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yoonavii · 10 months

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𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

Regency Era! Law x Reader

Description: Lady Y/N defies societal norms with her down-to-earth nature, setting her apart from other noble ladies. During her debut, she captures the attention of numerous suitors, but her heart is unexpectedly drawn to Lord Trafalgar Law, a brooding and mysterious Duke known for his coldness towards women. As their relationship develops, they face the challenges of unraveling Lord Trafalgar’s enigmatic nature and navigating their contrasting personalities amidst societal expectations. Will their connection withstand the obstacles they encounter? or will it crumble?

A/N: this is chapter one of the law x reader fic. more chapters will come out in the future! important note that paragraphs that are italic and in third person is narration.

In the heart of London's upscale neighborhood, an estate of remarkable stature commanded attention. This magnificent home, a testament to great wealth and refined taste, stood as a beacon of opulence and grandeur. The exterior showcased high-end architecture, its facade adorned with intricate carvings and decorative elements that spoke to the exquisite craftsmanship of the time.

Stepping through the imposing entrance, one would find themselves immersed in a world of luxury and sophistication. Expensive furniture, meticulously crafted and upholstered in sumptuous fabrics, graced every room. Plush velvet sofas and ornate chaise lounges invited guests to relax in regal comfort, while gilded mirrors and marble-topped tables added an air of elegance to the surroundings.

Amidst the resplendent interior, a large painting adorned one of the walls, becoming a focal point of the estate. The painting depicted a prestigious family, their esteemed lineage evident in their refined fashion and exquisite jewelry. Most of the family members, portrayed with stoic expressions, showcased the composure expected of their social standing.

Yet, amidst this tableau of solemn faces, one figure stood out—-a young lady named Y/n. With her radiant smile and lively countenance, she brought an unexpected burst of joy and vibrancy to the portrait. Her presence in the painting captivated all who gazed upon it, drawing their attention with her captivating charm.

Y/n's image exuded a magnetic energy. Her vibrant dress, adorned with delicate lace and intricate embroidery, mirrored the effervescence that emanated from her every feature. It was as if her smile had the power to breathe life into the static canvas, leaving an indelible impression on all who beheld her likeness.

————-

Momentarily the front door swings open. you step into the grand entrance hall, accompanied by your family, returning from a long and tiring trip in Germany. The housemaids, lined up to greet your arrival, stand there, eager to offer their salutations. Your family members, weary and preoccupied, pass by the maids with indifference, their focus on reaching the comforts of home. But you pause and break away from the crowd.

A warm smile graces your face as you approach the housemaids. You understand their tireless efforts and the integral role they play in the functioning of the estate. Despite your high status, you have developed a genuine bond with the maids and staff, treating them with the respect and kindness they deserve. you silently greet the housemaids, your smile a reflection of the camaraderie you share. Your actions speak volumes, conveying your appreciation and gratitude for their hard work. You recognize that no matter their station, every member of the household contributes to its smooth operation. Through such actions, you instill a sense of belonging, making the maids and the rest of the staff feel seen and valued.

“Welcome back Viscountess” a few maids spoke to your mother, their voices brimming with warmth and respect. she completely ignores their well-intentioned greetings. Instead, she launches into a tirade about the bone-chilling coldness she experienced in Germany, directing her complaints toward your father, the Viscount. Her voice carries a tone of dissatisfaction, echoing through the grand entrance hall. “Darling,” she begins, her breath visible in the slightly chilly air, “I can’t believe how frigid it was in Germany. The weather was unbearable, and I simply couldn’t enjoy a single moment!”

Your father, already grumpy from the long journey and his own frustrations, offers a dismissive wave of his hand, clearly uninterested in her grievances. “Oh, stop your complaining,” he retorts, his tone laced with irritation. “We’ve returned now, haven’t we? No need to dwell on it.” Summoning the butler with an impatient snap of his fingers, your father abruptly changes the subject, demanding that the meeting for the town’s gentlemen club be arranged. His voice carries a brusque authority as he addresses the butler. “Smithson, I need you to arrange a meeting for the gentlemen's club. The sooner, the better.” Smithson, the butler, trained to fulfill your father’s every command, quickly approaches, his expression neutral and professional. He acknowledges the order with a deferential nod. “Of course, my Lord. I shall make the necessary arrangements promptly.”

Your younger sister and brother were escorted by their nannies to their rooms, their playful voices echoing through the hallways. However, your governess awaited you by the stairs, a figure you disliked immensely. She was strict and overbearing, making you feel suffocated in her presence. As you approached the stairs, she held out her hand, expecting you to take it and be guided up the staircase as usual.

Summoning your courage, you address the governess with a polite tone. “May I go up the stairs on my own this time?” The governess gazes at you with an unyielding expression, her stern demeanor unaltered. “Absolutely not, Y/n,” she responds firmly, her voice carrying a tone of authority. “As a young lady of your age and high status, it is imperative that you adhere to the rules and traditions that govern your position. You are not to go up or down the stairs without a servant or trusted adult present.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, feeling the weight of her words pressing upon you. “But I am capable of managing the stairs on my own!” you assert, your voice laced with determination. “I desire a sense of independence and responsibility.” The governess’s gaze intensifies as she counters your plea. “Independence will come in due time, Y/n.” she insists, her tone unwavering. “For now, it is my duty to ensure your safety and proper conduct. The rules have been set for a reason, and it is my role to enforce them.” Resigned to the reality of the situation, you reluctantly extend your hand toward the governess, a subtle gesture of submission. “Very well,” you concede, your voice tinged with disappointment. “Lead the way.”

As your fingers lay atop with the governess’s, you continue up the stairs together, a blend of frustration and determination swirling within you. While the governess’s presence remains an unwelcome reminder of your restricted autonomy, you quietly resolve to find small ways to assert your individuality and independence within the confines of the estate.

As you finally make it to your room, a surge of frustration and determination courses through you. Standing in the doorway, you block your governess from entering, asserting yourself with a resolute tone. “I require privacy,” you declare, slamming the door shut in her surprised face. To your astonishment, the governess, taken aback by your display of defiance, obeys and leaves you alone.

Sighing with relief, you take a moment to collect yourself. Walking further into your room, you intend to find solace and a moment of peace. However, your tranquility is short-lived as you suddenly hear a rustling sound, causing you to jump back in alarm. To your surprise, a maid emerges from your bathroom, holding a towel and an empty bucket. The maid’s presence startles you momentarily, but she quickly apologizes for the scare.

Taking in the maid’s appearance, you notice that she is fairly young, perhaps around your own age. Despite your initial shock, the maid exudes a sense of politeness and shyness. Curiosity piqued, you addressed her. “Are you my new maid?” you ask, your voice filled with genuine interest. The maid nods shyly in response. “Yes, Miss. I have been assigned as your new maid,” she confirms, her voice soft and respectful. She pauses for a moment before adding, “I apologize for any inconvenience or startle I may have caused you.” You offer her a comforting smile, instantly appreciating the maid’s polite demeanor. “No need to apologize. I understand it’s part of your duties,” you reassure her, wanting to alleviate any discomfort she may be feeling. “What’s your name?”

The maid’s eyes meet yours briefly, her shyness apparent. “My name is Emily, Miss,” she answers, her voice barely above a whisper. Your curiosity deepens, and you feel a connection forming between you. “Well, Emily, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say warmly. “I look forward to working with you and getting to know you better.” Emily’s shy smile brightens her features as she responds, “Thank you, Miss. I too look forward to serving you.”

As your mother sits in her chamber, discontentment permeates the air, her maids carefully changing her into a fresh set of clothes. Grievances escape her lips under her breath, a reflection of the frustrations that weigh upon her. Seeking control and release, she casts a scrutinizing gaze towards her head maid, her voice laced with authority as she issues her command. “Ready a carriage for me tonight,” she demands, her determination evident. Her intentions remain veiled, but her head maid, well aware of her secret desires, nods in understanding. Unbeknownst to your father and the rest of the family, your mother has been entangled in a scandalous affair since the previous autumn. The object of her affections is a married man, adding an element of forbidden allure to her illicit connection. Complicating matters further, he happens to be one of the main founders of your father’s gentlemen club.

This clandestine liaison both thrills and torments your mother. The intoxicating pull of forbidden love clashes with the guilt and uncertainty that come with such entanglements. Yet, she finds herself unable to resist the magnetic allure, drawn deeper into the affair, risking the stability of her own marriage and the tranquility of the household.

As the maids finish their tasks, they exchange knowing glances, their loyalty split between their duty to your mother and the secrecy they guard. Silently, they continue their duties, maintaining a facade of loyalty and discretion.

As someone abruptly opens the door without knocking, anger flares within your mother. She inhales sharply, ready to unleash her frustration in a torrent of words, but her fury swiftly subsides when she sees that it’s your father standing there. The sight of him, though unexpected, immediately stifles any outburst she had prepared, and she quickly composes herself.

Realizing the presence of her maids, who discreetly avert their gazes, she turns to them with a controlled tone and instructs, “Leave us.” The maids, well-trained in their duties, cast quick glances at each other before promptly exiting the room, leaving your parents alone to face the impending conversation. Attempting to change her tone to a more conciliatory one, your mother addresses your father, her voice carrying a hint of apprehension. “My dear, is there something you require?” she asks, her gaze shifting from his face to the room’s elegant decor, momentarily avoiding direct eye contact. However, your father, with a cold demeanor, wastes no time in cutting to the chase. “I have a plan for the gentlemen’s club,” he declares, his words firm and decisive. “I intend to host a grand gala, and I will need your assistance in the arrangements and sending out invitations.”

Your mother’s eyes meet your father’s, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing her expression. She takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to set aside her own desires and reservations for the sake of their shared goals. “I understand,” she replies, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and determination. “Expanding the gentlemen’s club and establishing connections with nobles from other regions is indeed a prudent move. I will assist you in every way I can.”

Your father nods, his stoic demeanor remaining intact. “Good,” he replies curtly. “We must secure the support and patronage of influential figures if we are to successfully expand the club’s reach.” As the weight of your father’s plans settles upon them, your parents exchange a lingering gaze, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Their union, intertwined with societal expectations and shared responsibilities, remains a delicate balance of compromise and ambition, even as personal desires and hidden secrets simmer beneath the surface.

—————

Sitting on the floor of your bedroom, your back resting against the bed, you immerse yourself in the book you managed to acquire through your friendly bonds with the household servants. It's a book on finances and politics, a subject your governess would never approve of, but your curiosity compels you to read it regardless. As you delve into the pages, your mind absorbed in the complexities of the world beyond the estate, a knock on your door interrupts your concentration.

Swiftly, you slide the book under your bed, hiding your forbidden treasure, and invite the person to enter. To your delight, it's your new maid, Emily, bringing tidings of great news. With an animated expression and a hushed tone, she leans closer and shares the exciting revelation. "Y/n, your parents are planning a gala of the season," she whispers, her voice filled with anticipation.

A smile dances across your lips as you lean in, eagerly soaking up Emily's words. The prospect of attending the gala stirs a flutter of excitement within you, and you can't help but imagine the allure of the event, filled with young gentlemen and eligible bachelors vying for attention in a whirlwind of refinement and courtship. Emily continues, her voice barely above a whisper, her excitement palpable. "I hope the Duke attends," she confides, her tone betraying a mix of admiration and hesitation. "Though he can be rather unpleasant, it's a shame because he is quite attractive."

You can't help but chuckle softly, amused by Emily's candid remark. The Duke, an enigmatic figure known for his charm marred by a disagreeable demeanor, holds a certain intrigue for you as well. "Indeed, it would be a shame if his behavior overshadows his overall attractiveness," you agree, sharing in Emily's sentiments. "But perhaps, at the gala, we might witness a different side of him."

In that moment, a shared excitement and anticipation fill the air as you and Emily exchange conspiratorial glances. The possibilities and potential of the upcoming gala ignite your imagination, where love stories may unfold, and connections may be forged in the enchanting ambiance of the event. Together, you revel in the dreams and hopes that the gala of the season holds, savoring the anticipation of what the night may bring.

——-

As the Duke stands in the tailor’s shop, being meticulously fitted for a new outfit, his sharp ears catch snippets of conversation between two gentlemen nearby. Intrigued, he subtly adjusts his position to listen more closely, feigning disinterest while keeping his attention focused on their discussion.

The first gentleman, his voice tinged with excitement, exclaims, “Have you heard? Lady Y/n is finally making her debut this season!”

The second gentleman responds with equal enthusiasm, “Indeed, it’s been long-awaited. I’ve heard she possesses an unparalleled grace and beauty. Many young gentlemen are eagerly anticipating the opportunity to court her.”

The Duke’s interest piques further at the mention of Lady Y/n. Her name carries a certain mystique, whispered through the corridors of high society, and he has caught glimpses of her during previous social events. Her radiant smile and captivating presence have left an impression on him.

The first gentleman chimes in, “I’ve heard she has quite the intellect as well. A rare combination of beauty and intelligence. She’ll surely have no shortage of suitors vying for her hand.”

The Duke, ever the observer, listens intently, allowing the words to sink in. A flicker of curiosity dances in his eyes as he contemplates the allure of Lady Y/n. Inwardly, he wonders what lies beneath her elegant facade and infectious smile. There is something intriguing about her, something that sets her apart from the other debutantes.

With measured steps, the Duke approaches the tailor to finalize his measurements, all the while his thoughts swirl with anticipation of the upcoming season. His mind races with questions: Would Lady Y/n’s presence bring a breath of fresh air to the social gatherings? Would she possess the depth and substance that he seeks in a potential companion?

As he exits the tailor’s shop, the Duke’s mind is filled with thoughts of Lady Y/n. A newfound curiosity blooms within him, kindling a desire to unravel the enigma that surrounds her. He resolves to keep a watchful eye on her debut, intrigued by the prospect of encountering her and discovering the woman behind the captivating smile.

©𝐘𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

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thestoriesfold · 10 months

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Tonight’s Golden Hour: Introduction

Summary: You find a new beginning. A new country, a new place to live. But this isn’t living, not yet. Something was off.

