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atlabeth · 2 years

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a lady's guide to surviving the ton - benedict bridgerton

summary: you've prepared an endless list of rules and notes for the season to ensure a successful debut. benedict may be in need of some tips for a courtship of his own.

a/n: thank you for all the love on my first bridgerton fic!! like the amount of support has been insane and ily so much <3<3 bridgerton has just been really good for inspo lately so yk i had to write abt good ol benny boy. its just a short lil fluffy piece abt fun idiot courting methods lol but i hope you enjoy

wc: 1.4k

warning(s): none i think. just pure fluff

“Are you ever going to dance at one of these balls, or is writing your only intention?”

You glanced up from your journal and smiled, perhaps the only man in the ton capable of causing the reaction. “You may have years of experience from accompanying your siblings, but I have just debuted with my only experience being my older sister’s season. I am merely documenting everything I can so I shall be able to perform at my best during the season.”

Benedict chuckled. “Documenting everything? Making it through the season is quite simple — a couple charming smiles, a few courtesy dances, and you will have the men falling at your feet. Or, if you prefer, you can go the route of my brother — Anthony despises the season, and yet he still manages to have every lady at his beck and call. I truly do not understand how he does it.”

“Perhaps it is because of his attitude that he is so desirable to them,” you pointed out. “There is nothing a man loves more than a seemingly unattainable woman, but I’ve found the ladies of the ton to be quite similar in regards to untouchable men. It is the reason why, apart from riches and status, dukes and marquesses are so appealing to the masses.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have certainly done your research on the ton, my lady. Maybe your wallflower strategy is indeed working out for you.”

“I try,” you said, bolstered by his praise. “Though, of course, the reason for his desirability could be much more simple.”

“And that is?”

You shrugged and smiled at him. “Anthony is devastatingly attractive. I find that works wonders on a lady.”

“Your deduction forces me to question the legitimacy of your work,” Benedict said with a slight frown. “Though I think we have an opportunity to prove it now.”

“Oh?”

Benedict offered a smile of his own along with his hand. “I consider myself quite attractive. Should it work wonders on you, your research shall be fully accepted.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you as you gave him a sideways smile. “That is awfully confident of you, Mister Bridgerton.”

“That is simply because I believe I am worthy of it, Miss Beauvale,” he responded in kind. “I would be grateful if you would indulge me in a dance.”

“Well,” you said with mock haughtiness as you accepted his hand, placing your journal on a table to the side, “how could I ever refuse?”

You each took your positions on the floor as you joined in seamlessly with the other dancers, one of Benedict’s hands on the small of your back and the other intertwined with your own hand as you set the other on his shoulder.

Only once you felt the movements register in your muscles, the waltz that had been ingrained in your mind after hours upon hours of dance lessons, did you begin to talk, trusting in your ability to continue without stumbling.

“The more that I think about it, the more I realize I have in fact never seen you on the dance floor with a woman other than your sisters,” you said. “Not in the balls we have had thus far nor the entirety of my sister’s season. However have you managed it?”

“It is the often overlooked privilege of the second son,” Benedict responded. “My siblings are quite skilled at taking over the spotlight, and thus I am rewarded the courtesy of remaining in the shadows and indulging in my own wants. It also helps that most ladies go after a title, and Anthony has far more to offer there than I.”

“Ah,” you nodded. “You are quite fortunate, Mister Bridgerton. No matter how hard I try to blend in with the walls, a suitor always manages to find me. It becomes exhausting after a time.”

“Then I suppose it is quite fortunate now that you have a suitor you can bear on your arm,” Benedict said playfully.

“Is that what you are?” you asked with a raised eyebrow. “A suitor?”

“I thought it was quite obvious with my asking you to dance,” he said, tilting his head to the side slightly. “Though I must admit, I am not very knowledgeable on all a suitor must do. If you have spent so much time watching, you ought to have some advice you can share.”

You looked at him with thinly veiled amusement. “Am I providing the resources for my own courtship?”

Benedict shrugged with mock ambivalence. “That is a secret, my lady, but it would mean a great deal if you could share some of your notes with me.”

You hummed as you pretended to think long and hard. “Many of my tips are for the ladies of the ton, but I suppose that I have some advice that can apply to gentlemen.”

He grinned. “Fantastic. Do tell.”

“Well,” you started, “it is most important to be kind, above all else. A lady will not entertain anyone who only deigns to insult her. Compliment not just her appearance, but her skills and mind as well — it can be upsetting to be praised only for the things one cannot control.”

“So if I were to, say, compliment a lady on how well the blues of her dress highlight her eyes, I should also commend her on how brilliantly articulated she is,” Benedict said with a coy smile, his eyes leaving your own for a moment to linger on the cerulean fabric of your outfit.

“Yes,” you responded with a nod, a smile of your own tugging at your lips, “though it is also polite to let her know when you are complimenting her. Perhaps when you are dancing with the aforementioned lady in blue.”

“I believe she understands what I am trying to say,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Please, continue.”

You rolled your eyes goodnaturedly but obliged nonetheless. “If a gentleman is interested in a lady, it is imperative that he asks her for a dance — a lady is unable to ask for a dance herself, but she is, on the other hand, barred from refusing an offer. It is the easiest way to show interest.”

Benedict hummed as he led you through a spin. “I’ve already asked a lovely lady to dance, so I believe you can move to your next step.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at his words, the bottom of your skirt twirling with your movements before you took up your regular position again. “Apart from asking for dances, a gentleman must also be an active caller at his lady’s estate if he wishes to woo her. I’ve found offers of gifts and his company to be the most effective, especially if those gifts involve flowers.”

“Flowers,” he muttered to himself before he met your eyes again. “Completely off topic, but it is necessary all the same — what is your favorite type of flower?”

You grinned, now fully unable to hide your joy at his unconventional courting. “Purple hydrangeas.”

“Very lovely,” he nodded. “This all does seem to be coming together quite nicely. I feel as if you know the way to a lady’s heart better than I do.”

You chuckled. “That is simply not true. I am skilled at listening and watching from the sidelines — you are perfectly capable of gaining a lady’s affections.”

“You say it with such confidence,” Benedict said, the twinkle in his eye returning. “Could it be that I have already gained the affections of a certain lady?”

“Perhaps,” you said, barely managing to bite back your smile. “But perhaps you have held the affections of the lady in question well before this season.”

“Certainly a twist of events,” he said with mock austerity. “Though I suppose the confession means I was correct all along. A pretty face truly is all it takes for a lady to fall.”

You felt your cheeks flush yet again and Benedict smiled, though his expression faltered for a moment. “That is— if you are the lady in question.”

“Of course I am, Benedict,” you giggled. “I thought it was quite obvious with my blatant flirting.”

His sheepish smile told you all you needed to know as the dance came to an end, the two of you separating as you bowed to each other. “I take it this means I am officially courting you, Miss Beauvale?”

“I would love nothing more, Mister Bridgerton,” you responded proudly.

Benedict beamed at you as he offered his arm to you, and you began to walk off to the side of the dance floor together after you took it. “Perfect — with your advice and my charm, I am sure we can muddle through this courtship together.”

