze and talk for ages. 

And when he invites you to his family’s annual gala, the one the Targaryens have to make stronger business connections and is filled to the brim with prim and proper ladies and gents, as he always does every year since you’ve been friends, he actually tells his mother that he’ll be there. Not like every other year where he gives her a non-commital answer, only to flake out the day off, making Aemond have to drag him to the event and him asking you to be his ‘date’ mere hours before the actual event. 

No, this time he asks you weeks in advance. Telling you the details, the colours his family wants him to wear, the kinds of people his mother tells him will be there. Details that he’s been informed of every year but has never made a note to remember. 

And he can see the way your eyes sparkle with excitement. 

Then the day comes and his hands are sweaty with nervousness. Why? Perhaps it’s because this is the first time he’s attended a gala, without a hint of alcohol in his system since he was twelve. And when he comes to your apartment to pick you up in Sunfyre, his affectionately named yellow Ferrari sf90 Stradale, he can’t help but let his jaws drop to the floor. 

Every other time he’s dragged you to this gala after Aemond has dragged him into it, you’ve had to find something formal to use that’s already in your closet. Quickly freshening yourself up in the small amount of time Aegon has told you to get ready. 

But now, with weeks of preparation, you looked incredible.

“God, I forgot how obnoxious your car is.” 

“Did you also forget he has a name?” He regains his composure quickly. 

You roll your eyes as he opens the door for you. 

“Rightttt,” you cringed, “I forgot how obnoxious Sunfyre is.” 

~

When the two of you get to the large estate and Aegon gives his keys over to a valet after highlighting the importance of the car, you two walk arm-in-arm into the gala. Unsurprisingly, guests are on him like vultures to rotten meat almost immediately. Aemond is close behind, watching his brother with a hawk-like gaze to make sure he doesn’t say anything that would embarrass the family name even more. 

Though Aegon mentioned to you before that Aemond lessened his watch when Aegon started bringing you to these things, most likely believing that you can somehow keep him in line. 

As the night drags on and the two of you are separated, Aegon’s throat grows drier and drier aching for the buzz of alcohol. Especially when his grandfather and mother pull him to one of the closed-off and empty rooms to talk about his father’s company. 

“Like I have told you time and time again, I don’t want it. Let Rhaenyra have it, father practically already names her to inherit everything when he dies.” He argues. 

The ‘conversation’ was quickly getting heated as the other two people in the room pressured him to take his inheritance as it is what he is entitled to. 

“Then what happens when Rhaenyra takes over the company? She’ll quickly remove you and your siblings from the company’s name, she’ll take everything and leave us with nothing.” Alicent argues, quickly closing the distance between the two of them. 

Aegon may have grown taller than Alicent now, but she is still his mother, and that causes him to slink away. 

“She won’t! You’re letting grandfather’s fears get into your head-”

“Aegon!” His grandfather yells, causing both him and his mother to jolt in surprise, “You are your father’s first son, that company belongs to you. Not Rhaenyra. You were born for the position. Take it!” He leaves before Aegon can argue about the matters further. 

When the wooden doors slam, his mother roughly grabs his face and forces him to look at her. 

“I’m surprised I don’t smell alcohol on you, but that’s not going to do anything if you don’t get out there and start getting our business partners to be on your side. The company will belong to you even if Rhaenyra tries to take it.” 

She roughly shoves his face away and just like his grandfather storms out of the room. Leaving Aegon isolated and alone in a room with a well-stocked bar. 

~

“Hel, have you seen Aegon anywhere? He went to talk to his mom and grandfather and now I can’t find him.”

Helaena only shook her head and furrowed her brows. Clearly worried if not slightly frustrated at her brother’s disappearance. It wouldn’t be long before their mother came to them angry about Aegon not conversing with the guests. 

“I know where he is,” you turned and were met with the irritated expression of Aemond. 

You looked at him with a slightly worried expression and accepted his silent offer to lead you to where Aegon was. After being friends with Aegon for so long you’ve made a weird friendship with his siblings, Daeron less than the others due to the age difference, but both Aemond and Helaena has been good companions in these events when Aegon would drag you along. 

But when the two of you neared a secluded part of the large estate you grew even more worried about Aegon. You’re not dumb to see how he was changing, how much less he’s been drinking and how he’s ever so slightly more focused on getting better grades. You may not know the reason why, waiting for him to tell you instead of asking yourself, but you’ve tried to be supportive in your own little way. 

Removing any and all visible alcohol in your apartment. Helping him with his coursework even when he doesn’t ask for it. Initiating more hang outs that were earlier in the day so he’d be forced to wake up earlier and thus have more time in the day. You were happy you got to help or support him in your own little way. 

You just hoped he could see how proud you were. 

“He’s in there.” Aemond gestures to a closed wooden door, though before you walked in you looked at him. 

“You’re not going to drag him out?” 

Aemond paused, his eyes looking away before humming to himself. 

“Not this time.” Was his simple answer before he left. 

When he walks away you walk into the room. The first thing that greets you is the state of the room. 

There were couches with pillows thrown to the other side of the room, tables overturned with chess pieces clattered on the ground, and chairs broken after getting thrown to the other side of the room. Not to mention the bar cabinets wide open with glass shards from dropped wine and champagne glasses and spilt alcohol littering the ground. 

The next was the large glass doors that led to a beautiful balcony that was wide open, its curtains billowing in the wind as the sole inhibitor of the room stood leaning against the bannisters. One hand on the bannister and the other hanging low holding onto a bottle of wine. 

His white hair was a mess and he had thrown his suit jacket somewhere in the room, there were red stains on his white shirt, most likely from the alcohol, and his back was facing you. 

“I think mother would prefer me to stay here and wallow in my patheticness than get back out there.” He states when the door you entered from creaked open, “So fuck off, brother.”

You sighed, not bothering to answer him and instead turning to close the door behind you. Aegon grew frustrated at the lack of response. 

“I said fuck off!” he yelled, waving his almost-empty bottle of wine around, hanging his head low as his free hand ruffle his hair even more. 

You still didn’t answer, walking towards him slowly, making sure he could hear your steps so that you wouldn’t give him a fright. 

“What the fuck are you still doing here, Aemond?!” 

“I’m not Aemond.” You whispered as your arms wrapped his body in a hug. 

You feel his back tense before slumping to the bannister and your hold, dropping the wine bottle. Not caring if it smashed or not, which thankfully it didn’t. You leaned your entire body onto his back and rested your head against the back of his neck, inhaling what was left of his cologne that was slowly getting outpowered by the staunch smell of alcohol. 

The two of you stayed like that for a little while, that is until you feel his body begin to wrack. Followed by the soft sounds of his cries. That was when you let go of him and instead moved to stand beside him. Leaning against the bannisters as well as you watched him cover his face with his hands. Sobs and tears crashing through him like waves and waves of disgust over himself. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” he repeated, again and again and again. 

Until you couldn’t take it anymore and you took his arms in your hands, pulling it away so that you could see his face. Tears freely flowed from his eyes and you reached up to wipe them away. 

“It’s alright pretty boy.” You hummed, smiling up at him. 

The sheer warmth and kindness you exuded to someone like him caused his cries to wrack through him even harder. Gods he doesn’t deserve you.

“I tried,” he croaked out. “I tried so hard.” 

You hummed in response, not really knowing what he was talking about but knowing he was speaking more to himself than to you at this moment. As you reached up to wipe his tears again he took ahold of your hand and kept it in its place on his cheek as he leaned into your touch. 

“I tried so hard to be better, be better for all of them, for my mother, for my grandfather, for my siblings, for you.” He spoke through closed eyes and furrowed brows, not seeing your wide-eyed expression. “Yet it’s never enough, I can never be better. No matter how hard I try you’re always going to find me fucking drunk out of my ass, a fucking mess. Someone who doesn’t deserve your love.” 

“Aegon.” his eyes snap open at the mention of his name from your lips. 

That was when he saw how close the two of you were. You were peering at him with so much adoration in your eyes that he wished he could slink back in fear of how much you loved him. 

“You are always enough for me.” You stated, now bringing both your hands to cup his face, not in the harsh or forceful way that his mother did, but in your own soft way, “You don’t have to be the perfect person to deserve my love. I’m giving it to you. I don’t care, but the fact that you want to be better itself just shows me how much you deserve my love. I love you Aegon, God I have loved you for so long.” 

He felt his chest constricting. 