Pairings: Marc Spector x gn!reader, Steven Grant x gn!reader, Jake Lockely x gn!reader, Y/N is used sparingly.

Word Count: 2.1k

Content: angst (barely), paranormal stuff happens.

Warnings: probably cursing and language, death in family!, references to cults, eventual references to witchcraft.

Notes: This is NOT proof read. Horrible grammar- probably. Honestly, I just had to get this part out of the way. Be gentle with me, I’ll actually cry. This series will come with its own soundtrack, you’re welcome.

Masterlist 🌙 Pt. 1

The day was dreary, probably normal for regular Londoners. But that wasn’t normal for you. No, you never planned on being here. Your home was warm when this was cold. You could hear nothing but the city, where as home would offer the potential of hearing the waves of the sea, maybe music. The building in front of you mocked you with its old sense of luxury. You never had anything more than a small house, one that was fit for a lonely person as yourself. You could never understand how your late Nana could ever come to have this. Your family seemed to struggle to stay afloat trying to leave what felt like a cult. It was honestly, it was the only reason you’d ultimately agreed to be here. Those bastards always found a way back into your lives, taking another family member with every prolonged visit. It hurt to know that you were the only one left not falling for the tyrannical brainwashing that had persuaded your loved ones.

That wasn’t completely true, your grandmother died before they could get her back into their grimy hands. That made you, the person standing in the driveway, smile slightly. Maybe she got out after all, escaped. Maybe I have too, you thought. It was one thing to move across the country, it was another to end up halfway across the continent. Yet, here you were, all of your belongings sorted between a suit case, back pack, tote, and carry on bag. Safe to say, moving was easy for you.

You only then felt the chill of the London breeze against your skin. Perhaps, you got ahead of yourself. But that wouldn’t matter any longer, not as you shoved your hands in the fabric of your jacket sleeves and forced onward. The closer you got, the deeper the pit in your stomach grew. The house looked normal, but you ultimately felt off. Your head turned to look behind you, seeing nothing but cars passing by the thrush covered fence, and the steel gate that separated you from the rest of London. The garden that surrounded the house was small, probably perfect for someone like your grandma. You blinked at the rose bush that had started to wrap around one of the porch’s posts.

All you could hear at this point was the sound of cars passing by behind you. You couldn’t pinpoint the feelings churning inside your stomach as you slowly unlocked the front door. The hinges made their old age known as the door swung open. It revealed the main entrance. The small corridor led into the front parlor of the house on one side, the other leading to a lowered study. Your eyes scanned the stairway that led up to the other floor of the house. Your mouth fell agape as you stepped fully into the house. The house was still furnished in your grandmother’s particular style.

“‘M glad she stayed so up to trends” you had enough mind to say as you put your jacket on the coat rack. The house looked like one in a movie. Part of you felt lucky despite the eerie feeling radiating off the walls. You gently shut the door behind you, giving yourself a tour of the front parlor. Antiques lined the house from top to bottom, every piece seemed like it could’ve been a hundred years old. You’d never truly know.

You crossed the corridor, stepping down into the large room of the study your grandmother had left you. Books older than time itself lined the shelves along the walls. You remembered how you’d sit and read together for hours. You remembered your grandmother swearing on putting lavender and a splash of milk in her cup of tea, opting to do it for her oldest grandchild as well.

The sigh that flooded the room was one of emotions that you had held onto for months now. It took so long to get things sorted out, you hardly had enough time to mourn. In fact, your grandma was all you really had anymore after the rest of your family joined that stupid group. Tears gathered in your eyes as you ran your knuckles over an all familiar title. One she’d read you every night as a child. Before everything went wrong.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It had taken an hour for you to memorize where everything you would come to regularly use within such a large house was. You sunk into the chair that accompanied a large mahogany desk that rested in front of an even larger mantled fireplace. A sigh passed your lips once more, something you’d come to do a lot as the years blurred on. Your hands gently lifted the computer from your bag, bringing it to the desk and began your search. “Y/N has to get themselves a job” you mumbled. You just needed something for food and transportation. The will made sure that this house would cost absolutely nothing for her grandchild, meaning you didn’t have to do anything extravagant. To your luck an opening at a nearby library was available, several actually. “Guessing the job of a librarian is a dying breed, eh?” You asked yourself as you clicked on the application.

Filling out the information came easy, you finished up quickly. Your back hit the chair, making it lean with you. Your eyes closed slowly. Tomorrow was going to be something else, something new. You just hoped that nothing would screw it up, especially yourself.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You forced yourself from bed days later, doing your best to look presentable for the job interview. Your eyes took in the variation of shades that made up the look. You looked normal, maybe the circles under your eyes was what threw you off. A small huff left your lips as you finished getting ready, hoping you’d remember to eat afterwards. Important things, they made you undeniably nervous. Too nervous to eat, too nervous to relax until the damage was done. That’s what you reminded yourself as you stepped onto the coach, paying the fee due to not having a pass just yet. The library wasn’t that far; you knew that, but you didn’t want to risk walking along the streets alone yet. You weren’t from London. The white knuckle grip you had on the bus rail was a reminder of why you missed home. You could walk everywhere.

Your eyes stayed focused on the stops above the headline, eager to get off the damn thing. The man next to you had done a piss poor job of not staring. You could feel the Greek curse leave your lips as you stepped down onto the sidewalk, finding your footing as you took in the large building. Nerves flowed through your body till this point, now you were just dead excited. Working with books, in a huge library. You could only imagine what you could get your hands on.

Hasty with your movements, you quickly stepped through the main doors. Your hands found their way around each other as you approached the counter, an awkward smile gracing your lips as you approached a much older woman. She was older than even your late grandmother. The wrinkled face looked up at you, eyes lighting up to see someone actually show up for an interview. You greeted each other, the old lady taking a while to come around the counter. It didn’t matter, you would wait. Something about the old woman smiling at you like that, would give you the patience of three saints.

“Hello there, darling! It’s so nice knowing the young folk still appreciate places like this” she gestured to the vast room that contained centuries of literature. “I suppose, we should get to business shall we? Here dear, follow me.”

You merely nodded, opting to follow the woman “Thank you so much for accepting my application, this place is beautiful” you admitted. Astonished, your eyes scanned over the two floors of paper. You almost missed Janet calling a man over, his dark curls swirling in different directions as he approached the two of you.

“Ah, Steven! Hello. This is the new hire I was telling you about” you turn to the man in front of you, both hesitating to speak too long for Janet. She ended the silence, looking between the two of you. “Anyway, Steven, would you mind covering the counter while I take ‘em to the office for our little interview?”

He took a second to break away from whatever trance had overtaken him. He could hear Marc’s voice in his head, but he ignored it. He’d gotten better at that lately, offering a lopsided grin as he spoke “It was great to meet you, Y/N. I hope it goes well” he offered a small nod of the head before turning around to the counter.

His face fell as Marc’s voice started in his head, telling him that he made it weird. You didn’t take notice of how his shoulders deflated slightly as Janet directed you to the back office. ‘Great job, Steven. Really’ Marc’s voice dripped with sarcasm as Steven rounded the counter, slowly sitting in the chair.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Both of you walked out with grins, Janet hobbling slightly ahead of you as she approached the front desk. Your eyes met the dark brown of Steven’s, causing you to give him a thumbs up. An almost childlike excitement was rolling off of you, glad that this had gone your way. He mimicked your hands “Congrats! Welcome to our dainty little crew” he chuckled as Janet shook her head.

“Speak for yourself, Grant. Nothing on this body is dainty just yet, young man” her tone had a sense of fire to it, causing you to let out a small laugh “I expect to see you both tomorrow bright and early” she spoke to the you both pointedly. With that, you and Steven exchanged a glance. He was taking in your features the best he could, you were observing him. Almost mentally preparing for whatever tomorrow’s little show of the ropes would be like. You didn’t like not knowing.

You said your goodbyes shortly after Janet took over the counter once more. As your shoes hit the pavement, a grin graced your lips. You’d gotten a job, a nice one at that. Your grin grew as you saw a coffee shop just down the street, still early enough in the day not to be completely flooded. That day was a good day, despite the creaks in the floorboards that night keeping you awake. Despite the shadows that bent and twisted, despite feeling like a presence was watching as you struggled to finally fall asleep.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was like something held you down, eyes wide open as the moonlight flooded into the room. Your eyes looked around, watching as the shadows of the tree outside seemed to curl inwards. Your breath came out as quietly as you could allow it, feeling your fingers twitch. The house creaked as you lay there. You were convinced your mind was playing tricks on you. This was some twisted dream of yours. You had the imagination.

Your body was stuck, pressed to the bed with an unseen weight. At least you thought so, until a book that fell from your dresser jerked your body up from the mattress. A twinge of anxiety burrowed itself in your chest, this house was more than old enough to be haunted or something. But, it couldn’t be that. Right?

Your bare feet on the cold floor made you more aware, more awake as you bent to pick up the book. Your hands slowly turned the book over, allowing you to see the old, and rather dusty cover. You felt your brows furrow as the title was in Greek, mouth falling open as you spoke the title out loud, Greek being your mother-tongue “Εκάτη Σκοτεινή Μητέρα?”

As you finished the last syllable, your door peaked open. The hinges whined loudly, your body jumping as you felt your heart nearly explode. Your breath was labored, you knew better than to move, than to make a sound. But you had to, this was your house now. Your bare feet slowly moved along the cold wood, every other step causing the floorboards to creak beneath your weight. You slowly descended the stairs, opting for the fire poker as a weapon in the case of an intruder. Wide eyes checked every possible crevice of space in front of you, heart beating loudly in your ears.

You found yourself in the study, already having cleared the house of any odd doings. Your hand slowly loosened on the fire poker, not seeing any signs of anyone ever being in the house. With a sigh, you put the poker down. Why was this happening? Looking at the ashes that littered the fire wood, you rubbed what little sleep you had gotten from your eyes. It was early, three in the morning was what the clock said. There was no way you were sleeping. You shook your head, opting to tidy up the study a little. You adjusted small things here and there, coming to the final corner. Squinting at the small statuette that had fallen into the floor. You picked up the two pieces it had broken into, taking in the sight of the bottom’s three womanly figures. In your other hand, you observed three different heads, the one in the middle sporting some sort of moon emblem. Letting out one final huff, you looked at the pieces in your hands “Merida..”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Translation: Hecate, Mother Darkness.

Also- Merida in an assortment of languages means shit. :)

Thanks for reading, totally let me know what you think!

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octuscle · 1 year

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Shiny fabric

As much as Mack enjoyed living in the countryside in Scotland, he also enjoyed the occasional trip to London. He loved the metropolis, which was yet another category entirely different from Glasgow. And Mack loved the East End. Here he found honest lads, real fellas, with whom one could have all kinds of fun. Fun of all kinds. Actually, it was usually enough for Mack if there were a few beers and if there was fucking afterwards. That was all he needed on a good night out in London. But tonight he was excited. He'd passed a store last night on the way to his hotel room that had Adidas Chile tracksuits in his size in the window. In XXL. Black with gold stripes. He had been looking for it for years. Just wasn't available in that size anymore. He had never understood why Adidas no longer produced it. He knew a whole bunch of fellas who got off on the shiny fabric. He wouldn't necessarily wear something like that in public. But at home. Jerking off in the fabric. He had gotten a boner right away at the thought.

The store was called CHAVTF and it opened at 11:00 on Saturday. At 10:50, Mack was at the door. He didn't want to take any chances, he had to have the tracksuit. At 11:15, a young man came and opened the door. Slim, he wore a tracksuit himself and an alpha jacket over it. Hair noticeably shorter than Mack's. Cool bastard, Mack thought to himself… The cool bastard asked Mack into the store, turned on the lights and asked how he could help. As cool as he could be, Mack asked for the suit from the store window. In XXL. The store clerk laughed. Mate, the only thing XXL about you is your dick. There are changing rooms in the back, get undressed, I'll bring you the tracksuit. Without thinking, Mack went into the locker room and stripped naked. Between his legs dangled his impressive cock, dripping precum. He looked at himself in the mirror with satisfaction. The young man came into the cubicle, the curtain of which was not drawn at all. He placed the suit on a stool, hugged Mack from behind, and grasped the massive cock with both hands. "To try on the suit, though, please wrap that beauty up," he laughed. Mack picked up the jockstrap from the floor and pulled it over his wiry, hairy legs. The jockstrap still reeked of last night's piss, cum and beer. He took the shiny size S pants and pulled them up. Fit like a glove. The store clerk cleared out a new shipment of goods and stopped briefly at the changing room. Looks extremely awesome, mate. Your customers are going to love it."

Mack reached through the fabric of his pants for his cock. "Hell, yeah," he said enthusiastically. "Here, try this T-shirt with it," the store clerk said, tossing him a compression shirt with Batman printed on it. Mack slipped it on and nodded his approval. Looked cool, accentuated his lean body. "Say, how much do you actually take for a date?" Mack said that depended on the customer, a quick blowjob here in the locker room would be free. But otherwise, he would be a luxury product. Only for an escort service he took 200 pounds an hour. Everything else cost extra. "Bloody hell," the clerk replied. 'I work two days for that. When things are going well. But don't your customers expect someone freshly showered? You smell like you haven't showered in two days." "Three, actually. I'm about to have a pervert jerk off while he gets to smell my armpits. Gives you some extra cash." "I really have the wrong job. Is the Arab accent a trick? Or are you really from there." Maleek explained in the finest Cockney accent that his parents were from Morocco, but he was born here. Of course, the Arab accent is a trick. But his clients would dig it.

Maleek paid for the three tracksuits that were still available in his size. He knew how dates with his next client went. If his tracksuit survived, his client would ask him to piss in it and then pay him easily five times what he had to pay now for three suits. So two suits on reserve was a wise investment. And just because he was a whore, he didn't have to be a bad businessman. But now let's go to the agreed meeting place and play the street hustler. That was part of the game with his client.