"Certainly," you nodded with a smile of your own. “As long as we are together.”

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict x reader #bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton fluff #bridgerton fic #bridgerton fluff #sadie writes

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drdemonprince · 10 months

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How do write without knowing everything on a topic? Extensive research and amplifying marginalized voices is important, of course. But no matter how far I get, I never feel like it’s enough. Doubt, new ideas, and gaps in knowledge keep me from writing basic school assignments to research projects I spent years on. There’s perfectionism, executive dysfunction, and interfering life events in my case. I have my shit. But I never feel like I know enough about the topic, or even writing or methodology.

I think one does have to build a tolerance for being wrong / getting critical feedback. That will happen no matter how thoroughly you perfect your work. You will always have readers telling you that you've offended them, you've missed something, you didn't write exactly what they wanted you to write, or that you have something wrong.

Some of the critical feedback that you receive will be wrong or pointless. And some of it will be a rehashing of the most negative monologues already in your brain. There is no preventing it from happening -- there is only putting your work out into the world, controlling your exposure to critique so that it is a manageable amount for you to consume and reflect upon, and then discerning for yourself which feedback is worthy of taking in and what isn't. This too is a skill that can only be developed with practice.

The goal is not to produce something that no person has a complaint about -- good work necessarily will invite critique. If you are lucky enough to be read by a good number of people, which most writers do want to have happen, then you will hear negative feedback of a variety of kinds. Often from people you disagree with or whose perspective you don't respect anyway, right alongside meaningful feedback that will enrich your work. But you will only get that feedback by subjecting your work to it in the first place.

And the goal is not to know every single thing about a topic that has ever been written, either -- this results in far too unweildy and complicated of a draft anyway, believe me, and knowledge is constantly being revised. Try tackling a very specific sub-topic or keeping a piece relatively simple at first. That way you won't be verging into overly technical waters *or* trying to sum up the entirety of a massive topic in a single written work, which is impossible. Find a small corner that you know you can feel confident in, and don't be afraid to not know it all as you continue to work on new pieces covering new corners.

If you are a perfectionist, it is possible to trick the perfectionistic side of your brain into believing that the only way it will get better is by completing a ton of work, getting that work out into the world, and sharpening its blade against the whetstone of others' critiques. All of this is also actually true. No one gets better at a task by never completing it. If you want to really punish yourself in an effective way, set a specific goal for how many pieces you want to complete, or how many placements of articles you want to have done -- and judge yourself against that, rather than some vague notion of perfection for any particular draft.

If you're like most writers, you will have to get the mediocre pieces out of yourself before the good ones will come. Took about 15 years of them for me. It was mostly worth it, and I did have some fun along the way. Good luck!

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thyenemybeloved · 10 days

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What does Shaozhen even look like?

Hello! Thank you so much for the ask :D I definitely plan on posting a sketch of him in the near future and there are still a few things that I must decide on about his final design but I'll try to answer your question as accurately as possible!

Appearance-wise, he's very much a fusion between my own version of Sanzang and Wukong (that you can see in said previous post I made): he's closer to Sanzang in size (1m70 as opposed to Wukong's 1m60) and looks more human-like than Wukong. Basically, where Wukong looks very much like a humanoid monkey demon, Shaozhen looks more like a human with monkey-like features (like his nose/mouth area and ears are more monkey-like, and he also has fangs and claws), he has white/blond/light-colored fur covering most of his body (not as much as Wukong's though) but he's missing a tail. He has similar eyes to Wukong's but gentler and his sclera is lighter with blue (?) irises (still haven't decided yet). Overall, despite his demonic heritage, he kinda has an angelic/saintly air about him, "pure" for a lack of better word. Since I picture both Sanzang and Wukong as being rather beautiful (though in their own, different ways), I also imagine Shaozhen to be the same but I will need to draw them side by side to really differenciate the different ways I imagine them to look, which is similar enough to notice their relation to each other but also different enough that they all look unique and like their own person, which is difficult to put in writing alone.

(Although, bear in mind that in my story, he's only known as Sanzang's child at first, which is already taboo enough on its own given Sanzang's status as a monk, and not Wukong's, which is why Shaozhen usually hide his appearance. He's already being ostracised and shamed for being the son of a monk, especially one as famous as Sanzang, and since he and his group are often relying on people's charity during their travels, he cannot afford to let people know about his true nature as it would both further compromise Sanzang's reputation as well as his group's ability to find shelter and whatnot, given that they're all demons and Shaozhen is considered the only "normal" one in their group.)

His clothes are honestly the coolest part of his design in my opinion: he wears long, all-white robes that covers the entirety of his body and a large straw hat with a long, half-opaque white veil that mostly hides his face from view. He also wears several pieces of golden jewelry that are actually power limiters, kinda like Wukong's circlet. He's known to never reveal his face under any circumstances, which he likes to claim is because of "spiritual reasons/modesty", which causes a lot of people to gossip about him but he honestly couldn't care less. Underneath his robes, he wears a black, sleeveless turtleneck shirt and combat pants for when he needs to fight. Basically, he looks very regal, elegant and refined as per his monk status but when he's angry or fighting, all this refinement goes of of the window. He's also way more laidback when in the company of his friends alone, it's just that he has to pretend a lot and be composed most of the time, lest people find out his secrets. Shaozhen is also never seen without his fan and antique cigarette-holder because he's classy like that.

There you go! So sorry this got so long, I know I kinda rambled a lot but I was pretty excited and this quickly got out of hand lol If you ever have more questions about his appearance or want to know more about his personality or his relationships to the others in their group, do let me know, I'll be happy to answer you again! I hope this was a satisfying answer and if not, stay tuned for future art posts about this AU! Thanks again for your interest :D <33

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willowser · 2 years

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grr i'm so mad i lost the ask this was meant to be a reply to !! but — more commoner kirishima 💐✨️ a prequel to this piece ( which is nsfw ).

"'n what d'ya think you're doin' out here, little miss?"

it's well past mid-day.

far off, the setting sun has turned the sky and all her clouds amber, dulling out as the evening rolls in. the trees have darkened from their usual vivid green to near-black, and small, leafy clusters fall from the branches and down into your fluttering pages as the breeze blows by.

from where you're sitting hillside, you can almost look out over the entirety of the kingdom, the one you've been appointed to serve. the thinning crowd of town, the nightwatch as they fall into their shifts along the battlements, the fields beyond and the outside homes that dot the landscape.

you're hiding. or trying to, at least, but as the voice sounds, you snap your book shut and slump against the tree trunk, defeated. it's impish; though you continue to insist the stark age difference between you and your husband shouldn't be weighed when your responsibilities are considered, you do indeed act like a spoiled girl in your worst moments.

quietly, you wait for the reprimand. the verbal lashing you'll receive for lounging in the dirt, sitting clumsily over the folds of your skirt.

"y'cant be tellin' the other girls at the stable of this, a'right? if bakugou knew that 'm givin' ya' these apples, he'd have m'head."