“I love you so much that while I’m worried about you every time you drink, I’ll be here for you every step of your wanting to stop. And I love you too much to run if you make a mistake here and there. Aegon,” you mused smiling now seeing how your words were slowly seeping into him, “I love you.” 

He couldn’t say anything. His words were failing him and he felt the need to push you away and pull you closer. So, you took matters into your own hands, you placed your lips on his own and let him melt into your touch. There was nothing sensual or lustful about the kiss, nothing like how he’d kiss the other guys or girls at his frat parties. With you, it was all love and adoration. 

When you pulled away Aegon’s eyes widened with desperation and fear, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.” You whispered when you noticed, making good of your statement by placing your hands at the back of his neck as he wrapped his own around your figure. 

“I want to be better,” he whispers as he places his forehead against yours, “I want to be better for you.”

“I know you do, Aegon.” 

His name sounds like honey on your lips. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too Aegon.” 

And he thinks he doesn’t mind it when you say it. No, he loves it when you say it. 

In First Time, Hozier sings about the absolute beauty of finding someone so similar to yourself. He says that a part of him dies and some part of him thrives when his lover calls him baby. I imagine the same way with Aegon. He’s so used to his name being called when he’s in trouble, especially when someone’s yelling it out. He can only remember his name being called with tones of disappointment, anger, and exhaustion. But with the Reader, every time they call his name, it’s always filled with so much kindness and care that he wants to be better for the Reader. He knows the Reader likes him and he knows they know he likes him too, but he refuses to confront them about it until he’s become a better version of himself. The part of him that dies is the part of him that wants his name to be called in an angry manner and the part of him that suddenly lives is the old childish dream of his to just have fun with the people he loves.

in conclusion

I AM SOFT FOR MODERN AEGON TARGARYEN TRYING TO BE BETTER

#red ink unreal unearth event #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #modern aegon targaryen #modern aegon #aegon x reader #modern aegon x reader #modern aegon targaryen x reader #modern hotd #modern house of the dragon

[ronensass]

so the stripper au... i had about 5k written for it but then i got stuck and it wasn't going anywhere for a few days. then emma sent a gif in the discord and it sparked a new au idea that made me decide to combine the two into one. so the stripper au is now the stripper/bartender au.

here's the first about 1k!

Being a bartender wasn't his first choice, but the opportunity presented itself at the right time and he couldn't let it pass him by. At that moment— stack of late bills growing on his coffee table— it was either take the job or work on the ranch in the blazing Texas sun. He loves his family's ranch, but he'd much rather have air conditioning in what is turning out to be the hottest summer in Austin.

Though he'd never had any experience with mixing drinks— aside from one high school party his senior year that got way too out of control in the blink of an eye and almost ended with his Texas Ranger father arresting his friends— Tommy hired him due to his eagerness and will to learn on the go. It wasn't too hard with Paul by his side every night, a mastermind at toxicology. He mixed and served drinks with such ease that Carlos quickly got the hang of the flow behind the bar.

He always imagined a strip club being disgustingly filthy, but the club was cleaned every night after closing. All the leather seats on the main floor surrounding the runway were disinfected, bathrooms sterilized, tabletops wiped down. It's probably a big reason why the place is packed every night. That and the incredibly talented dancers.

Throughout the nights, Carlos catches brief flashes of performances in between slinging drinks. He flirts with a couple of the regulars who sit at the end of the bar, but he never lets it go any further than that. His first night on the job, he'd set one rule for himself: do not sleep with the customers or dancers. Tommy's never said it herself, but he feels like it's a general unspoken rule.

"Comin' through!" Paul announces loudly from his right to be heard over the booming music, carrying a large tote of ice cubes in front of him.

Carlos steps back to let him by as he shakes a mojito for a man that's nearly fallen off his barstool several times in the last half hour. He's cutting him off after this drink and pointing him out to Judd in case he puts up a fight. It's happened on occasion, a drunk as a skunk partier that repeatedly refused to stop harassing the dancers and other guests. Judd, with his 6'4" frame, body blocked them towards the exit and hauled them into an Uber.

Like any other night of the week, the club is crowded with party goers in various levels of intoxication. Every seat is taken on the main floor, groups at the high top tables along the outskirts spilling down the steps. There's a swarm of people near the front of the runway, a bachelorette party if he remembers correctly. A woman in a revealing, tight white dress dones a tiara and banner across her chest that probably reads Bride to Be.

The bar sits along the back wall, kitty corner to the dressing rooms. Alcohol bottles line the shelves behind them, three giant flat screen TVs playing some sports game on mute that no one is really paying attention to. Pink lights reflect off the smooth bar top as a hand pounds the wood harshly to get his attention.

"I need a drink, bro."

Carlos ignores him, pouring a gin and tonic for a lady that actually knows her manners with a smile. He'll get him his drink when he gets the chance, he's not the only customer in the place. One of his least favorite parts about this job are the childish customers that demand they be dotted on as soon as they step foot in the club. His mother raised him to be compassionate, never to be inconsiderate to anyone because you never know what a person is going through, but this guy has been plain rude all night.

He slaps the bartop again, "Hello? I said I need a drink."

"Excuse me?" The soft voice is nearly drowned out by the bass, but he's learned to hone in on them during dances. Carlos looks up to meet the most startlingly beautiful set of sea-green eyes of an attractive man he's never seen leaning on the bar, "A mineral water, when you can. Thanks."

"Sure thing." Carlos turns away with a flirty smile, bumping shoulders with Paul at the back counter as he reaches for an empty glass.

Paul nods in the general direction of the man over his shoulder, "He's cute."

His reply is forgotten as shouts and glass breaking sound behind them. Carlos whips back around to a full on brawl unfolding just on the other side of the bar. The rude man and the man with the pretty eyes are swinging fists, the latter being ganged up on by two other drunken men who are presumably the first's friends.

"Hey, hey!" Paul lunges for the air horn they keep stashed under the bar, blaring it to get Judd's attention from across the club, "Judd!"

Without even thinking about it, Carlos is hopping over the bar and attempting to separate the outnumbered man from the group. Judd is suddenly at his side, easily stepping between the three men and him with a stiff arm against the one's chest.

"Git." His southern drawl is fierce, motioning towards the exit.

"He started it!" Rude guy #1 whines, pointing towards the man behind Carlos over Judd's shoulder.

"You swung first," The man is cradling his jaw, wincing as he runs his tongue over his split lip, "I was just defending myself."

Judd remains an immovable wall as the friends advance forward in protest, "I ain't care who started it. Y'all need to git before I call the boss lady down 'ere and yer barred." The three agree reluctantly, grabbing their coats and pushing through the gathered crowd without leaving a tip.

Carlos turns back towards the sea-green eyed man, swelling building around his left eye, and motions at Paul, "Hey Paul, can you get me some of that ice please?" He briefly looks at the other man's face before grabbing a dish rag off the counter and dumping a handful of cubes in it. Paul hands it off to Carlos when he's done with a knowing look on his face.

#cassi talks #wip wednesday #carlos reyes #paul strickland #judd ryder #*mywriting #*stripperau

[maudeboggins]

shanghai gesture is not a good movie (too racist!) but omg is mother gin sling ever marlene dietrich-coded!

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

The Shanghai Gesture

Josef von Sternberg’s THE SHANGHAI GESTURE (1941) takes place in such an artificial world a shot of a plane flying across a real sky seems out of place. Yet the director’s style is so consistent and strong that even the film’s flaws, chief among them a truly atrocious drunk scene played by Gene Tierney, can’t detract from its overall power. To appease the censors, von Sternberg had to transform Mother Goddam’s brothel from John Colton’s play into Mother Gin Sling’s casino and have her enemy’s daughter succumb not to opium addiction but to addictions to gambling, alcohol and a hunky Syrian (he was a Japanese prince in the original, but many states banned films with interracial romances). Almost everything is shot on sound stages, with the casino, a wonder of art direction, arranged in descending circles like Dante’s vision of hell. At the center is Ona Munson, a skinny, freckled blonde transformed into the Orientalized image of corruption, Mother Gin Sling, pitched somewhere between Norma Desmond and Lucretia Borgia. It’s a marvelous performance, with Munson dominating every shot she’s in and even piercing the heavy “yellowing up” makeup to create a rich picture of a woman who’s allowed a life of pain to turn her into a dragon. Tierney is the object of her revenge, and though her line readings are tinny and unconvincing, she looks marvelous in gowns designed by Oleg Cassini, and her physical deterioration is a great visual trope. Walter Huston is reliably good as the tycoon who once wronged Munson and now is trying to close her casino (it’s a post-colonial comment as the Western politicos and businessmen decide to turn the city’s Chinese-run casino district into homes for wealthy Europeans). The real surprise, however, is Victor Mature as Doctor Omar, who seduces Tierney so he can get rich off her gifts and a little blackmail. He thrives under von Strenberg’s controlling direction to create a powerful and very sexy image of decadence. The cast also includes Phyllis Brooks as a wise-cracking chorus girl, Albert Bassermann as the colonial leader, Eric Blore as Mother Gin Sling’s bookkeeper, Maria Ouspenskaya as her silent servant (her lines were cut when preview audiences roared at seeing a Chinese woman with a thick Russian accent), Grayce Hampton as a society doyenne and Marcel Dalio as the croupier. Mike Mazurki made his film debut as a rickshaw driver who seems to be flirting successfully with Houston.