#race change #male tf #chav tf #male transformation

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just-french-me-up · 8 months

Text

Heatstroke

Fandom : The Sandman (AO3 link) Pairing : Dreamling (Dream x Hob) Rating : Explicit | 2.1k Tags : Smut, Fluff, Established Relationship, Blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics Summary : England is suffering through its second week of a scorching heatwave, and Dream's presence in his flat does nothing to cool Hob down... or does it? "I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns." "Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly." "Could you now?"

Heat was everywhere. It was the air he breathed, the water from the tap he drank, the sheets he slept on, the walls he tried to find shelter behind. It was under his skin, ever present, unescapable, and Hob felt as though he was going mad from it.

It had been one week of this, sweltering heat sweeping through the south of England, unleashing all of its scorching might, with London at its epicentre. The city had not been built to withstand such temperatures, and Hob's flat was no exception. Closing the blinds and sleeping with the windows open had worked for the first few days, but, insidiously, the heat had filtered in Celsius by Celsius, invading the space until there was no longer any respite from it.

Ever the harbinger of doom, the forecast had announced another week of this, sending London into a frenzy, between those who could afford to retreat north (or better yet, abroad, to more scenic and forgiving shores), and those who didn't have that luxury.

Hob was part of the latter.

Work kept him anchored in the city between lectures and research, the university administration staunchly refusing to trigger their remote learning protocol, citing the poor exam results following the pandemic as their main concern. God forbid they lose their prestigious ranking. At least the faculty's archives provided Hob with a few precious hours of cool air. Such commodity was hard to come by, these days.

At home, Hob had grown used to living in semi-darkness, the blinds permanently closed, only leaving a sliver of light in. He often congratulated himself on having bought a fan one heatwave ago, before the entire stock had been raided by his heat-striken fellowmen. It did little to cool him down, though. Hot air was still hot air, no matter how much velocity it hit you with. He spent his days in nothing but his underwear, moving as little as possible, taking his mind off the heat as best he could.

Nights were almost bearable. When he didn't spend them at the New Inn, Hob would lie on the couch, crushed by the thick atmosphere, listening to this or that book, his body far too hot still to fall asleep yet. He was struggling to follow his latest pick when a deep, familiar voice startled him.

"I was not aware nudity was the latest fashion."

Hob sat up awkwardly, staring at the dark silhouette standing by the bedroom door. God, when he'd told Dream he could waltz in whenever he pleased, he never imagined himself sweaty and practically naked when that happened. Well... not at the onset, at least. In spite of the relative darkness, he could see the quiet smirk tugging at Dream's well-studied, often worshipped lips. Also wait, was he wearing a turtleneck, of all things?!

"It's something of a national trend, at the moment."

Dream took a few steps around the living room, the hem of his coat swaying gracefully against his ankles. Hob could feel himself sweat just imagining the weight of those layers. Morpheus, statuesque as ever, didn't seem the least bit bothered.

"How are you not cooked medium rare, right now?" Hob asked, looking for the faintest hint of a flush on those fair cheekbones of his, finding none. That turtleneck had to be awfully warm around his throat, though, the black, soft-looking fabric clashing deliciously with his skin. If he could just slip a finger underneath... Another kind of heat spread through Hob at the thought, doing nothing to improve the miserable state he was already in.

"I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns."

He said it as though it was barely worth mentioning, boringly mundane, and not easily the most fascinating thing Hob had heard all week. Hell, all year. He relaxed against the back of the couch, observing Dream's slow prowl towards him, suddenly acutely aware of his lack of proper clothing and undignified posture.

"Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly."

A low hum rose from Dream's throat, a cross between a chuckle and a huff. He was looming over him now, their knees nearly brushing.

"Could you now?"

Whatever clever retort Hob's brain had come up with, it died on his lips as Morpheus' hand ran across his damp scalp, his fingers combing through his hair. His skin was cold, impossibly so, his touch leaving tingling trails behind, making him itch for more. Hob let out a hearty, breathy sigh, leaning into the palm of Dream's hand.

"Fuck, that feels good."

He didn't mean to sound so achingly needy, but it was, by far, the best sensation he'd had all week. He had tried to beat the heat in various (and increasingly desperate) ways, but nothing matched the soft, cold silk of Dream's skin sending shivers down his spine. It felt... clean. Like fresh fallen snow, pristine and undisturbed. Which was a descriptor he could not quite apply to himself, in spite of many daily cold showers.

"I'm disgusting," he groaned, thinking of the sweat no doubt covering Dream's fingers now, a sensation he didn't envy.

"You are human," he countered gently. "You can not pick and choose which laws of your world apply to you or not."

Hob flashed a sly grin.

"Save for one."

"Quite right," Dream conceded, amused.

His fingers were still raking through Hob's hair, providing much needed relief. Running so hot had helped Hob in the past, back when central heating was still but a literal pipe dream in someone's head, but what had felt like a blessing then passed for a curse now. Much like the walls of his flat, he'd been build to keep the heat in.

Dream's fingertips brushed his ear, causing delightful sparks to shoot down his jaw.

"How does it feel, then, getting to choose which principles of physics apply to you?"

He'd meant it as a tease, expecting another one of Dream's huffed chuckle, but the reaction he got was more intense than what he had bargained for. Morpheus' gaze was consuming, to say the least, his pupils almost too wide and eerily dark to pass as human. A hand left his scalp to follow the line of his neck, fingers trailing down his throat like drops of icy rain.

"At present?" Dream's voice was a low murmur. Hob could almost feel the warmth of his breath against his ear although Morpheus over him, his back straight. "Exquisite."

Hob's adam's apple bobbed at the brush of his fingers. He did not fully understand how Endless' senses worked, but he could bet everything he owned that Morpheus could actually feel his heartbeat through his skin, his heart wreaking havoc in his chest. His lack of proper clothing left him exposed, the effect of Dream's ministrations painfully obvious, preternatural abilities or not.

"You are quite warm," Dream pointed out, as though he was only now realising the extent of Hob's predicament.

"So that you're choosing to feel."

It was hard to fight the edge in his voice between the cold caresses exploring his shoulders and Dream's almost predatory gaze. His only garment was getting too uncomfortably tight, his erection pressing against the fabric with yet more torturous heat.

"Touching you would hardly feel the same if I shielded myself from it."

Exquisite, he had called it. Touching him felt exquisite, even like this. Hob could hardly fathom it.

"So I am the sun-soaked rock you cold-blooded beauty like to lie against for warmth," he quipped, smirking up at him.

"In a way, perhaps."

Dream's hands reached his torso, sending more shivers through him on the way down. Hob could feel his throat go dry as Dream lowered himself on his knees in a fluid motion, his pupils wild through his lashes. A hand trailed up Hob's thigh, tremors following in all of his leg. He did not expect the gasp that escaped him when Dream wrapped his fingers around his cock through his boxers. The cold felt odd, at first, though far from unpleasant. Quickly, Hob found himself wanting it more. The clash between his burning skin and Dream's was intoxicating, making his hips roll at the touch.

"I thought you liked touching me," he groaned, frustrated by the pesky, unbearable barrier between them.

Dream merely smiled, that fucking cheeky smile he'd given him in 1789, and Hob's hips bucked of their own volition. Fuck that perfect face of his, God! To add insult to injury, Dream's thumb brushed light circles against the head of his cock, drawing a hiss out of him, his cock aching for more.

"Dream."

His attempt at being firm melted into something more pleading, but Hob was past caring. He needed and he wanted and he was not above begging. Mercifully, Morpheus pulled down his boxers, exposing him hard and sensitive to his cold breath. A strangled moan rolled out of him as Dream lapped at the throbbing tip, the ice on his tongue on the verge of burning, but ultimately divine.

"Fuck!"

Hob threw his head back, reclining fully against the sofa, his body trembling from the heat, Morpheus' mouth and the pleasure rushing through him. The surreal combinaison of sensations was making him dizzy in the heavenliest way possible. By the time Morpheus had him in his mouth, his hand stroking the base of his cock, Hob was moaning mindlessly at the ceiling, his hand tangled in Dream's hair.

"Fuck, you feel so good, love."

He could barely focus on words half of the time, babbling praises, stretching his back to accommodate the surge of pleasure threatening to undo him. He could not remember what he'd said after a while, but Dream hummed around his cock with such sinful wantonness Hob felt blood rush to his cheek.

"Don't stop," he panted heavily. "Don't stop, you're going to make me come."

Dream dragged his tongue along his length, drawing relentless swirls around the head of his cock. Hob grabbed the arm of the sofa, holding onto it for dear life. Morpheus' cool breath against his oversensitive skin caught him off guard. Dream's eyes were black now, bottomless pools of stars calling for him to jump and drown in them. When he spoke, his voice purring and sultry, Hob could hear it as close as if he'd spoken right next to his ear.

"I want you warm on my tongue, Hob Gadling."

Fuck! The words were barely gone that Dream wrapped his lips around the tip, his eyes still staring into Hob's as he teased it with a pointed tongue. Overwhelmed, Hob spilled with a gruff shout, tension stretching all of his muscles taut, before his body sank into the sofa, boneless and breathless. He could feel the stifling pressure of heat in his lungs, exertion weighing his body down even more than before. The cold press of Dream's body came to alleviate the ache as he leant against Hob, a hand against his mad, immortal heart.

"Never died of a heatstroke before," Hob chuckled hoarsely, his voice nothing but a prolonged wheeze.

"This is quite a serious accusation."

He did feign offense really well, that one.

"I think you tried your best."

Hob wrapped a heavy, lazy arm around Dream's waist, seeking skin under all those layers.

"Wouldn't mind you trying again," he added, his brain still floating hazily inside his skull. Dream pressed his forehead against his, bringing him some relief. "I could get you out of all that bloody fabric, for a start."

"Perhaps you will. I am told the Waking World will suffer another week of this," Dream said, pointing his chin at the nearest window. "I would hate to withhold any helpful assistance from you."

"I'm sure you would."

They held each other in comfortable silence, Hob slowly catching his breath.

"Sleep is notoriously difficult for humans during such times," Dream said after a while. "It makes for strange dreams. Or no dreams at all."

"It's been a struggle for a few days, yeah."

Hob slowly furrowed his brows, replaying Dream's words in his head. A stupid grin then stretched his lips, pushing against his cheeks.

"Is this your way of telling me I've not been visiting often enough?"

"I would not word it in such terms."

He gave Dream's hip a light squeeze. Did he posh himself up on purpose to visit him?

"I missed you too."

The proud git would not say it, but the way he leant heavier on Hob spoke louder than words, anyway.

"So, would it please you, other... visits? Should the weather continue to interfere with your sleep?"

Hob did not have the heart to tell him those were called "date", in this day and age, although he suspected Dream would sooner disappear for a millennium rather than 'wording it this way'.

"Yes. It would, shitty sleep or not. Although I admit I do enjoy your blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics."

"I thought you might."

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habit-poxly · 1 year

Text

father neptune (pt.4)

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

sea-monster hunter au!

description: After months of mulling over his confession to you in his head, Ghost finally is able to slip into your cottage and unravel his feelings. Lots of fluff

warnings: strong horror elements, early 1800′s dating,

word count: 3.5k

masterlist | Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4

It was rare for Ghost to become flustered, it was something he had managed to restrain as his youth slipped away. As he grew older- and as the allure of beautiful women wore off- he resided to himself in solitude, fully accepting the reality of men of his profession. Men of the sea were notorious for being scum to the women whose beds they crawled into. That widespread belief rendered his options for partners increasingly limited- regardless of if marriage was something he was keen on.

He was sure at some point in history a sailor of his stature would have been a charm to the women in London, but not now. No, men like him weren't the sort women would resign themselves to marry; a woman wouldn't be satisfied with waiting on the shores for the likes of him- that he was sure. He could provide little outside of hoarded wealth, affection or love didn't come naturally to Simon. He had long passed the ability to feel shame for how beautiful he found her and was rather relieved when she found his incessant staring cute, not horrifically unsettling.

It had long since grown dark, she had allowed him to sit on her couch where they spoke for hours; he had told tales of some of the best battles of his youth, watching her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughed. In return, she recounted times from her childhood of monster carcasses washing ashore, or her swinging on giant, bleached bones that were sticking out of the sand and rock. The topic of conversation seemed to avoid her actions on the beach altogether, neither of the pair wanting to spoil the comfortable atmosphere that had grown.

"Did yah grow up on the island?" He leaned back into the couch, trying his best to keep his eyes from falling over your form in less than respectful ways. You seemed like a modest woman, one dressed properly with hair drawn back neatly, even if in an outdated style from what he was used to seeing of women back home. You wore a plain blue dress, no ribbons or ruffles, with a white collar that sat strung around your neck.

He watches you mull over the question. You flatten the dress fabric in your lap before shaking your head and mouthing a silent 'no'.

"If I'm being honest, I don't remember much of anything at all. I have bits and pieces, things I can't make sense of as to why I remember them..." There was a pause before she began again, clearly trying her best to mull over the fragments and piece them together.

"I can't tell you if my father was tall or short, or what the colour of my mother's hair was- but I remember being in the streets of Dublin when a newsboy announced George Washinton had died. I remember a British soldier pushing me over when I was only four or so- I remember living in lots of different places but I only remember ever living here. In this house."

Simon nodded, his lips growing into a tight frown under his mask.

"How long have yah been here alone, love?" The nickname seemed natural in this setting, pet names had always been something he had to force out of himself- not for her, the way her eyes would light up made it worth it.

"A while." She shrugs, once again she flattens her dress, fingers fighting with the soft fabric.

"Bet yah don't even have a bathroom inside all the way out here." Simon hums, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was undoubtedly a luxury, one new and rather expensive. It was something that could only be experienced on the mainland, and he silently added it to the growing number of reasons why she would be far better off there with him.

She giggles and shakes her head. "I have a barrel that I put boiled water in, that's my indoor plumbing."

"Horrific. Can't imagine livin' in these conditions" Simon replies, allowing a soft chuckle of his own to slip out.

"Oh!- I'm sure boat life is just so much better. I certainly envy the months out in the open ocean covered in your own sweat and surrounded by rats." She leaned closer to him, a large smirk growing across her face.