...what? your lips twist as you flatten further against the tree, craning your head to listen better to the slow voice hiding just under the breeze. apples?

as if sensing your confusion, your mare snorts once, and then you can hear the quiet chomping of her teeth, crunching deliciously around something fresh and ripe and juicy.

a soft chuckle carries around to where you're hidden, on the other side of where you've tied up your horse. "oi, little miss! don' be so stingy! these are my delicacies, after all...shoulda' called you little brat—"

no longer can you help yourself, a smile growing on your own face as you speak. "and do you often make a point to re-name a woman's mare?"

only silence meets you, despite the breeze, and you hold your breath, afraid to miss the low voice over its growing howl. a shiver escapes you as the wind snakes through your dress, and when you glance up, you can just barely see the wide glimpse of ruby eyes peering around the tree.

and then they're gone.

you laugh in earnest. "would you come around here? i promise i don't bite." again, you wait with bated breath, unable to stop from scrunching your nose with another giggle as you think on what the stranger has said thus far; don't tell the other girls.

cute.

all at once, he comes into view with his head hung low, hair falling over his face as he takes a knee in front of you. "pardon me, yer grace, i offer m'deepest apologies for disturbin' ya'—"

"you haven't disturbed me, ser, not at all." when you laugh, light as the airy breeze, he risks a glance to watch you for a stolen moment before shifting his gaze back to the grass. he blinks once, eyes jumping back and forth as his lips struggle to find his next words. before he can, you extend a hand. "would you help me to stand?"

that has him snapping up, taking a step back despite your frown, as he diligently wipes his hands across his trousers. "m'lady, i-i don'—m'hands are—f-from the stable, i've been—"

"do you think a little grime is enough to ruin me, ser?" you bat your eyelashes playfully at him and delight in how flushed his face becomes before his eyes drop away again.

"no! no, i—no, m'lady, i don', but—n' 'm not a ser, i—"

finally, he quiets, sighing low as he watches the wiggle of your fingers, hand still out-stretched. he gives his palms a last brush against his thighs before making them into fists, just to let them loose. and then he steps ever closer, gently slipping his hand into your own.

you grip him as much as you need to haul yourself to your feet, but his stance never wavers. it's not until your standing at your full height in front of him that you realize how — large he is; broad shouldered in his linen shirt, the curve of his biceps prominent through the thin fabric; tall enough to be a young tree, looking down on you, afraid, as if you were the giant and not him.

a common man. a stable worker, by how well he knows your horse and the other girls.

he lets go as soon as he can and you adjust your skirts, patting the grass from them before marching straight to your mare, where she chews lazily. you run a soft hand down her snout, watching the quick blink of her long lashes before looking to him again, standing in the sunset and watching you with a gaze just as warm, just as soft.

you're not sure when it changed, but it has, so suddenly, and something flutters in your belly.

it's your turn to be bashful, clearing your throat to ask, "do you know what her real name is? the one i've given her?"

without a word, he comes around closer, to the other side of your horse while shaking his head.

"it's stocking. like the garmet. isn't that silly?"

he's quick to shake his head, carefully reaching a hand up to stroke her as you had. "no, m'lady, 'course not."

and as quick as your smile had come, it drops.

you remove your hand to turn, to face the land you look over. watch as it settles and tucks itself in, under a darkening horizon. the girlish-ness from before crawls up under your skin, like a sickness you've yet to find a cure for.

"i should be having a bath, having my hair re-ribboned so i can share dinner with his grace, our king. i'll be in trouble for this," you can't help but to laugh, though it doesn't feel as warm as it had before. "for sitting out here among the weeds and bugs and wasting the evening away reading fairy-tales, but i just want—"

when you turn back, you're surprised to find him watching you carefully, with those wide crimson eyes of his. yet again you approach your horse, stocking, but when you reach a hand to her, she turns away, further into the arms of a stranger.

a loneliness settles over you, bunches up in your throat and clumps your eyelashes. "sometimes i make the wrong choice on purpose, even if it will get me into trouble," you whisper it to him, furrowing down your brow like even you can't understand your own meaning. "because i just want a moment to decide for myself. isn't that silly?"

bright, like the shining sun behind your closed lids: the red warmth of his eyes.

"i named my horse stocking because it's silly. i want someone to tell me how silly that is."

just as your tears run over, he speaks, low again as he had to his little miss. "lord todoroki has a chestnut mare named 'brown horse', 'n a dark thoroughbred named 'black horse'. i reckon y'can guess what his albino is called."

it takes a long moment for you to realize he's waiting, that he wants you to answer. when you wipe a hand across your eyes, his brow creases, like the sight upsets him. "white horse?"

he shakes his head and shrugs, a lazy smile tugging on his lips as his face relaxes. "snowball."

you laugh, so suddenly that it hurts and you have to turn your face to hide your wide smile, placing a hand on your belly as it shakes.

he steps a little closer then, his own grin echoing. "no, m'lady, i don' think stocking is a silly name. i think 't's better to have a name than not at all." you watch him shift his eyes to the horse, running his fingers over her twitchy ears. "then she's not jus' somethin' to ya', but a friend."

the smile you give him is real and tender, and he steals another glance at it. just one. when you step closer, enough that you can smell the sunshine and heat of the past day on him, he doesn't move back. "then what is your name, ser?"

"kirishima," he murmurs, clearing his throat as he finally gazes back at you. "kirishima eijirou."

"and, kirishima eijirou, would you do me the loveliest honor of being a friend to me, too?"

he swallows, and you can't help but to watch the bob of his adam's apple, the sharp line of his jaw as he grits his teeth once. again, something flutters in your stomach at the way he looks at you, at the mere sight of him. handsome, you realize delayed, charmingly so.

kirishima answers with his low and gravelly tone, and your toes curl in your slippers. "it'd be a pleasure, m'lady."

#please i love him #why is he so big and cute and shy 🥺#narrator voice: they were not going to be just friends #i woke up at like 6am and couldnt sleep so i wrote this he he #kirishima drabble #also not to play the other side but bakugou would have easily been like: that's a shitty name for a horse #LOL #kirishima x reader #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: kirishima

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waltwhitmansbeard · 1 year

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May I ask for 🎮 Games, from the emoji prompt list? <3

Send me emoji(s) and I'll write a drabble

The Mighty Nein cannot assemble in its entirety often, but when they do, it is presumed that three of their members are going to get into an escalating amount of trouble if left unsupervised. This time, in a rented beach house in Feeolin, the trouble takes place in the form of game of tag, the stakes of which, if Jester is to be believed, are life or death.

"Okay okay okay," Jester says, her feet slipping on the sand in front of the beach house, "the others are boring and stupid, but we know that this is no joking matter. As we all know, whoever is It by sundown will suffer a grave fate."

Beau nods sagely. "Being a total fucking loser."

"Exactly. The rules are as follows. Number one, tagging must happen with your physical hand only. That means no Mage Hand, Veth."

Veth rolls her eyes. "This is discriminatory."

"How?" Beau asks incredulously.

"I'm three feet tall!"