#josef von sternberg #gene tierney #victor mature #walter huston #cult films

[howardhawkshollywoodannex]

Victor McLaglen as Bill Whitlock and Ona Munson as his wife Mary in an original publicity still for The Big Guy (1939). This is Vic's second honorable mention, after Captain Fury, also 1939. Ona has two entries among my best 1,001 movies - The Shanghai Gesture (as Mother Gin Sling) and Gone with the Wind (as Belle Watling).

#victor mclaglen #ona munson #big guy

[emmamalakai]

Hamlet: A collection of quotes

(The following are quotes I noted down from my read through of Hamlet, listed in order of occurrence in the play. Parentheses indicate stage direction, or my thoughts on the quote/why I wrote it down. Find my full review of Hamlet on goodreads, here.)

Polonius: This above all. to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Hamlet: O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer, married with mine uncle, My father's brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month; (I just thought this one was cleverly worded) Ghost: The glowworm shows the matin to be near, And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire: Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me. Hamlet: And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. (Quite possibly my favorite quote, and the rhythm of this entire scene made it perhaps my favorite in the play) Polonius (reading): 'Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. Hamlet: for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison. Rosencrantz: Why, then, your ambition makes it one; 'tis too narrow for your mind. Hamlet: O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. Guildenstern: Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. Hamlet: A dream itself is but a shadow. (Hamlet has a lot of clever banter like this, which tends to be some of my favorite parts of Shakespeare’s writing) Hamlet: To be, or not to be; that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?--To die; -to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep! perchance to dream: -ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come (Finally, I know this heavily quoted line in context!) Hamlet: yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? (I appreciate that despite being considered mad, Hamlet is one of the most self aware characters in this play, honestly in most of Shakespeare’s work) Rosencrantz: My lord, you once did love me. Hamlet: And so I do still, by these pickers and stealers. Rosencrantz: Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend. (I wish this exchange had happened with Horatio so it were more true, but I’m going to appreciate Ros’ line out of context anyway) Hamlet: O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever the soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none; my tongue and soul in this be hypocrites, How in my words somever she be shent, to give them seals never, my soul, consent! Hamlet: I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. Hamlet: A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. (Yes 90% of these are Hamlet quotes, but he’s got all the best lines!) King: Where is Polonius? Hamlet: In heaven: send thither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i the other place yourself. But, indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. King: Go seek him there. (To some Attendants.) Hamlet: He will stay till you come. (GOD! This man is not mad, he’s just stupidly clever. From the sick burn about his new step daddy burning in hell, to the nasty reminder that yeah of course Polonius will wait for you until you get there, he’s super dead, I love this exchange.) Hamlet: When honor’s at the stake. How stand I, then Ophelia: Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. Clown: Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace

with beating; (There’s always a clown in Billy Shakes work. Also, I’m stealing the insult “dull ass”) Hamlet: Whose grave's this, sir? Clown: Mine, sir. Ham: I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in't. Clown: You lie out on't, sir, and therefore 'tis not yours: for my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine. Hamlet: Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest. Clown: 'Tis a quick lie, sir (More fun word play) Horatio: Now cracks a noble heart.- Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

#william shakespeare #hamlet #shakespeare #willy shakes #hamlet quotes #goodreads #book review

[thatravenpuffwitch]

Character profile — Gwen Archeron

Full Name: Gwendolyn Aster Archeron

Nicknames: Gwen

Birthday: 27th April 1881

Blood Status: Half-Blood

Gender: Female (she/her)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Nationality: British

Hometown: Falmouth, Cornwall, U.K.

Personality

MBTI: ENFJ (The Protagonist)

Strengths: Selfless, gentle, resourceful, creative, easygoing, witty, curious, reliable, charismatic, outgoing

Weaknesses: Overly idealistic, absent minded

Interests: Archery, quidditch, creatures, calligraphy, books, astronomy

Appearance

Faceclaim: Kaya Scodelario

Height: 5ft 8in

Build: Lean, athletic

Skin: Fair, freckles on face and shoulders

Hair: Dark brown, long, wavy, usually styled in a plait

Eyes: Cornflower blue

What do they carry on them?: Her wand, wallet and money, pocket watch, fountain pen, hair ties, lipstick

Fashion:

Witchcraft

Wand: Beech wood with a phoenix feather core, 12 1/4 and slightly springy flexibility

The true match for a beech wand will be, if young, wise beyond his or her years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant… When properly matched, the beech wand is capable of a subtlety and artistry rarely seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation.

Patronus: Basset hound

Boggart: A large, ominous shadow creature wrapping itself around someone she loves until they disappear completely.

Riddikulus: The shadow creature turns into fairies who serenade her with a silly song.

Amortentia (what they smell like): Lemonade, morning dew, parchment, sandalwood, hyacinth

Amortentia (what they smell): tbf

Magical Abilities: Shadow Manipulation: Gwen’s ancient form of magic is the ability to create, shape, and manipulate darkness and shadows. This ability can be channeled to a variety of effects, both as an absence of light and as a solid substance. It can potentially be used to create and dispel shields and areas of total darkness, create constructs and weapons, and teleport one's self massive distances via shadows.

Hogwarts

House: Ravenclaw

Best Classes:

Worst Classes:

Third-Year Options:

Extracurriculars: Astronomy club, quidditch

Quidditch Position: Chaser

Adult Life

Career: Magical Architect

Relationships

Father: Frederick “Archie” Archeron — Muggleborn, Hufflepuff, Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons

Mother: Barbara Archeron (née Walcott) — Pureblood, Ravenclaw

Siblings: Jesse and Lola Archeron

Pets: Comet the owl and Oscar Wilde the basset hound

Dormmates:

Siobhan Llewelyn (@kc-needs-coffee)

Roxie Haley (@weasleysandwheezes)

Matilda Héloïse Perrault (@the-al-chemist)

Primrose Gray (@endlessly-cursed)

Love Interest:

Favorites

Color: Blue, bronze, purple, pink

Food: Black forest cake

Flower: Hyacinth

Drink: Gin sling

Season: Spring

Additional Links

Gwen’s Playlist

#gwen archeron #character profile #hphl #ravenclaw

[eretzyisrael]

This refugee’s heart still belongs in Egypt

Viviane Bowell used her free time during the coronavirus lockdown in 2020 to write her memoirs of her country of birth, Egypt. From Egypt with love is a deeply personal, thoughtful work with not a trace of bitterness. Lyn Julius reviews the book in Times of Israel:

In 1956, one of the famous hit songs of the time was ‘Que será será. The song is indelibly associated with the Suez crisis in a 14-year old Jewish girl’s memory.  It may have been a footnote in most history books, but the  crisis of 1956 turned Viviane Bowell’s life upside down.

Viviane  was a shy and awkward teenager, cocooned from the outside world by her parents. She  only spoke French and Arabic. Within a month of the Franco-British-Israeli attack on the Suez Canal,  the family was forced to leave their native Cairo. Jews of British and French nationality were punished as  ‘collateral damage’ in politics. Viviane’s mother was British, and it soon appeared that any Jew (Viviane’s father was stateless) was fair game for expulsion. Viviane’s parents signed a ‘voluntary’ paper ‘donating’ their property to the Egyptian state. They left with 20 kg and 20 Egyptian pounds in their pockets while their tearful servants bid them goodbye. From a warm, dusty and bustling metropolis they were catapulted in the bleak British midwinter into a Gloucestershire hostel serving pork sausages and boiled cabbage. Resettled  in London,  her parents never spoke about Egypt, yet only socialised with other Egyptian Jews.