"S' not as bad as you'd think. You should smell her' when somethings been rotting in her' hull for a week. None of the boys come close." Simon shrugs and stretches his arm across the back of the couch, a now large grin settling over him as he watches your face contort into disgust.

"That's shocking!" She softly pushed his chest and laughed, moving just a little bit closer to him. The action was small, something she most likely hadn't even put thought into- yet it sent his body haywire.

Admittedly Simon had always been the best at this part, the enisle flirting was something he had mastered in his 20's, anything past that point, though, was almost entirely new. He had been in relationships, sure, yet none that he was particularly invested in, he had never been the pursuer of commitment- yet now he had to be. It wasn't uncommon for men in this day and age- especially of his age- to propose at least a relationship rather quickly after meeting a woman they liked. He had strong doubts any other man on the island was interested in a betrothal with her- yet the urgency remained.

Marriage culture in London was something he had avoided like the plague, it being a dance of image and reputation that he had no interest in. Men and women were to marry young, have children young, and die young, yet the pair of them sat childless, single, old and alive. You looked to be older than 25,- yet certainly not older than 30- and for a woman as stunning as he had found you, it was beyond a surprise that no man had ever proposed to you at all.

Simon had accepted the reality of him begin marriageless as the rest of his crew had, yet that had never meant he wasn't lonely. For years he's laid alone in his cold cot in Manchester, thinking intently about what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented being alone. He had craved the company of a woman for far too long, he had pushed it down so far it had become insistently painful- unignorable.

Something about you had rattled something inside him loose; you had breathed the ability to love and be loved into him.

He was rather alluring himself, especially to a woman who had been on her own for quite some time. His dusty blond hair had been cut short along the sides, leaving long bits up top that stuck out messily. His features were sharp, strikingly so, having thick eyebrows with a deep scar slashed through one and piercing blue eyes. The bit of fabric covering the bottom half of his face was most certainly hiding a stubble-covered jaw.

"What happened here?" You pointed politely to your own eyebrow, eyes soft with concern that makes his heart flutter.

Simon's hand instinctively moves to the scar. He had gained so many over the years that he had stopped taking stock of where they were- or what they were from for that matter.

"Ah- got it when I was 18." He grumbled, the memory still causing a hot pain to strike across his face.

"Was on my first real hunting ship- most of the other lads were young too, one of em' did something stupid and let a rope snap while we were hauling something in. Whipped me right across the face. 'Suprised I didn't get a scar 'long the whole left side." He watches her eyes flicker with empathy, somehow becoming even warmer as the story ends.

"I'm sorry." She mutters, for a moment Simon stills, unsure of how to respond.

"You don't have to apologize to me, love. You didn't do it." He shakes his head, moving his arm slightly to tug you closer to his side.

"Why do you cover your face?" You ask, another question with only pure intention, yet it still tugged at Simon uncomfortably.

"'Prefer it this way, it stays on, love."

"Are you hiding something?" Your head tilts to the side.

"Just my face." He shrugs.

"Are you ugly?"

The question had been asked so many times his response was nearly automated at this point.

"Quite the opposite."

A large smile crosses her face, it was something she clearly already knew.

Desperately did he want you to lead him upstairs, to offer him to lay in your bed while he sleeps against your chest, or for you to run your fingers along his scalp and down his sore back. Everything about you was sweet, the way you did your hair, your soft tone, and your cries in the night, all grew overwhelmingly endearing with little effort on your part.

Simon Riley had never been 'whipped' in his life, no woman had ever reduced him to that level, but sitting in front of you, he was whipped. He had accepted that truth during the endless nights he spent tossing and turning, dreaming of you. He had wondered if maybe you had dreamt of him as well, perhaps he haunted your dreams, perhaps that was the reason for the heavy bags under your eyes, your endless crying at night.

"Why do you haunt the beach?" Regardless of him now knowing for certain she was a human woman, he still considered her a ghost, one like him, one whose private haunt he was encroaching on.

She sucks a breath in sharply, the sudden question catching her off guard.

"Why?" She repeats. The question lingers over you as you try to come up with an answer. There had never been a particular reason as to why, you had simply just done it, allowing your grief to wash away into the ocean.

"It feels good." You shrugged, the answer seemingly embarrassing you.

"It feels good to scream out to the ocean, she listens to me... Just listens. Not many will do that- listen to the sorrow-filled wailings of a woman running up and down the shoreline like a banshee."

"I listened." Simon could help but let it slip out. He had listened, he had listened intently, he tried to place her pain, and in his dreams, he would bet to take it from her- for her to give all of her sufferings to him, he would handle it all for her. Too many nights he clung to her in his dreams, too many nights he spent clinging to her, desperate to keep his head above water; no longer for himself, but to see her.

Your face grew a deep shade of red and your lips tightened into a deep frown. "You listened and then followed and then I shoved over your friend- stole your things!" You exclaimed. "I have no idea why you would have any interest in listening to my hysterics."

"Hysterics? You believe your feeling this way is all hysterics?" The disappointment in his voice was evident, something he was always unable to mask.

"Well..." You averted your eyes from him, moving them instead down into your lap as you straightened your posture away from him.

Suddenly he takes your hands in his, an action clearly neither had expected from him. He softly squeezes them before speaking.

"I'll listen. I'll listen if you'd let me- if you'd let me I'd take all of this from you, all your grief would be mine if it meant you'd be alright." He managed to force the words out, it was imperfect and certainly not the confession he had rehearsed on the way over. Her eyes dart back up to his face, her eyes widen as she studies him intently. After a moment of painful silence, she speaks, her voice small and unsure.

"You don't know me- you know nothing of me at all."

Pain tinges his heart at the comment, it was fair and he knew it. Sure, perhaps he knew her better than she knew him, surly her dreams weren't of the pair of them speaking for hours, living domestic lives together like his were; yet the comment still caused discomfort- distress even.

"I do know you, my love." His voice grows uneven, the desperation he's managed to keep at bay beginning to slip out as her eyes lock with his.

"I dream of you every night- When I look at the glow of the moon I think 'there, that was made for her.' Whenever I see the tide roll in I swear I think only of you. I'll see happy couples walking down the streets and wish desperately for it to be us- I've loved you in every life I've lived, surely that must be true with the amount of love I feel burning for you." Simon's voice shakes, each word said with full, honest intent yet still tinged with the self-restraint he's so accustomed to exercising.

"I know you." He asserts, squeezing your hands between his.

His pale face had long faded into a shade of bright red, his eyes flick frantically between studying your face for a negative reaction and anywhere else in the room.

"You're mad." You mutter as a rather dopy smile plasters your flushed face.

"Mad?" Simon exclaims confusion painting his voice. After the hardest confession of his life, after possibly one of the hardest things he's ever done, she's called him mad.

It took only a second more before your arms had wrapped around his neck and you pulled yourself into him. It takes an awkward moment for you to find his lips overtop the fabric mask instead of roughly kissing his jaw or cheek. Regardless of the fabric barrier, Simon moves his lips against yours, wishing desperately that the room were dark enough for him to rip it off.

His hands move down to your waist, he softly pulls your hips into his and settles your weight on top of him. His arms snake fully around you, locking you to him as you had done in the reverse. You pull away to take a breath, softly pushing against him to give yourself leverage over his hulking body. He brings his finger up to your face to softly brush away a strand of hair.

The novelty of kissing with the mask had worn off quickly, it becoming far more of a nuisance than a form of comfort for him at the moment. It was rather obvious that you felt the same, finding it rather annoying that he wouldn't move it. Not yet, but as the moments with you dragged on Simon began to reconsider.

"This is mad." You mutter, staring down at his covered face; even with the mask, you could see crimson sneaking up his cheekbones. His eyes were blown- wide and entirely focused on tracking your face- and his hair had somehow managed to grow more out of place than before. Simon doesn't respond, it crosses your mind he may be entirely focused on you- and he hadn't even heard what you had said at all.

He watches you in return, he watches your face fall from a satisfied smile down to one of guilt.

"And rather.. informal." You cover your mouth with your hand, silently wishing you yourself were wearing a mask to hide your embarrassment.

While you don't remember quite where you picked up your ideas around courting but you did know that you were taught that there was a proper and improper way of courting a man. It was quite different in England, many of their women only get married when they fall pregnant- however, there were things that had to be done before your and Simon's relationship could go any further.

"We aren't courting and I've kissed you! I'm so sorry, Simon. I-" As you begin to move off of him his hands move to grip your waist more firmly before rolling fully onto his back, allowing you to straddle him comfortably.

"Enough." He says firmly, your mouth snaps shut immediately at the command. He had certainly had some experience in barking orders.

"Courting? That's what you want, yeah? Does that mean I can't touch yah yet?- You don't want me to?" He struggles to form a sentence that feels comfortable, every word feeling clunky to him. Intimacy and affection on a deeper level were something Simon doubts he's ever expressed. Sure, he had tender moments with his mother- but those were few and far in between thanks to his father. Above all else, he wanted you to be comfortable, to love him back, so he would take extra care in every action.

Normally in courtships, those involved don't kiss, nor do they straddle one another- but this felt natural, not undignified or shameful like you had imagined breaking these sorts of social customs would feel.

"Well... I'm not too sure about that. I do want you to." You muttered, you understand courting, or dating for that matter was a custom in place to prevent people from marrying too quickly- yet intimacy can only happen within it so people tend to rush.

Simon's eyes crinkle from his grin, he moves his eyes down your form and adjusts your dress fabric to drape over him more neatly.

"You want me to what, sweetheart?" The teasing tone in his voice sends shivers up your spine.

"Oh stop!" A wide, flustered grin grows on your face as Simon chuckles deeply; he glides his hands gently up and down your waist and thighs.

"I'll come back 'round again in the mornin', have the kettle on for me." He hums, this accent seemingly getting thicker the quieter he speaks. "We'll start courting, hm?"

You smile, your stomach fluttering at the notion before the rest of his sentence settles in.

"You're leaving?"

He nods reluctantly, as if you even asking had made him reconsider. "Gotta get back before the lads come lookin' for a corpse."

"They still think I'm a monster?" You can't help but allow a soft giggle to slip past your lips.

"Gaz wouldn't even leave the boat- poor lad." Simon lets out a hardy chuckle, clearly feeling far less bad for Gaz than he was letting on.

"You must have a thing for monsters then- I'm sure of it. No sane man would see a woman crying hysterically on the beach and think 'ah yes, that one'." Your grin doesn't let up, and neither does his.

"Again with the hysterics." He shakes his head.

"Obviously I'm the most stable woman out there- couldn't find one who copes with minor inconveniences better." You say sarcastically. Simon huffs out a chuckle and nods, he's perfectly away of how odd his attraction appears, but he's always had an affinity for the uncanny or unwanted. Not that you were either of those things, he didn't find you unsettling in the slightest, perhaps that was part of the problem.

Reluctantly you two begin to pry away from each other's warmth, both moving to stand.

"So stable you use a harpoon as a mantle decoration?" Simon's eyes finally lock on the pointed metal rod- he would have missed it entirely if his eyes hadn't caught the ship's name carved into the grip. Quickly you go to grab it down to hand to him but Simon stops you and shakes his head.

"You can have it, darling. Soap isn't going to miss it."

"That's the one with the... with the hair?" You gesture out his haircut as best you can, you had seen many sailors with many odd style choices, but that one you had only seen on him.

Simon nods, "How'd you know his name?"

"Everyone on the island knows all of your names."

"Word gets 'round about us?" You could nearly hear the smirk in his voice.

"You guys all yell a lot." You grin widely as Simon rolls his eyes and scoffs.

You and Simon begin to exit the living room, you watch him dunk under the short doorframe before settling in the front room. He goes to grab for his coat but is stopped by you ducking under his arm and pressing your back against the door.

"Let me." You grab the heavy black coat off the door rack and hold it open for him, it takes a second for Simon to understand what you're doing but he turns around and places his arms into the jacket. It was a small action, something typical for women to help men with, but it felt different coming from her. You two switch places as you open the front door, and a rush of cold, salty evening air burst into the small room.

"It's an awfully dark walk to the dock... take my lamp, dear." You lean your frame out the door and point to a small table, atop it sat your good lantern. Picking it up he could tell it would have more than enough oil for the evening, he imagines you were planning on taking a walk tonight, one he had probably prevented you from taking.

"Thank you. For the tea- and this evening." Simon says and nods to you politely.

"Thank you for visiting me- and for asking me to court you." You can't help but shutter under his intense gaze, how desperately the pair of you wished he didn't have to go- but he did.

"Goodnight, Simon."

"Goodnight, love." He flicks on the lantern and turns from you.

You watched Simon walk all the way down to your garden gate before closing the door, then moving to watch him from the window. You watch him stop and turn back once, then again after taking a few more steps forward, then again, before he disappears fully over a small hill.

You imagine he'll be here painfully early in the morning.

taglist: @blueoorchid @@hoe4myers @yjhariani @lexi-zsy09 @galaxieshearme @tumblinginoz @icepancakes @iluvweasleys @crunchlite

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #CoD MW2 AU #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #x my posts #x codmw2 ff #x father neptune

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mybeingthere · 3 months

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Ceramic buttons by Lucie Rie

Celebrated as one of the most important studio potters of the 20th century, Dame Lucie Rie is famous for her distinctive modernist tableware and vessels. However, it is through Rie’s lesser-known, early work making buttons in the 1940s that we discover the fascinating story of her arrival in London as an Austrian Jewish émigré, the establishment of her career, and how she came to develop her innovative array of glaze textures and colours. These small, wearable objects reveal a story of survival and collaboration at a poignant moment of international conflict.

Born in Vienna, Rie studied pottery at the Vienna Kunstgewerbeschule under decorative artist and sculptor Michael Powolny. In 1925 Rie set up her first studio in Vienna, and, over the next twelve years, established her place in the artistic community, winning a silver medal at the Paris International Exhibition of 1937. In 1938 she, like other artists such as Frank Auerbach, Naum Gabo and fellow ceramicist Hans Coper, fled Nazi-occupied Austria to begin a new life in London.