"But you and I have magic," Jester points out, "that Beau doesn't have. It'll all even out."

"And no fucking shooting me this time." Beau glares at Veth, who glares right back.

"Number two, we stay within the bounds of Feeolin. No going in or on the water, no going onto the road to Port Zoon or Port Damali. Number three, if you get arrested, you're on your own."

"Can we get started?" Veth's fingers are twitching toward her crossbow. "I'm getting bored."

Beau eyes the crossbow warily, but Jester says, "Okay okay okay, let's do this." She holds out a small leather satchel toward Veth. "Pick your rock."

Veth reaches in, not looking, and pulls out a plain gray stone. She grins, and then Jester moves the satchel in Beau's direction. Beau's hand disappears inside, and she pulls out a rock with a bright pink dick painted on it.

"You're It!" Jester announces happily, tossing the satchel onto the covered porch of the beach house. "Remember, wait sixty seconds and then you can come after us."

"One, two, three..."

Jester and Veth tear off in opposite directions. The game is on.

When Fjord arrives in the tiny, lavish guard station, the bored-looking half-elf zhelezo behind the counter blinks slowly at him. "You here for the..." He checks some piece of paper in front of him. "...Chaos Crew?"

Fjord sighs. "Unfortunately."

"You got the money?" Fjord slams a bag of gold, assembled by the remainder of the Nein, onto the counter. The zhelezo picks it up, jiggles it, and sets it down behind the counter. "I believe you. C'mon."

Fjord follows the zhelezo down a hall and through a set of double doors, where he finds the two jail cells of this otherwise sleepy wine town. One is empty, and the other houses three familiar faces. He grips the bars and raises an eyebrow. "Well you three look like shit."

Beau sits on the floor, one leg bent up, and bleeds profusely from one eye. Veth's clothes are torn and tattered and absolutely drenched in wine. Jester, who bounds up to the bars to settle her hands over Fjord's, has a split lip, a missing tooth, and a shit-eating grin. "You came!"

Fjord doesn't know which emotion is winning out right now, concern, annoyance, or bemusement. "I did."

"Did you bring the bail?" Beau drawls from the floor.

"I did."

"What time is it?" Veth asks, an edge of mania in her voice.

Fjord frowns. "I don't know. A bit before sundown. Why?"

Instead of answering him, Jester addresses the zhelezo. In her sweetest voice, the one that Fjord has long learned means trouble, she asks, "Can you please let us out now, Mr. Guard Man? We promise to be very good!" Fjord has never believed anyone less in his life.

The zhelezo rolls his eyes. "Just remember: you pull anything like this again, you're out of Feeolin for good."

There's a too-casual air inside the cells as the zhelezo puts the key inside the lock and turns it. Veth shoves herself off of the bench at the back, but she's too slow; as soon as the door is open, Jester takes off like a bolt from a bow, pausing just enough to kiss Fjord's cheek and shout "Thank you!" before she disappears down the hall.

Bewildered, Fjord looks back to Veth and Beau in confusion. They're both assessing each other circumspectly. After a moment, Beau sticks her hand out toward Veth. "Us versus her?"

Veth grabs her hand and shakes it. "Let's squash that blueberry."

And Fjord can do nothing but sit and watch as the other two people he just bailed out of jail continue on with their game, completely ignored as they brush past him at a dead sprint. Fjord looks at the bewildered zhelezo and shrugs. "We'll, uh, try to be out of here by morning." He nods and lopes off toward the exit, just hoping that he and the others will get their money back sometime before the vacation ends.

#this might be the most fun i've ever had writing a drabble #ask #ravendruid #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #mighty nein #mighty nein fic #chaos crew #chaos crew fic #my fic

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brownfrogs · 1 year

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so Hanzo and Cole set up this agreement to help each other out and scope out different information, at first there is a hesitance bc Cole knows the Shimada Clan does /a lot/ more than just robberies so he is naturally hesitant to make this alliance.

the adding of ashe could give such a fun scene of Hanzo being like a little jealous and asking like, fine purely for 'business reasons' you don't have any romantic relations I should know about… And Cole is like ... Ashe??? and just laughs at him. Hanzo just blinks and is like ??? very obviously missing the context maybe thats the lore drop of them growing up together and some fun stuff but both are like dating?? never.

maybe they used to perform together in deadlock (maybe deadlock was a band of sorts who would sneak into events under cover as the entertainment.) and her and Cole often were talked about as a duo when in reality Ashe was who taught him to play guitar or smth sweet like that

oh and they absolutely have some intimate moments here and there. but later on we see Hanzo getting badly affected by the clan. Maybe this is where we see a Hanzo & Genji divide starts to happen. Hanzo is like venting about Genji going off and just being human and Cole is like don't yall think the clan shouldn't be getting you into this shit, like theft is one thing but (not sure what the crime is yet, maybe some sort of displacement of famous performers, thats how we loop around with singers and such) xyz is a whole other.

but the story arc would see the corruption of the clan happen before us, we have like some super sweet moments of Cole comforting Hanzo when he breaks apart from being overwhelmed with responsibility and realising that maybe, /just maybe/ he shouldn't have to have the weight of this entirety crime syndicate on his shoulders.

like i imagine they both have their own limits about whats morally correct or morally grey if anything but i think the corruption would take it too far for both of them, this could be genji being exiled or something similar

so i could see them bounding together against both of their organisations and thats when we get the yeehan dynamic in such full so when we do have our OW police and detectives coming in at first it's definitely hostility but then its our anti heroes working against the police bc they won't handle the missing subjects with enough care

like theyd only care about arresting the criminals not getting back the ppl whilst Hanzo and Cole are like no we need our people. they matter.

also i could see them both truly indulging in casual intimacy that isn't limited to threatening grabs and shoves.

like being held??? being simply /held/ when they are in an industry so rough and tough and having the most gentle hug and soothing lullabies would truly be healing for them

Ugh I honestly don’t have much to add to this bc this is already so perfect.

Cole saying him and Ashe practically raised themselves in this cruel world but made it on the other side. Maybe not so different to Hanzo and Genji.

Knowing that Sojiro gets assassinated, I like to think it left a power vacuum over to who will get his districts/finances/weapons, since Hanzo wasn’t established fully yet. The elders stepped in to fight off the Hashimoto claiming territory outright, but they felt Genji was out of control and needed to be leashed in by Hanzo. They manipulate him into thinking Genji is feeding the police information or something similar to make him turn on his brother. But thankfully Cole is there to instill some sense into him enough to break through that control. And also just be a comforting shoulder to lean on.

I LOVE CASUAL INTIMACY BETWEEN THE TWO OF THEM. (I honestly think of this art piece all the time bc of it) Hanzo and Cole facing each other as they talk softly of things, legs touching, Cole placing one of Hanzo’s bangs behind his ear, Hanzo squeezing Cole’s knee. Cole dressing Hanzo in his expensive suit, tying his tie, fixing his cufflinks. Hanzo getting Cole new cigars and carrying a lighter just for him to light without as so much a word. Allowing themselves to be vulnerable and comfortable with each other in a world that would punish them for it? Incredible.