It was during the coronavirus lockdown that Viviane decided to set down what he remembered of Egypt. The manuscript was originally intended for her grandson but then became a popular self-published memoir.

There has been an explosion of memoirs by Jews from Egypt, mostly middle class Jews  displaced by the Suez crisis. Viviane Bowell appears to have read most of them. She conjures up a rich picture of the Cairo of her youth, the fellucas on the Nile, the grand avenues, the department stores, the famous tea room Groppi, where her parents met for the first time, the languid summers on the beach in Alexandria. She includes some important historical context, as well as interesting diversions into superstitions and the popular songs and films of the time.

Viviane’s family on her father’s side, the Chouchans,  was Ladino-speaking Sephardi, originally from Toledo via Istanbul. Her mother’s family, the Gubbays, were Arabic-speakers from Aleppo in Syria. They typified the Jews of Egypt, drawn from disparate corners of the Ottoman empire, most relatively recent arrivals attracted by the opening of the Suez canal in 1869. But the Jews lived in Egypt, says Viviane,  ‘like a grafted limb’ – of Egypt, yet  apart from it.

In charting the gathering storm leading up to her uprooting Viviane dwells on the events of 25 January 1952. The Free Officers’ Revolution does not largely figure in Jewish memoirs  – but it was a seminal moment. It began as a reaction to 40 policemen killed by the British. Viviane watched from her apartment balcony as a furious crowd  swept down her street, setting  fire to large sections of Cairo –  including Groppi, the Cicurel and Orosdi Bak department stores, Barclays Bank, cinemas, cafes, banks, and the Shepheard Hotel – where British officers used to sip their gin slings. The red tarboush worn by effendi(gentlemen) was abolished overnight and substantial sectors of the economy nationalised. Five thousand Jews left between 1952 and 1956. But Viviane’s family would not have left had they not have been forced to.

Unlike many other  memoirs, Viviane’s  examines the psychological effects of uprooting on her later life. ‘From Egypt with love’ tries to make sense of how her ambivalent relationship with her parents impacted on her. In many ways  she was a repressed feminist.  Her failure to  break free of traditional ties resulted in a  succession of missed opportunities,  a broken marriage and a nervous breakdown.

Visiting Cairo 40 years later, Viviane hardly recognises her home city, yet acknowledges that ‘the past defines us and makes us who we are today.’ Her story is that of 850,000 Jews driven from Arab countries. There is an irrepressible optimism about the book – The refugees were survivors, not victims.. ‘A calamity is only a calamity when your response to it is to accept victimhood,’ she writes.  Although her family lived in a social bubble,  her heart still belongs in Egypt. In this thoughtful, deeply personal  and well-researched memoir,  there is no trace of bitterness,  just an acceptance, and a certain cheerful fatalism: ‘Que será será’.

To Egypt with love : memories of a bygone age by Viviane Bowell (2021)

#Books #Jews of Egypt

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day: actress Ona Munson (16 June 1903 - 11 February 1955). Munson is inevitably best remembered for her role as bordello madam Belle Watling in Gone with the Wind (1939) but I revere Munson’s haunting, imperious performance as the villainess Mother Gin Sling in Josef Von Sternberg’s decadent masterpiece The Shanghai Gesture (1941). Pictured: Munson coiffed and costumed as Mother Gin Sling, preparing offscreen.

#ona munson #the shanghai gesture #josef von sternberg #mother gin sling #lobotomy room #lobotomy room club #camp #kitsch #old hollywood #golden age hollywood #cult film

[fandom-puff]

Hey! Can you write a tommyxreader where they get arranged marriage for a deal with a rival gang. And the first time they sleep together is after tommy loses his shit seeing someone flirt with her and can’t control himself

Thank you for requesting this! Hope you like it ♥️♥️

In holy matrimony

Warnings: smut, swearing, arranged marriage, sleazy men at the bar, the entire FIC not being proof read so maybe some questionable autocorrect?

“You may now kiss the bride,”

You gulped as your new husband brushed his lips against yours as everyone clapped. You blushed prettily and slid your arm into his as he led you back down the aisle. He hardly looked at you, hardly spoke to you, and when the party drew to a close, he didn’t carry you to his room, bridal style. He asked his maids to show you the way while he cleaned up some business with your brother, and did not return until you were fast asleep under the covers. The next morning when you woke up, he was just leaving the room.

For the first three months of your marriage, you barely saw one another, stuck at Arrow House while he toed and froed between Small Heath and London. The maids whispered and gossiped about your passionless marriage as you played with Charlie, reading him stories and singing to him to get him to sleep. One night he called you mummy. You cried yourself to sleep that night. He saw you as a mother, but no matter what you did, you couldn’t get your husband to see you as a wife.

It was a Friday, and your sister in law had insisted that Tommy bring you to Small Heath to go to the garrison- “She’s family, Tom. She’s your wife, bloody treat her like it,”

You were sat in the side room, nursing gin and tonic while Tommy smoked. The silence was uncomfortable and no one knew quite what to say. You were a fair bit younger than Tommy, in your early 20s, and you were sure his brothers knew he barely slept in the same room. Gulping, you rested your hand on Tommy’s knee, murmuring “I’m just going to get some more tonic in this,” you murmured, standing up and leaving the room before he could tell you to just use the hatch.

You waited at the bar behind a load of men, trying to get the barman’s attention to no avail, constantly getting shoved to the back of the queue every time you were next in line. When you finally got to the front and ordered your drink, you felt someone groping your arse. you gulped as he leaned into your ear. “Let me buy that for you, darlin’”

“Er...no thank you, Sir,” you murmured, trying to shift to the side. “My drinks are on the house,”

“I bet they are, a hot little thing like you eh? Bet you make such pretty noises with that soft little voice, huh?”

“Sir, I’m actually married-”

“ah, you won't mind me fucking you into next week, love, and I’m sure your husband won’t mind, and even if he does, he doesn’t need to know, yeah?”

“Actually he does mind, and he does need to know,”

You had never been so glad to hear the low voice of your husband. instantly you hurried to him, leaving your drink at the bar. Subconsciously, you slid your arm into his, the same way you had done on your wedding night. Feeling your small arm tremble in the crook of his elbow set something alight in Tommy, and he announced, quite loudly to the rest of the pub “Any of you fuckers touch my wife, I swear to god I will throw you in the cut,” he walked you back into the side room and grabbed his coat. “I’m taking my wife home,” he said.

“Will you be coming back, Tom?” Arthur called as the door slammed.

“No... I don't think he will. He has that look in his eye,” Ada smirked. “Looks like he’s gonna acknowledge the fact that he’s married a lovely young woman,”

“Only took him three months to bloody consummate it!”

****

“Mr Shelby, I know you don’t love me... you don't have to... consummate this marriage, m-my brother said you’d probably call it off once you sorted the business and that’s why you wouldn’t have me...”

“I’m not Mr Shelby to you. I’m Tommy. And I finished the business with your brother on our wedding night,”

“But why didn’t you sleep with me... why have you just ignored me for three months?” you whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “We’ve never been together and yet I miss you,”

He sighed, rubbing his face. “You... You’ve got to understand, YN... I’m over ten years your senior,”

“I don’t care,” you mumbled, but he still carried on.

“I’m over ten years your senior, you’re young, gentle, good, caring...”

“Listen to me! I don’t care that you're older than me,” you blushed when he stared at you but carried on. “I don’t care, alright! You made me feel safe tonight when that man was feeling me up. I’ve grown up around my brother’s gangsters and criminals making sure I don’t get attacked, but I’ve never felt as safe as when you... took my arm,” you looked at the ground. “You make me feel protected and I-I think I love you. You don’t have to say it back, or do anything, not if you don't mean it-”

He was kissing you, cupping your cheeks in both his hands, his lips pressed firmly against yours. He pulled away and pressed his forehead to yours. “I think I love you too,” he murmured. “I’m starting to... to love you...”

You gulped as you wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned to kiss him gently, testing the waters, sighing gently as he deepened the kiss. “Shall we consummate this marriage, Tommy?” You murmured and he groaned softly against your lips, lifting you up, hands squeezing your buttocks. “Oh god yes,” he groaned, laying you down slowly.