Upon arrival in London, Rie continued to work and volunteered for Home Defence duties. However, whilst establishing her studio in London and a new market for her work, Rie needed to make a living. Fellow Venician, Fritz Lampl, was re-establishing his glass manufacturers in London, successfully producing a range of modern decorative glass tableware and figurines for the luxury market. Lampl also began producing press-moulded and blown glass buttons and offered Rie and others work at his company, Bimini, to supplying glass buttons to fashion houses and department stores such as Harrods and Liberty’s.

Rie began to produce her own stoneware buttons in her studio at her house near Hyde Park. She made buttons on the wheel and by hand, producing up to two hundred buttons a week. In 1942 Rie hired Rudolf Neufeld, a fellow refugee, as an assistant. Together they developed a series of plaster moulds, which rapidly sped up the production of the simpler button shapes. The moulds remained on the shelves in her studio until her death. Rie developed a wide range of button designs and employed six people, including Hans Coper, in her studio to support production. Rie also developed a range of innovative glazes that contributed to the development of her distinctive later glaze textures and colours, that she’s so well known by.

The more elaborate and expensive buttons were aimed at the couture market and were laid out on presentation panels so that visitors to the studio could pick out designs. Leading fashion designers of the period also sent fabric samples to the studio, and within a few days she would have to produce buttons to match. In 1980 Rie met the Japanese fashion designer Issey Miyake, and their friendship resulted in the 1989 exhibition ‘Issey Miyake meets Lucie Rie’ at Tokyo’s Sogetsu Gallery. In the same year, Miyake also used several of her wartime buttons in his collection.

Rie later extended the range to include a variety of jewellery, umbrella handles, and frames for mirrors. For her, the business represented a pragmatic approach to generating an income during the war. However, today the buttons represent a fascinating insight into this lesser-known aspect of Rie’s highly documented career.

Katharine Malcolm, April 2023

https://www.vam.ac.uk/.../lucie-rie-a-secret-life-of-buttons

https://www.apollo-magazine.com/lucie-rie-ceramics.../

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arse-crack-thistle · 1 year

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rwrb characters and their eras tour outfits

so i saw this tiktok asking what we think alex and henry are wearing to the eras tour, so here’s what i think the super six would do if they were all going together (in new york, i assume)…

(in my head they all choose an era and base an outfit on that…probably nora and pez’s idea)

alex - he fights for reputation and wins. i’m thinking black, sparkle, and chains. leather jacket with a black rhinestone snake on the back and a black mesh crop top underneath. black distressed jeans cuffed over combat boots. chains around his neck and hanging from his jacket and pants. thin black sunglasses that he later uses to hold back his curls when the house lights go down. oh and he definitely has the sharpest black eyeliner on his lids.

henry - he has a choice: either live in his reputation era with alex or be his complementary opposite. so he chooses lover. i’m thinking ‘80s high school student with lover energy. light-washed jeans with white chuck taylors. tucked in, a loose-fitted pastel button-up with cuffed sleeves. maybe it has splotches of color or faded butterflies on it…idk some kind of print. on top, a hand painted jean jacket with “london boy” in loopy pink typography on the back. a glitter lover heart around his eye (bc nora insists).

nora - speaking of, i’ll keep this simple for her. a fully identical ring leader costume to what taylor had on the red tour. she may be an irl chaos demon but i think she’s anointed herself the unofficial leader of “super six does eras tour 2k23” so this fit is appropriate for her. i mean she almost made them all wear matching t-shirts like they’re a depressed cishet family at disney world but june talked her down.

june - the queen of fashion herself. this is the trickiest for me bc june wants to do folklore and just wear shortalls and the silver star cardigan to be comfy, but she’ll be damned before she doesn’t match the energy of the others. june goes with evermore and all in on “cowboy like me” to piss alex off since he almost went with rodeo wear. cropped cream fringe jacket with an elegant ivy embroidery on the back and trim. underneath, a bustier and shorts of the same fabric with the same embroidery. of course she’s wearing a cowboy hat, cream with the ivy details. and caramel cowboy boots (rounded toe bc she’s a utility girl). everything but the boots are custom made in austin.

pez - “this night is sparkling! don’t you let it go!” yeah so as soon as he saw taylor in all of her enchanted ballgowns, he knew he had to be her nigerian billionaire glitter prince. and that’s exactly what he does. he commissions a nigerian designer to make a suit and headpiece using akwete fabric in the colors of the speak now era’s visuals. all accented in rhinestones of course. he’s also all about the accessories with a watch, bracelets, necklaces, shoes, and glasses from various luxury brands. he does the absolute most, and everyone loves him for it.

bea - angel is in her midnights era, and i am here for it! bc of bullshit princess rules she couldn’t wear a bodysuit like she wanted. but no matter, she’s still going to shimmer. having not seen anyone do it yet, she literally learns to sew and diy’s a mini dress version of taylor’s yellow dress at the end of the bejeweled music video. it was totally, incredibly frustrating but she nails it! complete with lace, bows, and a little more sparkle, the dress hits so hard. she pairs it with sparkly louboutin boots and replicas of the hair clips and choker she bought off etsy. june helps her do taylor’s hairstyle from the video, while she does the makeup, beauty mark included.

so yeah that’s what i got. what do you think?? bc this is such a fun prompt and i could see each character doing like fifty different things lol <3

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legends-of-apex · 2 years

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‘Only If For A Night’ Ch. 4 | Tangerine x Reader

{Click here for series masterlist}

Rating: M for blood, injury detail, profanity, mentions of a pet rat dying

Word Count: 3,750

Chapter Summary: You finally reach your destination: The Sunrise Hotel. Despite reaching the supposed place of luxury and safety, tensions are still running high and Tangerine’s arm still needs stitches. Lemon heads out to get some food for the three of you, leaving you and Tangerine alone. The reader is not referred to as being any specific gender

A/N: Just realised I forgot to mention before the start of the last chapter! Momo is a character from the Bullet Train book who wasn’t in the film and Maria is Ladybug’s handler, in case anyone was wondering <3 hope you enjoy

‘Don’t look at me like that! Keep your eyes on the bloody road, you bellend.’ Tangerine grumbled.

Lemon just grinned with about as much glee as a Cheshire Cat upon witnessing his brother's unusual softness. He’d seen the way he shrugged off his jacket and immediately used it to shield you from the cold, how he even reached over to adjust the fabric so it covered your shoulders.

It wasn’t like him. Tangerine never showed anything other than contempt for anyone but his brother. Yet here he was using his precious Saville Row jacket to shield you from the chilly morning air. It wasn’t like him but it suited him, Lemon thought.

It was morning by the time Lemon pulled the car up at the base of the hotel. The clouds took on a pinkish hue beyond the hulking building as the sun crawled her way through the sky. The hotel was a detached building of about a half dozen floors encased in solid grey stone. The rain had clearly worn away most of the details that would have once stood proud along the ledges but some nestled beneath thick ledges kept their engravings.

Right at the top, in bright white and curly neon letters read ‘The Sunrise Hotel’.

Tangerine surveyed the empty parking lot, his elbow bent out the open window so the cold chewed his forearm. ‘Bit of a shithole, innit?’

‘Just cause it’s not your glass fuckin’ fishbowl of a penthouse?’ Tutted Lemon, tired and irritable having driven so far for so long. He needed his eight hours of rest which he sorely did not have.

‘Well, look at it!’ Tangerine blew smoke from the corner of his mouth so it dissipated out into the morning air. ‘The place probably has rats crawling about everywhere.’ And yes, he also missed his glass fishbowl of a central London penthouse. Not that there was anything in it to miss, really.

Lemon gasped only to be shushed by his brother for being too loud as you slept. ‘Everywhere has rats crawling about everywhere! Don’t you remember Stevie?!’

Lemon couldn’t believe his brother referred to rats so distastefully, least of all when they themselves made a pet out of a rat that lived in their shared bedroom when they were seven. He wasn’t a pet by nature but they made him one by feeding him bits of stale crackers they found at the bottom of their schoolbags.

‘Fucking hell, Lemon. Course I remember Stevie, God rest his soul.’

Tangerine was offended Lemon thought he’d ever forget the poor sod. How could he? The clever thing had somehow survived the rat poison set down on almost every inch of the cramped apartment by their foster parents, or at least he did for a month or two. The twins had a funeral for the rat in a patch of grass around the corner from their home. They played football on that green after school most days with a patchwork ball so haphazardly taped together that it couldn’t really be considered round anymore.

Lemon had been so upset that he couldn’t do anything except sit on the grass, clutching the makeshift coffin in his tiny hands and weep. Meanwhile Tangerine, through his tears, dug a crude little trench with a flat-edged stick.

Stevie was laid to rest within a cardboard Nokia phone box in a grave about as shallow as a child’s thumb. But the twins were only little, they couldn’t have known the importance of digging graves deep in a neighbourhood full of urban foxes with painfully hollow bellies. They still left wilting buttercups on that spot every day until they had to move homes again, even after foxes desecrated the grave.

‘Exactly. So shut your mouth and go wake up sleeping beauty.’

When you awoke it was to Tangerine gently shaking your shoulder. ‘Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. That’s us here.’ He spoke quietly, his lips and moustache upturned at your grogginess.

It was time to say hello to The Sunrise Hotel.

‘Hi, there! You alright?’ Lemon waved to the receptionist as he approached the desk. ’We have a booking for room-‘

‘Room 601. Correct?’ She asked abruptly, barely even looking up from her paperwork.

Tangerine’s hand flew to his gun instinctively. But he didn't draw it. The way the woman smiled when she looked up made him falter.

‘Uhm, yeah…how’d you know?’ Lemon asked, thick eyebrows raised above calculating eyes. The old vinyl record blasting through metallic speakers seemed to wobble as he spoke, as if it too was nervous.

From his tone of voice, Tangerine could tell his brother was immediately suspicious and probably analysing the shit out of the woman as he spoke. He waited for a signal that something was wrong, even going so far as to step in front of you slightly to keep you out of sight of the woman. But the signal never came.

‘I was told to expect two dashing gentlemen and their acquaintance possibly arriving today.’ She said simply, stepping out from behind the smooth wooden desk. ‘Follow me. Let me show you to your room.’

‘Dashing?’ Lemon mouthed to his brother who simply shrugged his shoulders before wincing from the wound on his arm. Neither of them had ever been accused of being dashing before.

Tangerine let his hand fall back to his side, away from his gun. Instead, he shoved his hand in his pocket, sliding his fingers inside the knuckle duster that nestled there. Just in case.

‘Stay close.’ He told the both of you, quietly.

Tangerine was just as on-edge as you were, his entire body tensed. He eyed every corner of the hallway, every doorway, like he was daring some potential threat to step out and try something. Even the passing bellboys were not immune from his analysing stare, despite their friendly smiles. It was nice to have someone else so fiercely paranoid around even just because it meant you weren't the only one worrying about danger lurking around every corner. Lemon seemed calm, as he always did. He had a quieter was about his suspicion.

The receptionist led you to the elevator, its edges encrusted with shimmering brass. ‘So what brings you to the area? Business or pleasure?’ She asked, awaiting the ding.

‘Bit of both, I suppose. You know how it is.’ Tangerine replied, his tone overly friendly. His mouth upturned into a forced, closed-eyed smile before dropping back to normal the second she turned around. He was overcompensating for the strange way he had his jacket hung over his shoulder like a cloak to hide his arm’s bloody stain.

After ushering you in before her, the receptionist pressed the button for the sixth and final floor with the tip of her nail. Her ring and middle finger were cut shorter than the rest, you realised. Her other nails could have almost been mistaken for neon pink talons, like they would slice anything they touched.

‘You’re very lucky, you know. We have prepared the finest suite for you.’ No one replied so Lemon asked her about a mini bar to put an end to the uncomfortable silence.

You stood beside Tangerine and he looked over as you fidgeted lightly with your hands. When you caught his gaze he blinked slowly and smiled just a little, like he was trying to reassure you that you were going to be okay.

And you were going to be okay if he had anything to say about it.

You found his attempt at reassurance odd only because he seemed so on-edge himself. He didn’t believe that you were safe and yet he wanted you to feel like you were. Maybe it was just wishfull thinking? He probably just wanted this job to be over.

What set this particular hotel apart from others was the carpets. They weren’t patterned in gaudy tones or uneven beneath your feet. In fact they were immaculate and beautiful to the point where you almost felt bad walking upon them. The carpets didn’t look like they were supposed to be tread upon. The entire hotel didn’t really look lived in or occupied at all.

It was an older building. Her bricks reminded you of some Hollywood actress from the 1930s in that they were old but forbidden from ever showing it in anything except wisdom. The same could be said for the dangling light fixtures dotted like golden willow trees along the flowering ceilings. You wondered just how much of a pain they must have been to clean.

When the receptionist ushered you all inside room 601, the space opened into a wide room with couches crowding around a deep-set fire pit on one side and a kitchenette on the other. Right at the room’s centre hung the biggest chandelier they could have possibly crammed into the room. Its size made the endlessly high ceilings almost look small in comparison, the crystal daggers hung and twinkled so grandly that you had to avert your eyes lest they feel like burning.

‘If you need anything during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask. Dial number one on the room phone for the front desk and ask for me. My name is Alicia.’ She tapped her name tag with a single pink talon. ‘Dinner is from 5 pm in the restaurant on the ground floor. Come at your leisure.’

With that and a soft click of her heels, she was gone.

‘Don’t hotels usually ask that you book dinner?’ Lemon questioned no one in particular.

No sooner had the door shut behind her did Tangerine’s phone ring. He excused himself and walked into the nearest bedroom, closing the door behind him.

‘Well done.’ Their employer's voice grated through the phone as Tangerine dumped his travel bag on the bed closest to the window, peering outside at the view.

There were two beds in the room, both generously-sized doubles with fine white cotton covers and inviting pillows. It felt strange that he and Lemon suddenly had the privilege of staying in such places only after they started killing people for money. It felt even stranger that such a beautiful looking room came with an escort job, they never usually had such perks. But you were a high-value target, he supposed.