Then the kidnappings start happening yes, and maybe Kiriko’s dad is the latest one (instead of a swordmaster he could be a musician) and Kiriko asks for their help along with her little crew to get justice. So they can be in full swing along with the rest of their people and have a nice satisfying ending haha

#this is just so GOOD #thank you for making my night again u rock anon 💖#mel answers asks #yeehan #singer au #overwatch #also that art piece haunts me in a good way i would love to create a piece on THAT level

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mousieta · 1 year

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Review: 180 Degree Longitude Pass Through Us

Year: 2022 Country: Thailand Platform: GagaOOLala Every so often a drama comes along that feels truly transcendent; it so completely nails the essentials of writing, directing and acting that these elements come together to make something that is not only better than the sum of its parts but resonates so deeply that, if caught by the right viewer at the right time, emotionally marks them in some way. That was 180 Degree Longitude Pass Through Us, for me. It is the best drama I watched this year, hands down.

The discussion for this show has to begin with the writing. In one sense the story is a parable about Queer Authenticity. What renders it powerful, however, is that this parable never looses the trees to focus on the forest, instead it shows us the forest but looking deeply, intimately, intensely (almost claustrophobically) at four particular trees: Wang, a youth fresh off his first year of college, his mother Sasiwimol (Mol) an acclaimed Drama director, her deceased ex-husband and Wang’s father, Siam and Siam and Mol’s estranged college friend, Inthawut (In).

The show is entirely character driven, the plot revolving around the internal lives and choices of the three main characters: Wang, In and Mol. All three are complexly written and rendered, full of human emotion and flaws and beauty. The writer/director Punnasak Sukee has extensive work in theater which is evident in the show but it not a detriment. There is a visual simplicity to his direction that allows the focus to be on the characters and gives weight to the elements that are visible. The set pieces tell as much a story as the actors and dialogue.

As for sets, there are few. Almost the entirety of the story takes place in Inthawut’s rural home. This could risk the show feeling stale, flat but instead allows the focus to be completely on the characters and the actor’s performances. There are whole episodes that consist of nothing but people moving from room to room, conversation to conversation but the watcher tension is strung so tight as to nearly snap under the strain. There were long stretches where I could barely breathe.

All of this set up - the script, the directorial choices, the sparse and economical sets - provide the backdrop for absolutely breathtaking performances from the whole cast. Each has such a powerful understanding of their character. Their chemistry together pulled me to the very edge of my seat.

The story itself is complex in its simplicity. Wang longs to know his missing father and, finding Inthawut, pleads for what grief prevents his mother from providing: the truth of his father’s past including the nature of Siam’s relationship with Inthawut.

The writer is wise and skilled in ways that blew me away and left me astonished and envious at his understanding of and courage to tell the story as it had to be told. As a lesser writer, I would have made different choices, I longed for other choices from the characters, but those choices would have violated the story that needed to be told. (I’m being a bit coy here because I don’t want to spoil anything)

So while he never loses sight of this characters, he has the insight to never undermine them for the easy and comforting tale. A tale that does confront the homophobia of modern societies but in a way that reiterates why the topic needs to continue to be addressed but in the hands of a Queer perspective.

I literally cannot heap enough superlatives on the show. I’ve watched it twice, written reams of meta and wish I had the time to write more. I sometimes find it useful to draw a distinction between Queer Media and BL/Yaoi/Slash as I do think there are differences between them which don’t disparage either but are important to understand when looking at them, and this definitely sits in the overlap between them but feels further on the Queer side than BL. For that, I’m grateful.

2022 Drama Reviews Masterlist

#180 degree longitude pass through us #2022 drama reviews

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doctorwhoisadhd · 1 year

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theres not a lot in blaseball that makes me as powerfully nostalgic as the vibes row. someone came up with the name at the beginning of s16, but when our lineup got reverbed it really caught on bc of just how wildly optimized our lineup accidentally got. honestly after s19 it kind of dissolved — for one thing, val games got vaulted after day 99, and a huge part of the draw was the killer combo of val and beck (both of whom came to the fridays completely by chance during the s14 elections, at a time where they were 2 of literally the 6 best batters in the entire league); for another, while spears taylor had spent nearly the entirety of s19 basically being the only player NOT considered a part of the vibes row, the s19 election marked the first time they were the ONLY lineup player with ≤4 batting stars.

which is funny, because THEY were actually the reason the s16 lineup reverb was so good for us — like i said, the term "vibes row" was invented at the BEGINNING of s16, BEFORE the reverb happened. but the problem was, the last batter in the sequence (val games) was followed by spears, so frequently they would just get stranded on base — the last batter in the fridays half of innings was OFTEN spears, cause they just Never got hits or even walks lmao

the lineup getting reverbed, first of all, moved the vibes row to start with winner as the cleanup hitter (fourth in the lineup) — and spears directly before that. that meant that most of the time, the second inning would get to cycle through the entire vibes row. and since spears still usually meant the end of the fridays turn up to bat, the whole vibes row (winner, val, beck, and eventually lady and don as well) would get to bat all at once pretty frequently.

honestly, once don feedbacked to the team (ending up in the spot right after lady), it was only a matter of time. once he was in instead of bates, nothing was there to separate harrell from being a part of the row as well. which, come to think of it, that's thanks to spears as well — they actually got the hit that Attracted harrell to us in s17.

so. spears taylor was an essential component of what made the vibes row The Vibes Row despite never actually being considered a part of it. which strikes me as Very fridays. i love the vibes row. its honestly one of my all time favorite pieces of fridays history. i miss it dearly.

#spears taylor #blaseball #valentine games #vibes row #beck whitney #jacob winner #lady matsuyama #don mitchell #alyssa harrell #fridays #hawaiʻi fridays #vibes row my beloved i miss u #also spears taylor my fucking beloved #god its so funny that the reason the vibes row dissolved was the ENTIRE team was on it EXCEPT for spears.#like the team was literally. vibes row and spears #ari opinion hour

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ecsundance · 3 months

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The Importance of Connection Or: How to Get Out of Your Own Way

One of the most important things I have heard from every established career professional is to utilize networking. After hearing this over and over throughout the entirety of my college career I categorized the saying as a platitude. The prevailing idea in my mind was, "Well I know what I am going to do for a career, I have some potential employment opportunities too. I'll just wait until I've landed a job and network with the people immediately around me." This trip has made me realize how wrong this way of thinking was, and how many opportunities I was missing out on. I was encouraged by Professor Petersen and Professor Corrao to strike up a conversation with the people around me, whether that be on the bus, in line, or walking down the street, so naturally I decided to try it out. It was unusual for me as I have never been in the situation where the person next to me could be working within the industry I hold in such high esteem. Like for most things, the first time was a bit nerve racking. I'd compare my self to Ricky Bobby from that scene in Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby where he's not sure what to do with his hands. Fortunately, as the bus rides continued and the hours turned into days, I allowed these interactions to happen as often as possible by changing my mindset. This decision has already proven to be extremely beneficial and has brought some sense of adventure into my life.