He trailed soft kisses down your throat, running his hands up your body and hitching your dress further up your thighs each time his hands went up. You sighed, arching your back and stroking his cropped hair. “Tommy... I’ve never done... I’m... ive never been...” you whispered, panting.

“You’re a virgin?” He murmured, stilling his movements. For a moment you thought he’d leave you again, but your worries were quashed when he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Alright, love,” he whispered, before kneeling, slowly unclipping and rolling each stocking down, kissing every inch of newly revealed flesh as he went. You sighed softly, stroking his hair gently, but gasped when his deft fingers skittered over the delicate skin of the inside of your thighs. Fingers twitching, you lifted your dress up and over your hips, undoing the button at the bavk and slinging it to the side. Tommy groaned at the sight of you in your silk slip and knickers. He crooked your thigh, throwing your leg over his shoulder as he kissed and sucked at the inside of your thighs. You whined at the curious mixture of suction and the tickling of his tongue, writhing your hips at these new sensations.

When Tommy pressed his thumb to your clothed clit you nearly jumped off the bed, spreading your legs a little wider and arching your back, gasping. He smirked up at you as he rubbed slow, tight circles, your underwear causing a delicious burning friction. You whimpered, clutching onto the bedsheets as your hips twisted, an unfamiliar tension coiling in your stomach. Thighs quivering, you called Tommy’s name, but he simply said “let it happen, YN,” pressing just that little bit harder. Waves of pleasure washed over your thrashing body as you moaned, biting your hand you quiet yourself. A few moments later, Tommy resurfaced, smiling gently at you as you looked at him with hazy, dazed eyes. He grinned when you reached for him and he fell next to you, rubbing your sides soothingly. “D-does that always happen?” You asked, thighs still twitching slightly.

Tommy grinned boyishly and caressed you’re cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “If a man knows what he’s doing,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging into a slight smirk. You giggled, blushing ever so prettily, stroking a finger over his buttons absentmindedly. “You want this off, YN?” He asked, gesturing to his waistcoat.

“Yes please. Your shirt too. And your trousers. I want it all off, mine too,” you whispered, sitting up a little. He grinned, sitting up with you and together you managed to undo all of his buttons and strip him down to his underwear. You hummed, kissing him deeply as you spread your palms over his bare chest, tracing his tattoo and grasping his strong back. You pulled away from him and, taking a deep breath, you got off the bed, standing before him as he lay propped on his elbows, and lifted your slip up and over your head. He palmed his cocked as you did, and his breath caught in his throat when you unclipped your bra and cast it aside. You then bent over, sliding your knickers and garter belt down your thighs, kicking them away. You blushed and stood with one hand across your tummy gripping your other arm as Tommy’s eyes scanned you up and down, from the swell of your breasts to the pert peaks of your nipples, the soft flesh of your tummy, hips and thighs, before finally, settling on the curls between your legs.

He cleared his throat and you saw his Adam’s apple bob. “Fucking hell... come here, love,” he said, voice barely more than a hoarse whisper as you crawled over to him, long hair falling over your shoulders. You looked at his tented boxers and licked your lips, before looking back to his eyes. “Be my guest, love,” he rasped. You grinned, and slid his underwear off, giving him a lovely view of your rear as you freed the, from his ankles. You trailed one finger up the vein pulsing on the underside of his heavy shaft, breath coming in little pants as his thighs tensed. Watching his face, eyes fixed to his, you slowly wrapped your hand around him and pumped his cock languidly, eyes lidded with desire. He grunted and grabbed your chin, breaking your focus. “Fucking... YN... I need you love,” he said, almost pleadingly.

“I’m all yours,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his. He groaned and pushed you onto your back, and you gladly cradled him between your thighs as he kissed you hard, his cock leaking warm sticky precum onto your bruised inner thigh. “Please...” you moaned out, nipping his lip experimentally. He groaned lowly, and you felt the vibration running through his chest as he lined his cock of with you. He pushed the tip in, stopping when he felt resistense.

“This’ll sting, just for a bit, okay, YN?” He murmured into your shoulder. “But id you wanna stop, you’re to tell me, understand,” you nodded, already panting. Your eyes screwed shut as you felt him push through your barrier and you pushed your face into his neck, thighs clenching a little tighter around his hips. He grunted slightly, pushing in until he had no more to give, before waiting for you to tell him to move. When you bucked your hips up slowly to meet his, he groaned and together, you settled into a slow rhythm, every inch of skin touching one another. You locked your ankles behind him, using your heels to dig into his back and pull him closer, deeper, impossibly so. You just felt so... full. Tommy Shelby was clouding your every sense and you were quickly becoming addicted, undulating your body to grind your nipples against his chest, your clit against his pelvis, and your innermost pleasure points against his pulsing length.

You felt that coiling pressure in your stomach from earlier and whimpered “Tommy,- Tom... Ah! Tommy, I’m-I’m-Ah!” You moaned desperately, trying to find a word for the immense pleasure he was churning deep within you. Your inner walls clenched tight around him as a deeper, more intense pleasure flooded every nerve of your being as you moaned his name loudly, pressing your lips to his in a sloppy, passionate kiss. Feeling you grip his cock, he moaned into your mouth, and with a few final frantic thrusts, he spilled inside you, pumping your womb full of his essence, holding you close as you rode out your highs.

Practically boneless, you lay under the covers, snuggled into Tommy’s side, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the Romani sun rising on his chest as he smoked. You sighed happily, tucking your head into the crook of his shoulder, kissing the available skin gently. He laughed slightly. “You up for another round, love?” He teased. You giggled and shook your head.

“No... not tonight,” you said, yawning softly. “Tomorrow morning maybe- you’ll still be here tomorrow?” You asked quickly. He stubbed out his cigarette and kissed your forehead.

“Of course I will be. Christ, I’d happily lay in this bed all day long if you’d let me,” he grins.

“Maybe I would,” you giggled and looked up at him. “I think... I think this marriage will work out fine, Tommy,” you said gently, nuzzling into his chest.

He stroked your hair gently. “You know what, YN? I reckon it will too,”

.

#fanfiction #imagine #fluff #smut #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders smut #request

[silverdelirium]

Yoyoyoyo

DILF Ron coming home and embracing all his kids after a long day at the aura office he sees sweet little you, his dear babysitter who has become a mother to his children at this point and hes fucking whipped for but you afraid to say, and you’re practically drooling over him in his muggle clothes because he decided to take the long route home to pick up a gift for the kids and you taught him how to dress properly so he’s now in dress pants and a white button up, suit jacket sling on his arm top buttons undone and tie losely around his neck.

Suddenly Aunt Gin and uncle Harry are over to pick up the kids before your even out the door for a “surprise sleepover” and once they’re gone you’re cornered in the kitchen by your hot ass boss and the smirk on his face and the deep tone in his voice gives you no room to not answer his every wish- not like you ever would cause you’re always his good girl and he roundabout praises you for it every day since it might be strange to call you his “good girl” every time he sees you or his “pretty little baby”

Uhhhhhh to specific or to horny here bestie? I have a feeling I know which lmao maybe both.

Super sorry brain go brrrrr today especially for this man you can ignore me sorry if I went to far

babe i am speechless this is such a hot concept wow

but ugh just having him bend you over the counter and finger you while murmuring the nasties things in your ear,,, then taking you to the couch and going round after round until you can’t take it anymore 🥴

#ron weasley #discussing aus w dani

[jaskierswolf]

The Grass is Greener Pt.1/3

Summary: Jaskier's mother is coming to stay and his garden is an absolute mess and his lawn mower has seen better days... luckily for him his ridiculously hot neighbour is there to lend a hand. 

Geraskier

CW: Shitty parents being shitty.

(Prompted by @alwenarin and based on this post by @infinite-mirrors)

________

Jaskier stared forlornly out at his garden. His mother was due to come over on her yearly visit and the next few days of his life were going to be hell. His mother was the sort to blast into his life like a fucking tornado, pull apart everything that he had built for himself and leave him broken, shattered into a thousand shards of glass. He wasn’t even sure why he still let her in, probably some childhood trauma that meant he was desperate to please her, to make her proud, but what did he know? He wasn’t a therapist, much to her displeasure. Anything would have been better in her eyes than a musician and occasional bartender.