‘I was a piece of piss, really. I told you we’d handle the journey.’ He picked up his bag again and instead placed it on the bed closest to the door. It was childish but he liked being closer to the door in case anything nasty came knocking. It was a habit he’d had since he and Lemon were kids. ‘It’ll be keeping the package safe here that’ll be the hard part.’

His employer hummed, a frighteningly deep sound that didn't match his flowery accent. ‘You let me worry about that. Your work here is done. I shall transfer you the rest of the payment once you’ve left the hotel. It was a pleasure doing business with you.’

Tangerine frowned, dragging a hand back through his hair before wincing as the movement stung his wound. ‘So that’s it then? We’re just supposed to leave?’ He cleared his throat to hide the hiss of pain, his voice now stern.

‘That is what I paid you for, yes?’ The man sounded impatient but robotic. Tangerine couldn’t have cared less about his annoyance.

‘No. You paid us to keep the bloody target safe.’ He heard his voice rising as his arm kept stinging. The wound must've opened up again due to the lack of stitches. ‘If we leave, what’s stopping the Blackjacks or any other fuckin’ gang from waltzing right here in and blowing their brains out then eh?’

‘Because I own the hotel.’

That gave him pause. Tangerine had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the bricks.

‘I couldn’t give a rats arse if you owned the fuckin country, mate. That doesn’t make the place invincible.’ Tangerine flexed his fingers in irritation. ‘My brother and I have a reputation to uphold and dead packages don’t look good on our resume.’

The hotel just looked like any normal high-end hotel, even if it was a bit quiet. He couldn’t understand why their employer was so sure that you would be safe here.

The line was silent for a moment. Their employer sighed, his breath heavy. ‘What do you propose?’

‘Have us stay until you get here. I don’t see any security running about and I doubt your fucking bellboys would be any good in a tussle.’ He heard a sharp intake of breath over the other end of the phone, a sign of wilted patience. ‘Look, we’re not asking for any additional payment. We just like making sure the job’s done proper.’

At the promise of not having to fork out any more cash, the man caved. ‘Very well then. I suppose I shall see you soon.’

‘Yeah, I guess you will.’ Tangerine hung up the phone and chucked it on the nearest bed.

‘Arsehole.’ He uttered.

In the meantime Lemon had been going through a nearby restaurant’s menu with you since he heard your stomach growl. It would be hours until dinner so when Tangerine came back he slipped out to get some food for you all. Tangerine disappeared into the bedroom again, leaving you to get settled in your own.

After setting your bag down on the large oak desk at the foot of your bed, you got changed into some more comfortable clothing and looked around the room. It was set up in an older style, not as old as the hotel herself but still older. Most of the furniture looked like it cost a small fortune with its detailed etchings and fine finishes. The sprawling bed at the room’s centre looked especially expensive with its curved frame, dark wood and solid. Thankfully it didn't creak when you sat upon its edge.

What an insane twenty four hours you’d had. You’d gone from staying on your own in your tiny little safe house, alone and afraid, to being driven to perhaps the most luxurious hotel you’d ever been in by the Twins. You’d been shot at and hunted but most importantly you’d been protected and despite everything, you allowed yourself to feel just the tiniest bit safer than you did by yourself.

About a half hour later, you sought out Tangerine, calling out his name from the open bedroom doorway.

‘In here!’ He called out, his voice disintegrating into a groan. You frowned and walked inside.

The first sight that greeted you was the bed where his clothes lay folded pristinely next to his open travel bag. There was a gun nestled atop the perfectly pressed fabrics. The other bed housed Lemon’s belongings, strewn neatly but more carelessly than his brother’s.

‘Everything alright?’ He called out and you kept walking until you reached the bathroom’s entrance. White light streamed out of the ensuite doorway, casting golden rays on the opposing wall.

‘I just wanted to make sure your arm was okay.’ You offered.

He just laughed. That was funny given the blood coating his hand.

He stood so his wounded arm faced you but that wasn’t the first thing you noticed. His waistcoat lay discarded on the sink’s edge and he only had one arm in his shirt. The fabric hung off him almost like a side-cape, his wounded arm and half his bare torso were fully on display before you.

He peered into the mirror, a needle and thread clutched between his fingers as blood seeped down his arm and slicked his hand. His dress trousers hung low on his hips and every thick, deep ridge of his chest and stomach was evident beneath the harsh white light. The skin stretched tightly over the muscle there as he moved and flinched. You tried not to let that distract you.

He jolted suddenly, eyes scrunching shut and sucking air in through his teeth. His golden necklace swung back against his chest as he moved so sharply, the pendant twinkling in the light.

‘Do you need some help with that?’ You asked.

He spared you a glance, giving you the once over before looking back to the mirror. He looked like he was irritated by your question, his eyebrow raised. But something you would soon come to learn about Tangerine was that was just the face he made when he was thinking a little too hard about something, he just happened to stare disapprovingly at the nearest thing in his field of view.

He was thinking about letting you be that close to him, about how much he liked the thought.

‘I’m alright. Thanks, love.’ But as he said it he winced and fumbled the stitching again.

‘Here, let me.’ You touched his forearm gently, reassuringly before you moved to the sink.

Such a gentle touch made his stomach drop. He didn’t protest as you washed your hands and took the needle from between his bloodied fingers, just quietly observing. It looked like he’d dipped his hand in a tin of red paint, blood collected in vein-like vines along the surface of his golden rings and pooled slightly at their base.

He leaned back against the sink so you could get a better look, inviting you into his space. He clutched his forearm to keep himself steady for you, his bare chest bulging as he did.

Again, you tried not to let that distract you.

Instead, you stepped in even closer to him, examining his arm. You were close enough to smell his cologne and the faintest hint of the cigarettes he smoked. He must have bought the expensive kind of both because the smell wasn't at all unpleasant.

‘You’ve made a right mess of yourself.’ You huffed.

‘Yeah, I never was the best at fixing things.’ He usually preferred to be the one making a mess. He said it like he was talking about sewing a button back on, not like he was stitching up a gash in his own skin.

‘Stay nice and still for me?’ You requested and he did so without hesitation. You felt his body tense as the needle pierced the torn skin but he didn't so much as utter a curse. Lemon always said he never listened but he found himself listening to you like a song. Stubbornness seemed to drain from him with each word that left your lips. It was probably just the blood loss.

You decided to keep talking just to keep his mind off the pain. ‘Stitches are less of a permanent fix and more of a helpful nudge in the right direction,’ You reassured him. ‘Your body has to handle the fixing part all on its own and yours looks like it’s had plenty of practice.’

The numerous scars that littered his upper body hadn’t escaped your notice. One in particular on his shoulder caught your eye as it intersected with one of his tattoos. A scorpion stretched from the flat part of his shoulder with its tail etched in a beautifully straight line along the sharp edge of his collarbone. The tail flickered over his shoulder and about a quarter of the way down its dark, curled tail sat a jagged scar where something had once cut deep into his skin.

His tattoos especially longed to be touched, to be appreciated for how beautiful their penmanship was. Where you were standing you could only see an English bulldog with a monocle, a swallow on his forearm and the scorpion on his shoulder. There was one of his ribs too but you dared not let your eyes linger any longer in case he noticed.

‘This line of work was never without its- fucking hell.’ His eyes widened as you drew his skin together tightly like a corset. He gripped the bathroom sink with his free hand, knuckles white, and swallowed a groan.

‘I know it must be really sore. I’m sorry,’ Your voice was soft, gentle. It wasn’t a tone he was used to being on the other side of. You placed a hand on his arm again in comfort and he liked it being there. The touch let him focus on something other than the pain.

Between tattoos and bullet wounds, his skin was used to the cold sting of a needle. That usually didn't mean stitches ever hurt any less. But he was surprised at how little your needlework hurt and how gentle you were until now. He barely felt anything compared to the times he’d tried to stitch himself up or when Lemon helped.

‘If I’m still alive after all this, I owe you one for that.’ You pointed to his arm, the stitches now tied off.

‘Just another to add to the collection, love. And it’s when not if.’ He corrected you. ‘I have absolutely no intention of letting anything bad happen to you.’

You looked up at him just for a second as you dabbed some blood off his arm. He was sincere, it seems. As you found he always was. ‘It's not your intentions that I’m worried about.’

‘You don't trust our employer…’ He trailed off in thought.

Lemon didn’t either and he was always the intuitive one. Even if he did have to relate people to cartoon steam engines, he was never wrong about the feeling he had about someone. Ever. Tangerine trusted his brother’s judgment significantly more than his own.

‘And you do?’ You asked him. Of course you didn't trust the guy who paid to have you kept safe when everyone else wants you dead.

He dodged the question only because he sensed that wasn’t really what you were asking. ‘I won't let anything bad happen to you. I promise.’

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to make promises you might not be able to keep?’ You asked, daring to look up and catch his gaze again. The blue in his eyes swam the way warm oceans did when kissed by the sun.

‘I don’t.’ He replied and he meant it.

There was something in his eyes then that you couldn’t place. But it was gone all too quickly as you both heard Lemon’s muffled voice through the walls shouting to say he was back and that the food was still warm.

You stepped away from Tangerine and he from you.

Tangerine tag list: @icy-spicy @simpingforclaudette @cockete @padfoot-1959 @revenstaz @family-video @multifandomfanfic @robertdowneyhiddlesbatch @ashyyslashy @ifilwtmfc @ayoyouyo @noz4a2 @jo-noodles @vi0letblu3s @thelooneytoon @4ng3l-0n-34rth @sjprongs @stardustworlds @willowpains @chanooopy @elizabeth-skywalker @queenofstarsanddarkness @vampire-teeth7 @andfreeshipping (please feel free to let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list <3)

#tangerine x reader #bullet train #tangerine bullet train #bullet train 2022 #aaron taylor johnson #only if for a night #series #fic #mywriting #k.exe

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fueledpurelybyspite · 8 months

Text

Ops, wrong painting

summary

'And so help me god, Thorpe, if something like this happens again-'

'It won't' He and his father answer at the same time.

The ancient vampire fixes both of them with a long stare. Shaking his head, he quietly adds one last jab

'And let's hope the poor girl never finds out about this'

At last, something all three of them can agree with.

Or, Xavier Thorpe is asked to do a recreation of a famous painting with a personal twist for his art class, but the canvases get mixed up.

Xavier Thorpe is a dead man.

Done, finished, utterly fucked would also be appropriate terms to use in this scenario. But yes, dead sums it up pretty well too.

He sits in the principal's office, left leg bouncing restlessly on the immaculate hardwood floor and eyes darting around uncomfortably.

His father is here, for god's sake. Sitting by his side with a burning glare pointed at his profile. He's just come back from a tour, the famous Illusionist Vincent Thorpe. This was supposed to be one of the rare weeks off he dares to take, which are usually spent in their house in New York, in the charming company of whatever emerging starlet he has managed to promise fame and short-lived luxury to.

Xavier can actually feel the sweat beading on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He keeps his flushed face downturned, his head hung low in his palm. blond hair is pulled tight between his fingers as his elbow lays against the armrest.

He knows he fucked up, big time. This is the first time in his school career he has reason to fear he might actually get expelled.

The new principal, a strict and burly vampire who looks like he's just emerged from 1920' London's downtown scene, was very much not impressed when his father offered to pay the school a check without even letting him finish explaining what his son had done to land him in so much trouble.

He now sits behind the imposing hardwood desk, directing an impressively hash glare on them for someone who's wearing such dark sunglasses.

'Mr. Thorpe' His rich, rough voice fills the room as he scrutinizes his father, and Xavier feels like everything is just too much. He can't stand being the center of attention and he's suddenly hyperaware of the way his clothes rest on his skin, fabric rustling and shifting and making him go insane. He's hot and cold all over, he hadn't felt this scared and embarrassed since he was scolded as a child for finding the gardener's collection of playboys.

'What your son here has committed is an extremely serious infraction. If his record so far wasn't as clean as it is, it would have warranted an immediate expulsion.'

Xavier feels like he should at least try to explain himself, but he knows he sounds exasperated. 'It was an accident'

'An accident?'

The headmaster's voice is booming and sharp-edged. The birds in the cages hanging from the windows flap their wings around restlessly. Xavier feels restless, too.

'One of my colleagues, Mr. Crellin, your art teacher, has come to me yesterday morning to tell me you have made a portrait of one of your classmates, an underaged girl, against her consent or knowledge, depicting her in a state of undress with a disturbing amount of details'

Xavier actually wants to die. Take a shovel, dig a hole, crawl in it, and just die.

His father is absolutely seething. He guesses this would be pretty bad press if the news were leaked.

He can already see the headline 'Famous illusionist's deranged son gets expelled from prestigious academy for depravity'

God, he hates to think about the huge check his art teacher has surely already taken to keep this all quiet.

He's able to find his voice, eventually, but he hates how low and wavering it sounds. 'That was not the painting I intended to hand in for the project'

If looks could kill, Xavier would already be laying in the aforementioned hole. Unfortunately, the headmaster's glare only manages to make him want to puke on his shoes. Which is still fairly impressive, he supposes.

'The point is that you have completely disregarded another student's privacy and integrity in favor of your own…enjoyment' His words are disgusted and enraged and Xavier hates every second of it because it's not like that at all.

Well, maybe a little, but still.

'And don't think I don't know what you can do with your powers, boy, if I come to know you're using your gifts to create some kind of..of amateur pornography-'

'Jesus fucking Christ'

He's never agreed with his father more.

'Look' He feels obliged to speak before the situation gets even, somehow, worse. 'I know I screwed up. Bad. But I swear I hadn't meant for anyone to see it, and I didn't do anything with it. The canvases got mixed up and I made a mess. Please, I know this looks awful, but I swear I'm not dangerous or scheming or anything. I'm just…I'm just-'

A fucking moron with a crush

He sighs, defeated.