Napoleon Dynamite revealed to me the wonders of connecting with those around you. I had received a little pin from a man wearing a Napoleon costume and decided to put it on my sweatshirt, which is something I never would normally do. I suppose I was just infected by the social contagion that is Sundance swag. This ended up being a great conversation piece on the bus ride home from main street though (main street being one of the places I frequent as it is extremely beautiful). An older woman had come onto the bus so I had offered her my seat. The exhaustion was palpable so I was glad to relinquish the seat. We then get into conversation about what she had been up to that day, which proved to be entertaining. She was an older publicists who had boyfriends all around the country. One for every film festival. She may have known everyone and everything at Sundance as well. Another passenger then joined in on the conversation so naturally I was curious about what she had been up to. This led to us sharing our experiences as college students, and our desires for further collaboration. I offered her any help she would need in regards to script writing (however limited my skills may be) as well as editing, and we traded contact information. This was a really exciting moment for me, and I have my suspicions that the older woman on the bus saw this and appreciated it. She pulled me aside and told me that was exactly what I should be doing, and then told me about a film project she was working on. Of course I immediately offered any help she needed on it and I figured that'd be the end of our communication for a while. That assumption was completely incorrect though as I had received a phone call from her the next day where she invited me to an event she was at. Of course I went to this and met even more people who were extremely open and warm to me.

The point is, and what I have come to realize and accept is, be open to people. Offer your help, and generally if successful people are giving you advice on something its probably worth trying it for yourself.

Ben Wilson

#sundance

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juniperusashei · 4 months

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Paris Notebooks: Essays & Reviews by Mavis Gallant - 4/5

Anyone who has visited Paris, or any part of France will no doubt be familiar with la grève. The French accept labor strikes as part of daily life. It’s no doubt politically effective, though as often as you’ll hear “train’s late? C’est la grève” seldom will the matter being protested be discussed. Reading Mavis Gallant’s first-hand account of the 1968 Paris Riot while missing a boat à cause de la grève was a microdose of the social climate she immerses herself in. Unsure if she mentions the historical context ever, her thoughtfully slipshod prose instead puts the reader in a time and place where the people rioting may not have known what the protests were originally about, either. She illustrates the occasional hypocrisy of the student protesters (“We ask, ‘Why Stalin?’ She hesitates, has been asked this before, says in a parrot’s voice, ‘We are prepared to admit his errors, but he was a revolutionary, too.’ Then so was Hitler.”) but for the most part remains a sympathetic, if detached observer to the myriad of grievances. The prose is sparse (it was intended as field notes) but still remarkably funny. The Events in May: A Paris Notebook is notable for having inspired a section of the film The French Dispatch, and I had read the first half in the Anderson-edited collection An Editor’s Burial. In its entirety it remained out of print until earlier this year, and while The Events in May is clearly the centerpiece of this collection, the other essays are worth mentioning.

The second longest piece in this book is a true-crime essay of almost 70 pages called “Immortal Gatito: The Gabrielle Russier Case,” which was also a surprisingly enthralling read. It tells the story of a female schoolteacher who slept with a 16 year old student, and the ensuing legal battle and eventual suicide of Gabrielle Russier. To make the case understandable for American audiences (the account was originally published in the New Yorker) Gallant expounds on the nuances of Napoleonic law, and somehow makes that interesting. For example, “in a French murder trial the jury is not asked to decide if the defendant did it but if he is guilty,” a nuance which creates nuances such as a man who stabbed his neighbor to death simply for being annoying (“the court expressed sympathy for persons who live in noisy and jerry-built apartment houses.”) But interestingly, this leniency is what caused the courts to come down so hard on Russier (a divorcée). Doubtlessly statutory rape is never okay, but in 1960s France, the same crime committed by a man against a girl would be treated with leniency; this double standard is what sparked a lot of the culture war surrounding this case. “Immortal Gatito” is not an essay I would have sought out if it had not been in this volume, but Gallant treats her subjects with both nuance and sympathy without necessarily forgiving their actions and it made for a fascinating read.

The rest of this collection was not as interesting as these two pieces, and it seemed a lot of them were chosen at random simply for being about Paris, almost as if to cram the book to justify the price. There are some introductions Gallant wrote to various biographies such as Paul Léautaud and Marguerite Yourcenar, but nothing as personal in voice as A Paris Notebook. Her voice throughout makes me want to read more, but I didn’t get enough of an impression from these alone. The last section of the book is reviews of other books, none of which I had read, and mostly biographies. Reading them felt Borges-level meta; though I didn’t get anything out of them, here I am writing a review of reviews.

#Mavis Gallant #Paris Notebooks: Essays & Reviews #The Events in May: A Paris Notebook #journalism #nonfiction #autobiography #biography #4 #december 2023 #2023

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goobtacular · 4 months

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There's something so utterly wondrous about someone sharing their innermost selves with you. So terribly intimate a moment. They bare themselves so completely, you know them so wholly, their thoughts, their feelings, their secrets, their fears, their triumphs, their tragedies, their innermost conflicts, everything, the entirety of their story. You know as they know themselves, it's as though you can see their past, their present and their future laid out in front of you. There's something ruinously tragic about these moments. Never do they show you with pride, never marvelling at their successes, always the focus resides in their flaws, perceived as they may be. It's as though they hand you a pearl from the depths of the sea, priceless, uniquely resplendent, utterly breathtaking. You hesitate, are you truly allowed to hold something so valuable, even for a moment? And yet, in their eyes that hesitation speaks volumes and they begin to apologize, explaining away its myriad flaws, invisible to you, nigh begging you to just hold it for them, just for a moment. They say I'm sorry for the crack and the holes, the last person I gave it to broke it. It was my fault. I tried my best to glue and tape all the pieces back together but some were just too small and I lost others. But it would mean a lot if you could just do this for me. Just this once. It's just so heavy. And you hold out your hands gently, tenderly taking it from them, afraid to damage something so fragile, so precious. And it's the lightest thing you ever held. And it's even better up close. Often you hold their hearts for just a moment, but if you're lucky you get to keep it, holding their hearts for days, weeks and months. The truly fortunate hold them for years, slowly filling the cracks and holes with compassion and affection. You only get the chance once, blink and you miss it. The stars align and you get the chance to be a part of someone else's story. All too often they pass us by, or we waste our opportunity caught up in our own tribulations. But when we don't...when we don't, we make the memories we live for

#i've had one of these moments with eveny single person i've ever cared about #even after they hurt me #betray me #i still love them #how could i not #i know them #i knew them #i see them #how could i ever hate them #that there exists one of these moments unside evry person is why i still have faith in humanity #sentimentality #positivity #hopecore #hope posting #happy posts #medium post #rant post

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tokiro07 · 7 months

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I haven’t seen any asks about this, so:

1. How often do you check out new series running in Jump? I’d imagine very often considering you read through Icehead Gill upon its chapter 1 release.

2. Have you read chapter 1 of quite possibly the gReAteST shonen Jump manga currently talked about on X (formerly known as Twitter) about the Trench Coat glazer boy?