He didn’t make much money. His band hadn’t taken off yet and only really had a small but dedicated following online that donated pocket money in exchange for small previews of new tracks or little poems that could be given to lovers or in greetings cards. Most of his rent was paid for in the tips he made at the bar. He was lucky to have the house at all really. He shared it with his housemates: Priscilla, his bandmate and ex, Essi, her younger sister, Valdo Marx, his former schoolmate, professional rival and absolutely twat face who lurked in his attic room and never really came out to talk to them, and last but not least, Regis, a kind scholarly type who had been living in the house before the other rooms had become available and most importantly made excellent homemade gin.

Said housemates had agreed to fuck off for the weekend so he could pretend that the house was his in a last ditched attempt win over his mother.

Of course, none of them had helped to tidy up before leaving and he’d spent the last twenty-four hours deep cleaning the house, and bolting the door to Regis’s bathroom shut. The gin in the bathtub wasn’t ready to bottle yet and he wasn’t exactly going to drain the tub of his elixir. He’d moved the furniture in his friend’s rooms around enough to make it look like they weren’t extra bedrooms, more… rooms that just happened to have beds in case he had company. Priscilla’s room now resembled a music room, Essi’s room had been turned into a makeshift study, Valdo’s he’d left a mess and claimed it was just an attic, and Regis’s room was sort of a library if you squinted hard enough.

That just left the garden.

“Bollocks!” He moaned.

None of them really cared much about the garden, apart from the box down the end which housed Regis’s herb garden for cooking. The rest of the garden a mess. The grass was practically a wild meadow filled with weeds. He quite liked it. He enjoyed looking at the dandelions, daisies and buttercups but his mother would have a fit.

Where was he even going to start?

Lawnmower. They must have one. He stumbled through his back door onto the patio and made his way to the shed that honestly barely lived up to its name. It was falling apart and leaked horrendously, but luckily inside was one rusty looking lawnmower.

“Bingo!” He grinned and pulled the mower out of the shed. It was heavier than it looked but luckily Jaskier was also stronger than he looked. Even so he wasn’t entirely how he was going to start the damn thing.

Perhaps Geralt would know…

Fuck.

Geralt.

Geralt had just adopted a newborn baby. Her name was Ciri. Most of the time Geralt just called her ‘Cub’ which Jaskier found to be incredibly endearing, a fact that had nothing to do with his teensy little crush on the mechanic.

He pulled up Geralt’s number in his phone. He’d been delighted when Geralt had given him his number, yes maybe it was because Jaskier kept turning up at Geralt’s doorstep after shifts at work because he’d forgotten his keys and none of his bastard housemates were answering the door and Geralt just happened to have a spare key, but the main thing is he had Geralt’s number.

After that they’d conversed a few times over text. Mostly if one of them was running to the shops and wanted to know if the other needed anything. Occasionally Geralt would text to ask Jaskier if he could watch Ciri for a short while if Geralt needed to leave the house. Once Geralt had even given him a lift to work because Jaskier’s bike had gotten a flat tire and he didn’t have enough time to walk all the way to the bar. So they weren’t exactly strangers but he wouldn’t really call them friends.

In fact Geralt was still listed as Hot Neighbour in his phone. He meant to change it, it was just that you couldn’t argue with the truth. Geralt was his hot neighbour.

 J —Hey Geralt! Is it ok if I mow my lawn? I don’t want to wake Ciri if she’s asleep. :)

He stared at his phone intently until about an eternity later, Geralt replied.

 G — The child must not be an obstacle.

Jaskier snorted as he read the response. He read it aloud a couple of times trying to mimic Geralt’s rough husky voice and managed to give himself the giggles.

His phone buzzed again.

 G — I can hear you laughing at me.

“Oh shit!” He almost dropped his phone and his cheeks felt like they were on fire. “Sorry Geralt!” He called into the air.

 G— Hmm.

Jaskier scoffed. Who text back “Hmm”? And why did Jaskier still find that so attractive?

But never mind that! He had the green light. Operation Finally Make His Mother Proud, or FMHMP for short, and yes you could absolutely say that if you tried hard enough, was go! He was going to mow the lawn like a proper adult!

He tried for about six years to turn the mower on but without any success. He kicked the lawnmower in frustration and the whole damned thing fell apart.

“Fuck it!” He yelled as he hopped about on his good foot that hadn’t been battered by lawnmower.

He sulked back into the house and flopped down dramatically on the sofa. It was over. His mother was going to hate him and he would die as a disgrace to the Pankratz name and the Lettenhove estate.

He was half way through his pity party when the doorbell rang. He grabbed his phone to check the time. Strange, his mother wasn’t due for another three hours.

“What the fuck?” He mused and padded over to the door. To his surprise Geralt was standing on his doorstep with Ciri tucked safely into a baby sling on his chest and behind him was a shiny lawnmower. “Ah. Geralt!” He grinned.

Geralt turned to the lawnmower and back to him. “Thought you might need some help.”

Jaskier blushed. “Right. Yes. Of course. Come on in!” He stood back to let Geralt through. “Oh, actually do you want to come round the side gate? The lawnmower probably shouldn’t come through the house. I’ve just cleaned up.”

Geralt grunted but followed Jaskier around the side of the house and into the back garden.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” He grumbled when he saw the state of the lawn. “I thought you said you were mowing the lawn, not trying to find it!”

“Ah, yes, well. That is an excellent point.” Jaskier stammered, pulling at the hem of his shirt nervously. “You see my mother is visiting.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Your mother, how old are you? Twelve?”

Jaskier gaped at his neighbour. “Geralt!” He whined. “I’m twenty-nine! Mother is just a cow.”

“Hmm. Fine. Let’s do this.” Geralt pulled Ciri gently out of her sling and passed her to Jaskier. “Hold her. I need to grab her stuff. This will take longer than I thought.”

“Oh hang on!” Jaskier called after Geralt but it was too late and Ciri began to cry. “Umm. There there.” He cooed and rocked her gently. “Shall I sing you a lullaby, cub?”

She didn’t answer, babies rarely did, so he decided a lullaby would be fine and began to sing in hushed tones as he rocked her in his arms. Geralt wasn’t long but he seemed surprise to come back to Jaskier rocking his daughter to sleep in his arms.

“Hmm. She likes you.” Geralt noted.

He was carrying Ciri’s car seat and a bag was slung over his shoulder. In his other hand was a large electric contraption with some nasty blades at the end. He dumped the scary looking monster and placed the travel cot on the patio table. Once Ciri was safely asleep they got to work.

Or more accurately, Geralt got to work. Jaskier mostly just watched and made sure Geralt had all the refreshments he needed. He also kept the conversation going by listing all the grievances his mother had with him from her last visit, Geralt hummed and grunted but didn’t offer much in return but it didn’t matter. Jaskier was more than capable of holding an entire conversation by himself.

“And then she starts wittering on about how my sister has a perfect husband and a darling little angel.” Jaskier moaned. “So of course then it’s ‘Julian why don’t you have a wife?’”

“Julian?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier glared at his neighbour. “Don’t ever call me that, I beg of you.”

Geralt shrugged. “I won’t. Just asking.”

“And I tell her, for the hundredth time, to say partner or spouse or lover or you know… not gender specific because she knows! Geralt! She knows. I don’t know how many times I have to tell her.” Jaskier sighed. “Oh, umm I’m bisexual just to give you some context there.”

Geralt nodded. “Right.”

“So of course she starts complaining that I always have to make everything gay, and I’m like… ‘Mother, I am gay!’” Jaskier announced with wide arms.

Geralt looked up at him, pausing halfway down the lawn that was now starting to resemble a lawn. “So why not tell her you’re seeing someone?” He asked. “Solve both problems if you say it’s a guy.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Yeah.” He scoffed. “Until she asks to meet him.”

Geralt shrugged. “I could do it.”

Jaskier’s heart jumped in his chest. “You what? Geralt!”

“My ex has been bothering me about finding someone.” He grumbled. “Two birds, One stone.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at his insanely hot neighbour who was now apparently suggesting they… fake date??

“What exactly are you suggesting here?” Jaskier asked slowly. “You pretend to be my boyfriend for my mother’s visit and we what? Send a few photos to your ex to prove you’re moving on?”

Geralt smirked. “As long as you promise not to fall in love with me.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped.

Well fuck. _______

Next

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ciri #dad geralt #surprise fake dating #I could be persuaded to write a second part #let me know if you want part 2 #Update there will now be three parts #ask and you shall receive #the grass is greener

[callsign-mischief]

Chilly Summer Nights.

Day 14 of ‘A Very Harry Potter Summer!’

@hufflefluff-writer

Ron Weasley x Female!Reader!