The gods take pity on him, and so must do his principal who decides, for some unfathomable reason, to believe him. 'All of your privileges will be revoked until further notice, no more passes into town on the weekends and you will not be going to the carnival during the Harvest festival.' a deep breath, then ' You're going to help the janitors to restock the art supplies every week for the following five weeks. You'll be allowed to keep that shed you use in the woods, but a staff member will come unannounced once a month to keep an eye on what you have in there'

Ouch. It could have been a lot worse, sure, but still harsh.

'And so help me God, Thorpe, if something like this happens again-'

'It won't' He and his father answered at the same time.

The ancient vampire fixes both of them with a long stare. Shaking his head, he quietly adds one last jab.

'And let's hope the poor girl never finds out about this'

At last, something all three of them can agree with.

It all started on a shitty Monday morning, as most shitty things do.

Xavier lay half-splayed out in his seat, stretching in the sunlight filtering through the classroom's window like a stray cat, sleepy and dissatisfied in the pale morning light.

The lessons he had scheduled on the first day of the week were always awfully boring, but he didn't mind. In fact, he endured them with heroic courage, for no other reason than that the last one of them was art class with Mr. Crellin.

The man was a genius when it came to his craft. Even though he didn't dabble in the practical aspect of the arts, he collected rare renditions of barely known artists from all across the world and he knew every single thing about them.

His ability to analyze the most mundane detail in a painting and tell the whole history behind it, to take apart and examine the structure of the picture without depriving it of its poetry had been what had motivated Xavier to actually start studying art instead of just making it.

Drawing and painting had always been his coping mechanisms, a creative outlet to keep him from going mad. Madder, that is.

But he'd never been particularly proud of it or thought it very useful.

Mr. Crellin had changed that.

So imagine his enthusiasm when, a few minutes before dismissing class, the teacher made the announcement.

'Very well, guys. For your next assignment, I'd like each of you to find a famous painting of your choosing and try to re-draw it in your own personal perspective. Doesn't matter if you take a detail of it and transfer it in a different context or if you decide to redo the whole thing. As long as it tells me something about you'

While his classmates huffed and groaned, Xavier tried to keep his smile subtle, the gears in his head already moving.

'And remember ladies and gentlemen, it must be done by this weekend'

'Didn't think the day would come where I'd see you read a book without pictures'

Wednesday's words came so close to his ears that he actively had to suppress a shiver 'Oh, wait. There are pictures'

He glared at her where she stood, peeking behind his shoulder.

'This is an art history book, Addams. And they're not pictures, they're illustrations'

They were the only ones at their usual table in the quad during lunch break. The sirens had to move up choir rehearsal and Enid and Ajax were probably busy sucking face somewhere.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night' She eyed curiously his eyebags as she sat in front of him, a hint of a smile in the corners of her berry-stained lips. 'Although it's clearly not helping much.'

'Very funny' he shot back at her. He tried focusing back on his textbook, but his gaze shot up again when he noticed the odd way she had styled her custom uniform that day.

Her tie was missing entirely and the first two buttons of her shirt were undone. It wasn't promiscuous, per se, but it was still a noticeable difference from her usually pristine appearance. A pale collarbone peeked through the unfastened hem, looking as dainty and as fragile as a bird's. There, barely visible, bloomed an angry pink rash, three darker streaks in the middle as if she'd just been scratching at it.

When he realized he hadn't looked at her face for far more time than was polite, which is any amount of time, he dared to lift his gaze only to find her staring right back at him, one eyebrow raised impossibly high.

Xavier cleared his throat, fairly surprised but somehow alarmed by the lack of threats and knives. 'What happened there?' He asked, vaguely pointing at her cleavage.

Wednesday sighed in a rare display of emotion, letting her annoyance show through. 'Enid accidentally sprayed some of her nasty cheap perfume over me. Contact with clothes was only irritating it more and right now I can't afford to steal any more bandages from the infirmary without raising suspitions'

He snorted, shaking his head with an amused grin.

'Who's the elitist snob now?'

'Do shut up, Thorpe'

'As you wish, of course'

Putting her elbows on the table, Wednesday leaned in towards him to take a better look at the page he'd been studying before her arrival.

'What are you working on, anyway, so absorbed in your book with pictures'

'Illustrations'

'Whatever'

He sighed, secretly enjoying their banter. He had a feeling Wednesday did too.

'I have to work on this project for Mr.Crellin. So I'm just trying to find a painting that, you know' he trailed off, feeling clumsy in his own choice of words 'speaks to me'

Wednesday just looked back at him, seeming as unimpressed as she usually did. Then, as swiftly as she had arrived, she gathered her things to leave.

'Best of luck on your research, then'

A heavy sigh left his body as he stepped away from the canvas, cleaning his hands on his stained hoodie before rubbing them on his eyes, tired and heavy with sleep.

He dared to glance at what he'd been working on for the past four hours. The picture he'd managed to bring together was a rendition of The Starry Night, but instead of a peaceful city in the south of France, he'd painted the iconic sky on top of the streets of New York.

He imagined it wasn't fair to compare his father's penthouse to the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum, but whatever. He supposed Van Gogh wouldn't have been too offended, fellow tortured artist and all. Besides, Xavier felt like he'd gone just as mad, left alone in that big space year after year.

The proportions were perfect, the moonlight on the skyscrapers was flawless, and he'd recreated the masterpiece's original sky in excruciating detail. It was original and yet respectful, it was objectively beautiful.

It was soulless.

Xavier banged his head hard on his worktable. Everything about his picture felt so…impersonal. He'd been so excited for this project, it was a chance to really show what he felt, to create something meaningful and personal and heartwrenching.

something that was real.

Everything had been a mess since the Hyde. Xavier felt as if he'd lost all passion for drawing. He still loved it, of course, and still needed it, but he couldn't go back to the easy way it was before. He didn't need to plan his paintings before, he used to put the pencil on paper without knowing what would come out of it. It'd been second nature, like he'd been born with a pencil in his right hand. But then the whole shitshow that was the previous semester happened and all he could manage to draw was the Hyde. And now he had to plan things out, as if he'd completely lost his instinct.

All he drew when he really let his mind wander was Wednesday.

He knew it was creepy. And unhealthy. He shouldn't just replace one obsession with another. but he just couldn't stop. during the past few months, he'd collected an alarmingly big collection of studies of her, his two most recent sketchbooks were filled exclusively with it. Just pages and pages of the curve of her hands, the bend of her fingers against the bow of her cello, the arch of her neck, the twist and knots in her spine, the bruises on her knees, the pout on her lips, her fathomless eyes.

His hands itched as his mind brought forth the image of her exposed throat from earlier that day, the pale flash stretched over her sharp collarbones, the angry rash barely visible under the open collar of her shirt.

He wasn't sure what he'd wanted more, to touch it or to draw it.

Fuck it.

In a move filled with frustration and confusion, Xavier put his New York starry night on the ground next to the door and took out a fresh canvas.

He looked at the cheap watch on his wrist that he wore specifically while painting, a bright green 1 a.m. glared back at him.

He put the blank canvas on the easel, dipped his brush in the deepest black he had, and just let his mind wander free.

Obviously he'd fallen asleep barely an hour before the start of classes, obviously he'd rushed and barely made it in time for Mr. Crellin's lesson, and obviously he'd taken the wrong canvas.

Good God, what a mess.

Xavier's currently contemplating what excuse he can pull out of his ass to explain to Ajax and their friends why he can no longer go with them to try the new sushi restaurant this weekend, or any other weekend, or any other day in the foreseeable future.

He shakes his head with a humorless laugh. Hell, at least his father showed up.

He's at least got a chance to a fair grade. He makes his way to his shed to retrieve the painting he had actually intended to bring to class, the one with the starry night overlooking New York City.

Mr.Crellin has graciously agreed to leave this whole thing behind them and take a look at his real project. He supposes he should be grateful.

He isn't. Mr. Crellin is a fucking snitch.

Xavier moves on autopilot through woods he knows like the back of his hand. He steps into the clearing, takes the key to the shed out of his pocket, and swings the door open all while completely lost in thought.

'I guessed you were bound to come by, sooner or later'

He comes back to reality abruptly.

His eyes go round and impossibly big as he takes in the image of Wednesday, her back to the door and voice light and distracted as she studies intently the portrait in front of her.

The portrait of her.

Xavier can feel the sweat turn ice cold on his body, the hair raising on the back of his neck as his heart starts beating so fast it feels as if it wants to crawl out of his chest, break the bones, cut through his ribcage, destroy itself and him with it.

He'd been drunk off of frustration and lust, the night he'd painted her. There wasn't space for poetry and poise, and it shows. He can only look on horrified as the real Wednesday Addams stares at the Wednesday Addams he made, eyes half close and lids heavy with promise, the sharp bones in her face, cheeks sunken in and tiny chin jutted out towards the sky, her hair unbound behind dainty shoulders, her delicate bare breasts, the deep arch in her spine as she poses as Munch's Madonna.

He wanders, wildly, how she came to find this out. If she had a vision or heard someone in the staff talk. He wonders how she managed to steal it from the headmaster's office and bring it here, if she's more offended by the nudity or the utter surrender in the stance he dared to imagine her in.

Most of all, he wonders what kind of painful, horrifying death she's planning to inflict on him.

But his nightmarish girl manages to surprise him once again.

With a chilling calm in her voice, she lifts a single graceful finger towards the canvas to point at the space right next to a small, pink nipple.

'I have a freckle right here, actually'.

#wednesday x xavier #xavier thorpe #addams family #wavier #wenthorpe #wenvier #wednesday #enid sinclair #ajax petropolus #wednesday 2022

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carbondated · 4 months

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❝ New York growled at my window. But I was ready for it. My stocking seams were straight. My lipstick was combat-ready .....❞ ( PROSE: The Angel´s Kiss )

River´s obsession with luxury and fashion in particular stems from a neglected childhood. For the first four years of her life Melody Pond was raised solely by Madame Kovarian, who did bestow upon her some level of care. However, as the war on Trenzalore continued to go badly, she was shunted into the care of Dr Renfrew, custodian of GreyStark Hall. Due to the Silence´s tampering, Renfrew frequently forgot her existence, resulting in Melody going without the basic necessities. There were times she would go without food for days, resorting to breaking into the sparse kitchen herself. Clothes that were torn or outgrown she would have to live with much longer and often went barefoot because she would outgrow her shoes.

When Melody Pond finally escaped the silence in mid 1969, rather than improving, her situation would only become worse. Miraculously, by November 1969 she had found her way to New York, where she lived on the streets, begging or else scavenging for food. She took notice of the people who passed her on the street, envious of their rich furs and fabrics, longing for the shoes they wore and the food wafting over from the restaurants they ate at. Soon after arriving in New York, Melody contracted an unknown disease in early December and by New Years, the disease had consumed her. Melody Pond died in an alleyway that night, giving way to Melody ´Mels´ Zucker to do things differently.

As Mels aged, she was determined to do better than her predecessor. Having to move constantly due to her insistence on never physically growing, Mels bounced between different foster homes and orphanages up until the day she made it to Leadworth. There she settled with a foster family close to Amy Pond´s house, but the years had left her extremely frustrated at having so little to call her own. As soon as could, she began working, saving as much as she could, looking for better opportunities and climbing the ladder wherever possible. Her work paid off and by the time she was just physically 20 years old she had landed a high paying job as a management consultant. ( PROSE: River Of Time, Andrew Lane )

It was from there that Melody began to indulge in all the things she´d never had. Her first luxury purchase was a vintage Moschino handbag which she wore everywhere until the straps frayed and gave out, she drove all the way to London just to purchase it and was the envy of Leadworth for months. After that, the love affair with luxury fashion only grew. Mels favoured small pieces from Balenciaga, Gucci and Coach and the occasional jewellery from Burberry. She would mix these pieces with clothing from lesser brands as well, Guess, Nike & Adidas. Perfumes she constantly changed, though she mainly favoured fresh or citrus notes. As much as she loved her newfound wealth, the feeling constantly gnawed at Mels that it wasn´t enough. She was never truly satisfied.

River Song would soon change that for her. regenerating into a more mature figure left her with different tastes, but did nothing to diminish her love of fashion. River had access to time travel and a knack for lock picking, conning banks and many other talents. At last, she had access to the large volumes of cash little Melody pond could never have imagined in a million years. The need to establish herself,to indulge in wealth, could not be shaken, particularly as her career often resulted in the very un-glamorous look of wading knee-deep in alien mud. She held several wardrobes stashed away at various residences and her clothes were either snatched off the rack from the back of Chanel fashion shows, or else sensibly purchased in the case of the Hermès, Armani and Dior pieces she now owned. Shoes she owned in the hundreds, favouring Louboutin for their pumps, Manolo for strappy heels and for everything else? there was Yves Saint Laurent. For jewellery River wasn´t as choosy or as loyal, though her absolute favourites was Cartier, she owned a few Vivienne Westwood statement pieces that she was also fond of. For Perfumes, she favoured more amber notes and again, wasn´t as fussy on brand. Though they were all ´vintage´ to her she had several rare pieces in her wardrobe from various time periods as well. Because this regeneration lived as long as she did, she was able to find the cohesiveness that Mels had also wished for, maintaining her sense of style without change for many years.

But inevitably, she would regenerate again during her escape from the library database and so would her sense of style. River Allegro, having lived for centuries in the database without a need to show off her wealth to anyone, had a much healthier relationship with fashion than her predecessor. She did still own several pieces from various designer brands however. This incarnation favoured Oscar De La Renta and Vera Wang. Her love of shoes still continued as did the brands she favoured but these items were all only used for special occasions rather than every day wear. For jewellery, Tiffany´s was a must and for perfume she was prone to more floral notes. Though she had changed over the centuries, she never forgot how much style had meant to her predecessors, honouring that in her own humorous way. In the living room of her house, encased in glass and sunk into a transparent coffee table, are the original Louboutin Bianca platform´s she wore onboard the Byzantium and same Moschino handbag she once owned as Mels, repurchased after she lost it many centuries ago.