I've been making an active effort to read everything new to Jump since before that was even technically feasible; I believe the first one that I managed to get in on the ground floor of was Magico in 2011, then ST&RS, Harisugawa in Mirror Land, Kurogane, Nisekoi, etc.

A lot of the titles in between, like Cross Manage, Hime-Dol, Hachi, Iron Knight, etc. either simply weren't being translated by anyone or were updating so infrequently that I just wasn't capable of keeping track of them, so before I knew it, they were gone and the well of failed content had filled so much that I was too overwhelmed to make an attempt at it

Viz made things a little easier with their Jump Start program, where they would at least release the first three chapters of a series and then do the rest based on reader demand, but that led to things like Judos, Ultra Battle Satellite, and most egregiously Kagamigami and Straighten Up being left up to fan translators to pick up the pieces, and as far as I could find, very few actually did (if you read Kagamigami in its entirety, you can thank my dear friend @himetsuri for all of her efforts and me to a lesser extent for encouraging her to actually post it publicly)

Yuuna and the Haunted Hot Springs didn't even GET to be a part of Jump Start because it was too adult, and if it weren't for Seven Seas, Viz never would have even attempted to bring it over in the first place

It was only once MangaPlus was instated that I was able to read everything start to finish every week, but even THEN some things fell through the cracks. "I'm From Japan" was a part of Jump Start, and then picked up from like chapter 10 or something without any clear effort to fill in the gaps between

Fortunately, I've been able to keep up with absolutely everything since then, starting with Chainsaw Man in late 2018 all the way to now, so about five full years. That's...shockingly little when you think about it that way. I missed so much that I might never be able to go back and find, and even if I can find it, I might not be able to make myself actually do it. It's disheartening, but at least I can be confident that it won't happen again

As for Kagura Bachi, I don't get the joke. I'm guessing it's like Morbius and people are just clowning on it, but I don't even think it's bad enough to clown on. It's not that great so far, but the art's not half bad and I'm at least interested enough in the concepts to see where it's going. I think people are being kind of rude, honestly, and anyone who legitimately enjoys it would be well within their rights to be upset about the treatment it's getting. I'm not invested enough to care yet if it lasts or not, but you'll never catch me mocking it or any other series for trying to get its foot in the door

#shonen jump #toki tales

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luuurien · 2 years

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Toro y Moi - MAHAL

(Psychedelic Soul, Hypnagogic Pop, Neo-Psychedelia)

Chaz Bear's seventh album and first for Dead Oceans is a vibe and nothing else. These woozy, psychedelic-lined funk and pop tunes all blend well together, but absolutely fail to engage across the album's 40-minute runtime. These songs are foggy, warm summer afternoons that you can't remember much about the day after.

☆☆

I've never really had much of a thing for "vibe" music: there's something to be said about music that strives for a particular atmosphere, but when that's the entirety of it, I can't help but be utterly bored in the end. It's why something like Oncle Jazz is so electrifying and fun, while the limpness of Cate Le Bon's Pompeii does next to nothing for me. It's also why Chaz Bear's latest album as Toro y Moi, MAHAL doesn't do anything for me, either: while it's a pleasant little mood piece, there's nothing beneath it to uncover. It's an album where the feel of the music takes precedence over its actual composition, where a strong instrumental hand is compromised to make things feel cohesive and approachable, and all this makes the majority of the album's songs fail on nearly every level. When Bear is unable to mix the optimistic tone of MAHAL into interesting compositions, the results are some of the most soggy and inconsequential songs this year, unable to make an impression nor to impress. It's a consistent album, but its end goal is so remarkable that the congruous sound is only a drawback. For positives, MAHAL does sound quite nice: guitar parts are warm on the ears, and the low end is prominent enough to get that thickness these psych-soul tunes need, the killer bassline on Last Year and the honey-thick instrumental work on Clarity make for the best showings of what the album is all about. The mixing and mastering can be a bit hit-or-miss - the dynamic range feels quite flat for an album so dependent on these immersive, swelling soundscapes, and the drums are often pushed so far back into the mix that any of their textural qualities are completely lost - but for the most part there's not a whole lot to be complain about in regards to MAHAL's sound. The issues lie in how Bear utilizes them, making songs that are easy to sink into but never strong enough to support your weight, the downtempo lurch of Goes By So Fast takes all the energy out of the flute and saxophone parts that appear throughout (the effects put on them don't help, either), and a similar depth issue pops up across the entire tracklist with songs like the watery, but not fluid Postman, the soft groove of Déjà Vu interrupted by noisy guitars that don't fit comfortably into space, and the massive sweeping guitar leads from Unknown Mortal Orchestra's Ruban Neilson on opener The Medium that don't have enough punch behind them to get the music vibrating deep within you like it should. As individual songs, most of MAHAL's tracks aren't much of note, but as thirteen back-to-back songs that total over 40 minutes in runtime, the album quickly loses traction and never finds a way to regain it. It's this constant feeling of sluggishness that makes MAHAL feel so entirely boring, Bear's loose radio concept to connect each song hinting at one of the major issues buried underneath all these cozy compositions. That issue is that MAHAL is never willing to let one idea branch out in lieu of keeping things in one place to make tying them all together an easier task, songs that have the potential to go somewhere but never do, the admittedly smooth groove of The Loop staying so static across the song's four minute time that it goes from dreamy to boring and cements how unimpactful the majority of the album is. There's bits of good things scattered all throughout: how Millennium's 80s synth leads and bubbly guitars make for a cherry-topped slice of jazz pop, and Magazine takes hold of Salami Rose Joe Louis' hypnotic voice to make for one of the slower cuts that ends up actually working, but these moments are few and far between, all these ideas found in worse ways on other songs that make returning to MAHAL a much more difficult task than it should be. It doesn't help that Bear's writing is often so one-dimensional and lacking in character, singing of keeping his "chill" in Déjà Vu and some soft allusions to economic anxieties in Postman, but never letting his writing speak to something deeper within these relaxing songs, this sense of disengagement the nail in the coffin for MAHAL's unending listlessness. Listening to MAHAL, the appeal is clear: an easygoing collection of atmosphere-focused pop and rock songs that never intrude while they're playing and always have a smile on, an album that's so welcoming and sunny that it's hard to object to the offer. But there's nothing else in these songs to make them feel worth the while, never providing anything outside of that and leaving you feeling unfulfilled by the end of it. MAHAL does a lot of things right in isolation, but can't ever find a way to combine them into something meaningful and memorable, hints of success stuffed between huge chunks of mediocrity that, while never offensive, don't elicit any sort of emotional reaction either. It's a scattershot that ends up landing on a hundred different targets, finding consistency in the shape of the holes but never in where they land, ideas so split up that the few similarities they have are entirely insubstantial. Chaz Bear knows what he's doing here, but MAHAL is too messy and too incongruous to show it off in an attractive light, an album too willing to sacrifice its strengths in the name of apollonian musicianship and losing out on so much as a consequence.