Word Count: 2.6K

You were currently running frantically about your room packing your school trunk with everything you would be needing for the upcoming school year; as you were preparing to stay at your best friend's house for the remainder of your summer holiday. Your grandmother called out to you from the bottom of the stairs leading to your bedroom.

“(Y/N)! Let’s get a move on young lady! I sent an owl to Molly half an hour ago saying you would be arriving soon! Let’s not keep them waiting any longer!” 

“Sorry Gran!  I’m almost done, I promise. I’ll be down in a- woah!” You yelped, as you tripped over your trunk and crumpled to the floor with a loud THUD!

“That hurt..” you grumbled, with your face flat against the hardwood flooring of your bedroom. 

 Heavy footsteps ascended the stairs and before you knew it, your grandmother was stepping over the threshold of your dainty bedroom. She peered at you with her hands placed on her hips, brows arched high in curiosity.

“What did you do this time?”

Standing from the floor rubbing your sore knees and cheek, you look at her with an embarrassed smile. “Tripped over my trunk. But I’m okay Gran, don’t worry.” 

“Glad you are alright but- for Merlin’s sake!” She yelped as her eyes left your body and scanned over your messy living space. “You certainly don't know how to pack correctly, my dear. Please do step aside so I can finish this quickly and you can head off. It’s getting quite late.”

 Nodding your head, you step aside as you watch your grandmother pull her wand from her cooking apron before giving it a wave. You watched in silent awe as various strewn items, ranging from clothing to new schooling supplies, flew from different spots around the room. Into the trunk it all went before it was snapped shut and buckled then sent flying down the stairs, landing by the fireplace. Even though you were thirteen years old and were raised all your life around magic, it still amazed you.

“There, much better. Far quicker at that too! Now grab your school bag and Wisp so we can go!” 

“Yes, mam.” You acknowledge as she waltzed out of the room and back down the stairs. Hauling your bag over your shoulder and grabbing Wisp’s pet carrier and your wand from the bedside table, you exited the room, shutting the door tightly and gliding down the stairs with a newfound pep in your step.

Meeting your grandmother in front of the fireplace, she gave you a once over before giving you a loving, tender hug, and ushering you into the fireplace. Making sure you were settled in,  she offered you the pot of Floo powder with a gentle smile. Wisp, your loving black cat, gave a loud meow as a goodbye to your grandmother. Smiling at her, you take a handful of the powder before speaking clearly of your intended destination. 

“The Burrow!”

Instantly, you’re engulfed into flames and your sneakers reach the hard ground of the Weasley’s fireplace below you as you are hit with a quick bit of dizziness. “Gosh, I hate that sometimes.”

With Wisp’s cat carrier in one hand and your trunk in the other, you step out of the fireplace careful to not dirty up Molly's floor. When the dizziness in your eyesight has cleared, you are met with the sight and smell of the cozy home of the family you have come to love and adore over the past few years. 

You barely have a second to walk into the quaint living room and set down your belongings before two bodies come crashing into yours at full speed.

“You’re finally here!”

“It’s about time you’ve arrived, love! We were beginning to think you abandoned us!"

Chuckling at the two people’s words, you wrap one arm around each of their torsos, hugging them as equally tight as they were you. 

“Yes! I have arrived, Georgie. And Fred, that’s pure nonsense! I would never abandon you two! You are my favorites after all…” you pause to stand on the tips of your toes and whisper in their ears, “Just don’t tell your sister I said that. She would hex the daylights out of me once we got back to Hogwarts!”

The twins couldn’t help but laugh and release you from their smothering grasps as Ginny was heard barreling down the stairs to greet you.

“You two step away from her this instant! She is MY best friend!” She yells, running into the room.

“You should have gotten to me quicker then Gin.” You couldn’t help but grin as you were enveloped into yet another bone-crushing hug. You squeezed her back just as hard, beyond ecstatic to be reunited with your best friend after weeks apart. You break away from each other, catching up on the past couple of days leading up to your arrival when Mrs. Weasley walks in from the kitchen with Arthur in tow. 

“(Y/N), how lovely to see you, dear. It was ‘bout time you’d be arriving.”

Flushing red, you step up to her with open arms. “Sorry Mrs. Weasley, that was my fault. Got a late start to packing and Gran had to help me finish making sure I had everything I needed.”

Embracing you into her warm arms, she squeezes you gently (unlike her children), patting your arm lightly. “No worries dear, we’re just glad to have you with us.”

Moving on from Molly, Arthur gave you a hug as well. During your quick embrace, he began telling you all about the long list of new questions he had about Muggles. You couldn’t help but laugh and tell him that you would answer any and all questions he had throughout your stay. Once released from Mr. Weasley, Ginny, George, and Fred swept you away talking excitedly about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup match you all would be attending next week. Barely into the discussion, your ears perked up as you heard two more sets of footsteps descending the rickety staircase. Your face flushed a light pink instantly knowing who one of those footsteps belongs to. 

“What the bloody hell is all the ruckus down here about?”

Glancing over in his direction you couldn't help blushing a darker shade of pink. “Hi, Ron.”

Eyes bulging in shock, his face matches yours, flushing as red as his hair. “H-hey..you..you’re here! Why..w-why are you here?.” 

Ginny lets out a snort of annoyance, “If you can have your best friend here then so can I!”

The twins share a knowing look between themselves before Fred slings an arm around your shoulder smirking at his younger brother in the process, “Don’t act like you aren’t happy to see her mate.”

“I’m not!” Ron yells back defensively. But realizing what he had said, his hands fly up in surrender. "W-wait! No! That is not what I mean! I'm not not happy to see you -I..I am glad to see you! Ecstatic, even!” he scrambles trying to save his last shred of dignity. 

  Harry smirks, slightly leaning in close to the redhead, “Nice save there. Real nice.”

Ron shoots Harry a daggered look as his face flames in embarrassment and irritation, but his anger is short-lived as Molly announces from the kitchen that supper is ready. 

Jumping at the chance to leave from the room, Ron grabs the smirking dark haired boy beside him running away to the awaiting food with the towering twins following them out. Before you can fall in line behind George, Ginny grabs your wrist bringing you to a halt. 

“You like my brother!” 

Don’t panic, don’t panic. “I like all your brothers. They’re all quite nice and enjoyable really. Nice boys each of them are Gin-”

“No. I mean Ron specifically! You like Ronald.” It wasn't a question of 'if'. 

Feigning ignorance you brush off her statement, “Pfft. I do not! You’ve gone right mental Ginny.”

Before the feisty redhead could speak once more, her mother yelled for the two of you to come take your seats at the table. Thank you, Molly.

Sending one last look your way she narrows her eyes in a playful manner, “Do not, for one second, think that you are off the hook about this!” 

This is not good. Not good at all. 

Attempting to forget about the conversation with Ginny, you basked in the presence of some of your most favorite people. Dinner was amazing as always. The food was beyond delicious, smiling faces were seen all around- it was just perfect. Nothing could ever be better than this. You had spent most of the meal interacting with Mr. Weasley. Of course- the topic of choice being all things Muggle but that was all okay! You loved being helpful and answering any questions he had. 

When everyone’s bellies were stuffed to the brim with food, Molly excuses herself from the table to begin putting away any leftovers. Arthur follows after his wife while the Weasley boys and Harry disperse quickly, the twins dashing up the staircase conversing in hushed tones while Harry and Ron make their way into the living room. 

You and Ginny share an eye roll and begin to rid the table of all dirty dishes. With dinnerware piled in your arms, you two girls carry everything into the kitchen and are instructed by Mr. Weasley to place them on the counter top by the sink where Molly was waiting. With a grateful smile, Mrs. Weasley ushers you and Ginny out. You two venture into the cozy living room to see the two fourth-year boys sitting on the floor playing a game of Wizards Chess. Ron is leaning back against the sofa while Harry sprawls out on the floor on his stomach. You venture over to the sofa while Ginny takes the armchair by the fireplace. You plant yourself on the old piece of furniture, lying down behind the redhead and getting comfortable before cracking open a book you had brought with you. He glances over his shoulder, giving you a shy smile before turning away to take his turn. 

The rush of butterflies in your stomach was instant. You couldn't help but blush and move just a tad bit more towards the edge of the couch to be closer to him. You only hoped he didn't notice the shift, not wanting him to think of you as weird but he felt it. He didn’t mind though. He wanted you to be close to him. He couldn’t help but blush at the thought of you wanting to be closer to him too.