#out of character.#i made a garland for her head. and bracelets too. and fragrant zone; ... headcanons #it had to be done.#queue

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widowshill · 8 months

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DOSSIER : ROGER COLLINS

studies in: maxim de winter, edward rochester, the prodigal son, casual violence & casual cruelty, hedonism, patrilineal curses, from whales to sardines

FULL NAME: Roger Edward Collins AGE: 43 BIRTH DATE: September 14, 1925 ETHNICITY: white GENDER: cis man ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: biromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual (lean towards men, closeted) RELIGION: eh SPOKEN LANGUAGE: English CURRENT LIVING CONDITIONS: at the Collinwood estate, with his sister, niece, and son, as well as his governess (and the many, many ghosts)

RELATIONSHIPS

PARENTS: Jamison and Catherine Collins SIBLINGS: Elizabeth Collins Stoddard SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Laura Murdoch (deceased ... kind of), Cassandra Blair (Angélique Bouchard Collins, missing ... kind of) CHILDREN: David Collins, although the paternity is doubted and the relationship is strained. he's much closer to his niece, Carolyn, for whom he serves as a father-figure.

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOUR: blue HAIR COLOUR: blond HEIGHT: 6'0 BODY BUILD: some muscle tone, but not built TATTOOS + PIERCINGS: n/a NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: male-pattern baldness, a near-permanent disgusted expression, often dressed nicely in business suits, or, when more causally at home, in luxurious smoking jackets or turtleneck sweaters. requires reading glasses but very seldom wears them around others, as he despises the way he looks in them.

PERSONALITY

INTELLIGENCE: smarter than he seems. he's more than capable of managing the estate and business if he wanted to, but he simply doesn't want to, so perfectly fine with Liz handling the lot of it. had a decent education befitting of his family name and wealth, including a private boarding school in Maine and later an undergrad at Yale in business (as a student of Branford College), and though he always did well enough he never cared enough to particularly excel. LIKES: liquor, especially brandy, smoking, darts, fine clothes and well-made fabrics, nice cars, money, fine foods, open fires, cloudy days, gas lamps, libraries, opera, jazz music (especially the crooners) and classical, especially pieces written for violin or trio. typewriters, sex, reading, straight-leg trousers, flirting, driving (speeding). fond of New England weather, especially when enjoyed from beaches and the cliffs at Widow's Hill. Europe – cities like London, and Paris especially. meticulous gardens, gambling, and the exertion of power. DISLIKES: the smell of fish, intensive labor (or any labor), household chores, pop music (groups like The Beatles, Herman's Hermits, and the Monkees he regards as exceedingly silly), rock music, flared trousers, denim, children, sweet flavors including fruits like strawberry and banana, his own son, his own wife, Burke Devlin, public transport, Midwestern scenery, foreign languages, calculations, fields, dirt. DISPOSITION: very snooty and thinks extremely high of himself, but lazy, and accomplishes little. functioning alcoholic. raised in wealth and reflects an old-money set of gentlemanly behaviors, but quite bitchy and rude even to his own family.

Bio:

Born eight years after his elder sister, Liz, Roger was always the runt of the Collins litter, the unwanted pup that could do very little right in his family's eyes ( or in anyone else's, for that matter. ) his mother, Catherine, had died in childbirth, and Roger never entire shook off the suspicion that his father and sister blamed him for his mother's death, instead of that insipid, stupid Collins family physician. he spent his childhood living in an heir's lap of luxury, playing on the grounds of the Collinwood estate, tormenting his sister, practically begging for attention from his father, and getting into all sorts of mischief along the way. as he got older, he was sent to a private boarding school ( mostly to get him out of his father's hair ), then to Branford College at Yale. he majored in business, mostly on his father's wishes (he would have preferred classics, or drama) but it was easy to cheat along the way and not too hard. job prospects didn't matter: his family would continue to cushion him, as they always had. so his school years were, by far, the best of his life: he cherished the homosocial, free environment of college boys, the absence of any responsibility, the strange rituals and secret societies, and perhaps most of all, the money. at Yale, more even than at home, Roger adopted a taste for the finer things and wealthier people in life, much preferring the pretentious, secluded social atmosphere.

When he came home from school, he took a minor office position at the cannery more out of boredom than anything else ( and bored he was. his father endlessly scolded for arriving late, leaving early, showing up drunk or simply not showing up at all ). his delightful sister had married truly the cream of the crop Paul Stoddard, who he couldn't much stand to be around, and Roger avoided home at all costs. his niece, Carolyn, was the only thing that redeemed Paul, and the only good thing he'd given his sister: she was a delightful little child, pretty, and happy, and always pleased to be in her young uncle's arms.

their father died when he was still in his early twenties, and although Liz cried for days on end, Roger couldn't have cared less about the old bastard. better, he'd left Roger half the money and shares in the company. he quickly spent up ever last dime of the inheritance, and put his shares up at auction to generate more –– though Liz swooped in to buy them up in some misguided notion of Collins family honor. shortly after the death of his father, Roger fell in with Laura Murdoch and Burke Devlin in a fine little trio, and they spent the majority of their time in Collinsport cruising the streets, drinking, and smoking at the docks. Laura eventually chose Burke as her official romantic partner, which irritated Roger to no end: he never stopped trying to prove himself superior to Burke in birth and quality, even after they were eventually married.

then came the accident. in 1957, Roger was cruising with Laura and Burke, all three piss-drunk and already angry at each other for some petty argument he's long since forgotten. the car hit a pedestrian and killed them. Burke Devlin would long maintain that Roger was at the wheel that night, and Roger that it had been Devlin driving. regardless of the truth, Elizabeth managed to protect her brother from a prison sentence for manslaughter, and Burke served the sentence in his place, forming a long-standing hatred for Roger and the entire Collins family and everything that they stood for. in exchange for her protection, Elizabeth ordered Roger out of Collinsport ( oh, twist his arm! ) sending him small payments to help get him on his feet. Roger married Laura the day after the trial, more of a final, smug victory over Burke than a gesture of true, lasting love, and the two relocated to Augusta, Maine. very shortly after they were married, Laura revealed that she was pregnant. Roger was never certain that he was in fact the father, not Burke, and the suspicions formed a deep-seated hatred for his son, David, from the moment he was born. he was nothing like Carolyn. fussy as a baby, taking away all of Laura's attention, and unusual, morose and disturbing as he grew.

Laura's own health and mental well-being gradually declined, due to a combination of alcoholism and mental illness, and Roger had her confined to a hospital and the two permanently separated, though without a formal divorce. shortly after, feeling financial pressures ( and sick of taking care of David on his own ), Roger returned to Collinwood –– much to the annoyance of his sister. his arrival very nearly coincided with the end of Burke's prison sentence and his old enemy's return to Collinsport.

#➤ roger collins. ┊ I and my ghosts want a drink.

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coffeymarcus1 · 2 years

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luxurybestlz · 9 days

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BURBERRY

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The Check Pattern: A Symbol of Sartorial Sophistication

Who hasn’t recognized the quintessential Burberry check? This pattern screams luxury without being ostentatious. Reimagined in varied hues and incorporated into a wide array of items from scarves to bags, it offers versatility while retaining that classic

Burberry cachet. It’s an emblem of sartorial recognition, allowing the wearer to carry a piece of fashion history.

The Fragrance: A Whiff of British Elegance Burberry’s foray into fragrances has encapsulated the essence of the brand’s aesthetic. Each scent is a journey through the English gardens, the bustling streets of London, and the serenity of the countryside. My favorite? Burberry Her. It’s as whimsical and lively as a walk through Covent Garden, with notes of dark berries and jasmine – modern yet classic, much like the brand itself.

Sustainability: A Commitment Woven into Fashion

In today’s world, fashion with a conscience is the true mark of a top-tier brand. Burberry’s efforts to make fashion sustainable are laudable, as they march towards becoming carbon neutral, crafting a greener blueprint for future fashion mavens to follow.

Final Verdict: Burberry, a Brand That Stands the Test of Time

Burberry remains an undisputed champion in the fashion arena. It’s more than a label; it’s a cultural phenomenon, a cherished part of Britain’s national identity. Whether you’re a die-hard fashionista or an admirer of classic styles with a twist, Burberry, spruced with timeless elegance and a bold vision for the future, is worth every penny.

Embrace the charm of Burberry and wear it not just as a brand, but as a statement of timeless sophistication and unyielding quality.

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sheenupuk · 12 days

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Exquisite Bespoke Curtains: Elevate Your London Home with Sheen Upholstery Ltd

Elevate your home decor with Sheen Upholstery Ltd, the premier destination for bespoke curtains in London. Our expert craftsmen meticulously tailor curtains to your specifications, ensuring a perfect fit and stunning aesthetic. From luxurious fabrics to exquisite designs, we offer a wide range of options to complement any style or decor theme. Trust Sheen Upholstery Ltd to bring elegance and sophistication to your living spaces. Visit us today and discover the perfect curtains to enhance your home.

#bespoke curtains in London

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freddieraimbow74 · 13 days

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17 April 1976 - Freddie Mercury in “JACKIE” Magazine - Issue No. 641

The last part of a Jackie exclusive on Queen – Freddie Mercury

The Queen of Arts! 👑♥️

Mercury is the perfect name for Freddie. Living at a shatteringly fast pace, with his moods changing like quicksilver from the heights of happiness to the depths of despair, he's the kind of person who's instantly memorable – even after just one meeting!

Freddie himself says it's all down to style.

"That's the keyword to everything," he said. "One must always have a sense of impeccable style."

Style, Freddie has always had. Money, not until recently! In the early days, he would help run a stall in Kensington Market so that he could afford to clothe himself in the fine fabrics he wanted. Silks, satins and furs don't come cheaply, unless you're behind the counter instead of in front of it – so that's where Freddie went!

And what little profit he made from the stall he put into other little essential luxuries in the Mercury lifestyle – like eating out, and being chauffeur driven! Fortunately for everybody, Queen did make it to the very top, and with "Bohemian Rhapsody" being Freddie's composition, he can now afford to indulge himself as much as he wants. After the single had been at number one for five weeks, Freddie ventured out to buy a Daimler of his own, to be looked after by his chauffeur Derek, who has driven him everywhere for the past year.

At this very moment, while Freddie is in America, the car, a left hand drive, is being completely redone. It's being painted dazzling white, and having a few little extras installed – like a cocktail cabinet, new upholstery, a stereo and a fridge!

But there's more to Freddie than that. For one thing, he's the most artistic member of the group. He literally devised the imaged of the band; the black and white clothing, the stage act, the clever lighting and the use of fireworks.

But in amongst all this light and colour, there's another side to Freddie – a darker, more serious streak. He lives on his nerves for much of the time. Long hours spent working in the studio, or on the road tend to make him a bit short-tempered at times, and if anything goes wrong, he lets everyone know – loudly!

In fact, on the group's British tour, the road crew suddenly realised, just before the show, that no one remembered to buy the bunch of roses Freddie threw out at the end of the show each evening. Rather than risk his wrath, they had an urgent conference backstage, and a few minutes later, a police car headed off from the theater, sirens blaring, to the local cemetery! Guiltily, they crept in, picked out the freshest bunch of roses they could find, and hurried back with their spoils.

Luckily, Freddie didn't find out what they'd done until afterwards!

On the same tour a few nights later, an over-eager fan ripped a handful of fur out of Freddie's beautiful fox fur jacket.

"Really, dear," he exclaimed. "MUST you!"

But Freddie's clothes are unique. In fact, he must be one of the very few members of the British population who doesn't possess a pair of jeans! He says he wouldn't be seen dead in them. His trousers are always satin, shirts, always silk, jackets usually fur or velvet.

Freddie's West London flat is a slightly sombre place, in contrast. It's draped with heavy velvet hangings and dark furniture, and crammed with Freddie's bits and pieces. Like Freddie himself, it's busy, artistic and very stylish.

His two cats, tom, who's black and white, and Jerry, who's big and fluffy and ginger, have the run of the place. When you sit down in Freddie's flat, it's best to look at the chair first and check that there isn't a cat already sitting there!

But Freddie doesn't intend to stay there. For ages now, he's been looking for a new place.

"It has to be a fairly large place," he said, "large enough for my grand piano. In my present flat, the grand piano tends to dominate the room, so I'd like somewhere slightly bigger, where it would fit in more comfortably."

But although Freddie's beautiful and long suffering girlfriend Mary has searched for some time, and has on several occasions come up with possible homes for Freddie, he always finds something wrong with them, and the search continues.

The last house Mary found for him had to be given up when the person selling it realised who Freddie was, and quickly put the price up. That's one of the penalties of having a famous face!

As you might expect, Freddie is very fussy about his appearance on stage, and his lovely catsuits are specially made for him by Chrissie, his dress designer. On the last tour, he had two suits with special little wings on the ankles – to fit in with his name. If you remember, Mercury was the Greek Messenger God who used to have winged ankles to help him fly.

Freddie also wears black nail polish with his costume – which isn't always too easy to get hold of in small towns! On several occasions during the last tour, he had the group's wardrobe man rushing desperately around the local chemists in search of a new bottle. And in Liverpool, a kindly hotel chambermaid saved the day by lending him some of hers!

Aside from painting his nails though, Freddie's actually an excellent artist! He designed the original Queen crest – and his favourite artist is Richard Dadd, a rather gloomy artist of the last century, who has a lot of paintings in the Tate Gallery. Freddie's often to be found browsing in front of them when he needs soothing inspiration.

He doesn't have any time for painting now, but he still takes an extremely critical view of the group's album covers, photos and programmes.

Apart from work, though, Freddie likes high living – up to a point. He eats out a lot, although it's as much the atmosphere he enjoys as the food. He prefers simple food like steaks with maybe a glass of white wine, and he tends to pick at his food – one of the reasons why he manages to stay so thin!

Since the group have joined forces with John Reid, who's also Elton John's manager, Freddie has been down to Elton's house a few times for tea, and he's also gone along a couple of times to the smart parties Elton likes to attend.

Looking towards the future, Freddie says he'd like to settle down and get married, but it won't be for a few years yet. And somehow, I can't imagine him settling for the quiet life, can you?

The article is under the comments 💛

#freddie mercury #queen band #brian may #roger taylor #jhon deacon #musique #queen #music #original character #j’adore

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