After a while, the heads of the home walk out from the kitchen bidding you all a quiet ‘goodnight’ before heading up to bed. Shutting your book, you place it on the coffee table beside you before your eyes slowly flutter over to the boy in front of you. The silence of the house is interrupted when you hear two sets of footsteps tiptoeing not so quietly down the stairs. Looking away from the youngest boy in the family, you see two identical faces pop out from around the corner.  

“Oi! You four come with us!” Fred whispers across the room. 

Without questioning the request, the four of you make your way out of your seats and follow behind the mischief makers. They lead you through the house and urgently usher each of you out the front door of the home into the chilly evening air. You couldn’t but shudder as a gust of wind rushes past you, sending tingles down your spine once you step out. You really wished they had let you grab a sweater. 

Lighting their wands with ‘Lumos’, Fred and George lead you all into the field eventually coming to a stop by a pile of old wood and sticks. 

“What’s all this?” you question as George sets down the box he had been carrying. 

“This, love, is our wood pile for a bonfire! And to make it even better, we have supplies for a snack! It’s a muggle treat, actually. What do you call them Harry?”

Harry chuckled, “S’mores. My cousin Dudley eats them all the time in the summer.” 

You couldn't help the excited giggle that spilled from your lips. You had heard about these but never got the chance to try one! Without wasting another second, you quickly set the twins on getting the fire started while you found yourself a small log to get comfortable on, ready for the fun to begin as you curl up to get warm again. The fire is quickly lit (all thanks to Harry) and everyone begins to dig in to make the famously sweet and gooey treat for themselves. The youngest Weasley son jumps at the chance to follow in your footsteps, planting himself on your small log seat. You peer at him with a wide grin causing his cheeks to flush pink. 

Tonight had been amazing. And although you loved your summer holiday’s, the one thing you didn't appreciate was that the later into the evening it got, the chillier it got. The fire had helped keep you warm but not completely. After seeing you attempting to hide your shivers due to the chilly breezes for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Ron couldn’t bear to see you so miserable any longer. Scooting closer, he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you flush against his side. With wide eyes and cheeks flaming as red as his hair, you turned to look at him. He’s facing the roaring fire but you could see a content smile graced upon his lips. How is his side profile just as attractive as his entire face?!

Sensing your stare, his head turns. “You okay, love?” Love.

“Y-yeah! I’m great. But w-why?” you jester to his arm around your waist.

"You kept shivering so I thought this might help get you warmed up a bit more." 

Oh.. so he's just being friendly. Right. Of course he doesn't fancy you in return. That only happens in cheesy romance novels. 

He watches as your face falls slightly but before you can move away he tightens his grip on your hip.. "I-it's not just that ya know.." 

"Wait, what? W-what do you mean?" Your heart begins to beat out of your chest. ‘Please, PLEASE be the reason I'm hoping for.’ your mind pleads. 

He clears his throat nervously. "W-well..I um..I have fancied you for quite a while now a-and I um thought this," he nods at the position you were in "was a good way to show it. I-its okay if you don't feel the same, of course, I just wanted to make it known.." The poor bloke was shaking! How can someone be so nervous but still be so cute?!

You couldn't believe it! The boy you've been pining for for two years has feelings for you too! "Y-you do!? I like you too Ron. I really really do!" you all but exclaim, flinging your arms around his neck in an excited hug. Your cheeks ached from how hard you had been grinning and you couldn't help the giggles that slipped past your lips in pure happiness. 

His grin matched yours as he squeezed you even closer to his body, if that were even possible and placed a loving gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'm so glad you do." 

This felt like a dream. If all it took was a couple hours out in the chilly evening air to get where you were now, in Ron's arms, you would happily do it again anytime. Chilly summer nights were not so bad after all.

#averyharrypottersummer #ron weasley #ron weasly x reader

[nomanwalksalone]

THE OLD DESI

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

A friend (why not? To paraphrase Rjmbaud, Réginald-Jérôme de Mans est un autre) writes: “Live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget it. In a cheesy import superstore, there it stood in all ridiculousness among the rattan furniture and foreign candy: Omar Khayyam Champagne. Yes, Omar the Tentmaker, who wrote the Rubaiyat a millennium ago, who now found his name on sparkling wine instead of sparkling verse. Nor, pedants, did the wine come from the Champagne region of France… or indeed from Khayyam’s native Khorasan province, Persia. Instead, small type on the label indicated the wine was a product of Maharashtra. Maharashtra, India, 1500 miles away and two countries away from where Khayyam lived and died, Maharashtra, the place my mother hailed from, and yet no other famous personage from anywhere closer had come to mind. Tentmaker in life, winemaker in death. Of Indian champagne.”

India is a large enough place to host the right pockets of soil and climate to make decent wine, even though neither my friend nor I dared buy Omar’s bubbly. I’ve looked for it in recent years hoping to make up for decades of curiosity without finding it again. South Asia is better known for its scotch: dutiful scion of empire, India is the world’s largest whisky market and produces almost half of all the whisky in the world, tending usually to suave blends, while Pakistan itself hosts a reputable single malt distillery. However, a trip to my liquor store a few years ago turned up another surprise: a squat bottle whose crude-looking label announced itself to be Old Monk rum, India’s favorite export.

Sentimental favorite though it be, this is rather far from the sophisticated sippers of Haiti, Venezuela and Nicaragua found in nice duty-frees (alongside vintage wines that may have passed through the kitchen of the dearly deported Rudy Kurniawan. It tastes warm, sweet, and distinctly of vanilla. Who is the monk and why is he venerable? Accounts aren’t clear, although the brand suggests it was inspired by the distillate contentment of. Benedictine monks. The rum itself is not particularly old, having been introduced in the 1960s by a distillery founded by the father of one of the worst colonial murderers of the British Raj. Colonial history is usually a mixture of such superficial twee charm overlaying enraging bloodshed.

We can thank colonialism for many of our favorite cocktails, including the simple gin and tonic, intended to sling antimalarial quinine and scurvy-fighting limes to the tippler. Various more complex recipes rely on such literal fruits of the tropics as limes, sugarcane distillates like rum, and the mysterious potions of native herbs known as bitters, leavened with products of the colonial power, the myth of civilizing colonialism in microcosm. Such is the case of the Old Cuban, a complicated standby of such outposts of tradition as the Carlyle Hotel’s Bemelmans bar. Faith Middleton’s recipe evokes the South American travels of Ludwig Bemelmans himself to draw a connection to distinguished cultural lush and Cuban resident Ernest Hemingway, America’s would-be avatar who makes those hot-country connections safe, sanitized by a bit of Old World-champagne.

His noted love of cats aside, I tend to agree with Gore Vidal on Hemingway (“What other culture could have produced someone like Hemingway and not seen the joke?”). Anyway, Papa didn’t ask to be dragooned into this particular drink recipe, so I’ve made it my own without the buffer of a familiar credentialed intermediator, using Old Monk, the mint that grows wild in warm climates,  and considerably more tropical bitters to cut the sweetness. And rather than the Canard-Duchêne champagne that imparts Old World élan, I’d love to be able to use that lost misnomer Omar Khayyam. In his absence, the insecurities of my reflexive postcolonial Europhilia drive me to use pink champagne, ideally Billecart-Salmon Rosé, although Mumm Cuvée Napa Brut Rosé pink sparkling wine works just as well. I’ve dubbed my riff on the recipe the Old Desi, not for late old Cuban-American Desi Arnaz, but in honor of my friend’s invisible countrymen, the Indian desis behind the portrait of the European old monk on the bottle and Omar Khayyam’s Marathi grapes.

The Old Desi, a bastard cocktail by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans:

2 oz Old Monk Indian rum

2 oz fresh lime juice

½ oz simple syrup, which you can make dissolving one part confectioner’s sugar in one part hot water

Liberal and repeated slugs of Angostura bitters

Fresh mint sprigs

Splash Billecart-Salmon Rosé pink champagne

Add the simple syrup to a shaker (if making your own, you can dissolve it together now), followed by the lime juice and a generously leafy mint sprig. Muddle gently. Fill with ice. Add the rum, then repeatedly have at the concoction with the bitters. Shake vigorously. Strain into a martini glass until ¾ full. Top with the champagne. Garnish with a mint sprig. Sip thoughtfully and wonder at what made thee.

#rjman #reginaldjeromedemans