#toro y moi #mahal #dead oceans #art pop #funk #hypnagogic pop #jazz funk #jazz pop #neo-psychedelia #pop #psychedelic pop #psychedelic rock #psychedelic soul #rock #soul #synth funk #2022 #4/10

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amerrierworld · 3 years

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Little Songbird (pt 2)

Part 1: x

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu becomes addicted to your voice and wants to hear you… sing some more.

Characters: Alcina Dimitrescu x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,870

Warnings: The Smut Chapter~

Over the next few days, Lady Dimitrescu barely caught a glance of you. Either you were overworking yourself, or avoiding her. The thought made her bristle with annoyance, mostly aimed at herself. Had she scared you off?

Down below in the servants’ quarters, you tried your best not to pay attention to the rush of heat that went through your body every time you remembered Lady Dimitrescu’s lingering gaze on you.

You hadn’t seen her, or frankly you had tried avoiding her. You kept to your duties, overworking yourself, distracting yourself, wondering if what you felt was unholy. Wondering if she felt the same.

“Lady Dimitrescu has asked you to clean her personal study,” the head housemaid said one day in the kitchens. You paled a little, nearly dropping the plate you were drying off.

“..Oh?”

“You’re to go there after dinner tonight.” She was absent-mindedly polishing some of the silverware at the counter, not noticing how you had reacted. “The Lady will run you through what’s needed.”

“She.. she’ll be there?”

“Yes, of course," she replied, “she’d never let any of us in by ourselves. I would know.”

She definitely would. It was only her that would ever be allowed in Lady Dimitrescu’s study to clean. But she didn’t seem to mind it was you who was on that duty tonight... you dreaded the massive list of things you would probably have to do. Was this a punishment?

“Clean yourself up before you go.” She eyed your dirtied apron and ashy skirt. “No use if you're just going to mess up what you’ll be cleaning.”

And so, with fresh clothes and your face scrubbed clean of grease, you made your way up through the castle levels to get to the study. On the way, you heard faint buzzing down the hall.

You turned to see dark robes disappearing around the corner, and suddenly the dimly-lit hallway was a lot more ominous and foreboding than before. Hurrying down the direction you needed to go, you tried not to drop any of your supplies as your heart-rate picked up.

Just around the corner, you kept thinking, just a little further and-

“Boo!”

You shrieked, shock coursing through your body in a split second as Miss Daniela appeared right in your face when you turned the last corner. Her bloodied mouth split into a wide, cunning smile at your reaction, your face flushing red in embarrassment and sudden fear.

“Oh, now that was fun, wasn’t it?” she cackled, circling around you with the curiosity of a feline, far too close for comfort, “I haven't seen you up here before.”

The water in your bucket had managed to spill over the side in your jump, and you felt your stockings and shoes soaking through. You grimaced at the feeling and Miss Daniela could only giggle.

She tugged at your hair like a bratty younger sibling as she disappeared in a swarm of insects that buzzed around your head, calling after you,

“Have fun~”

You felt the water squish in your shoes as you walked the last few steps towards the intimidating double-doors of Lady Dimitrescu’s personal study.

It wasn’t anything like the last study you had cleaned. It felt massive to you- everything must have been custom made for her. The chairs, the desk, the bookcase. You’d have to do some real climbing to clean all the nooks and crannies in here.

But it was the piano in the centre of the room that really caught your eye. It was dark- but not quite black. There was a rich, deep red sheen to it, and just like everything else in the room, it seemed to tower above you.

And her-

Lady Dimitrescu was already in her nightly attire- a long-sleeved nightgown. It was a cream colour, as always, and you wondered if the light was a little stronger, how sheer the fabric would be..

“Ah, there you are.” Lady Dimitrescu’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you straightened up a little. “Come closer, little songbird. Into the light.”

The nickname made you blush furiously, though you did as she asked. So she hadn’t forgotten you. Was that supposed to be a relief? The squish of your shoes made you grimace, and from the way her eyes trailed down, she heard it as well.

“Did it rain on the way here?” she asked, dryly. You looked down at the carpet, clutching your supplies. You were leaving footprints behind. You’d definitely have to clean that thoroughly.

“I- I spilled some water on the way here. I.. tripped,” you said. You didn’t think ratting out her daughter would put the Lady in a good mood.

Her expression didn’t prove to you that she believed you, but she let it be. She picked up a small sheet of paper with listed chores and handed it to you without much thought.

You expected an explosive list of unending duties, but you were quite surprised with the sparse instructions. Dust the bookshelves, sweep under the piano, scrub the floors...

This was one of the few rooms in the entire castle that looked, quite frankly, immaculate. Everything seemed to have a place already, so you really didn’t need to do much at all.

You quietly set to work without any further commentary, and didn’t catch the way Lady Dimitrescu watched you from her desk when you came into her peripheral vision. The letters from Mother Miranda didn’t register in her mind as she listened to you work, hoping for the sound of your voice. Then she heard you hum, lightly, only for you to catch yourself mid-dusting, and stop altogether.

When you got to the piano, you needed to move the bench to get under and sweep, but when you pushed against the heavy piece of furniture, it screeched against the floor, startling both of you.

“Sorry,” you squeaked, barely audible. You looked up and caught her deep yellow eyes staring at you intently, and something stirred deep inside you.

“I didn’t know you played,” you commented once you realized Lady Dimitrescu wasn’t going to say anything to break the awkward silence. In fact, she adored seeing you so flustered and shy, and didn’t want it to end.

“I don’t often,” she eventually replied. She stood up from her desk, and you nearly snapped your neck keeping your eyes on hers as she rose above you.

You hurried out of the way as she came to sit on the bench. Lady Dimitrescu lifted the fallboard and a soft, light chord rung out as she pressed down on the keys.

“Can you match pitch?” She was testing some of the sound in various chords, simple but effective. You watched her fingers dance, only to realize you had not seen her without gloves before now. The nails were painted in a dark, deep red. Her fingers were long and pale, and the skin on the backs of her hands were marred with little silvery scars. You wondered what they tasted like.

She gestured for you to come sit next to her, and you clambered up on the bench to kneel on the cushion. Lady Dimitrescu played a little more as you hummed along with the chords.

“Sing a song for me, pet,” she said, without glancing towards you. Her hands stilled to give you a moment to think, but your brain was only short-circuiting. It was like all of a sudden, every known song had disappeared from your memory.

Then a finger tapped your chin and lifted your head up to gaze into her eyes, and you sighed in contentment at the physical touch.

Her eyebrow quirked a little, as if barely registering the sound you made.

“No? No ideas?” she asked. Her perfume was that much denser when close to you, and it overwhelmed you. You could only weakly shake your head, nerves churning in your stomach.

“Well, we can’t have that,” she hummed. “I still want to hear you, little one.”

“I’m sorry...” you began, but she tutted. She’d make you sing in a.. different way. She wasn’t going to let you go after all those agonizing days without getting to hear you properly.

The hand that was holding your chin dropped down to your thigh. Your eyes were still adoringly glued to her face as she dropped the fallboard back over the keys. It nearly made her blush.

The world surged around you as you were suddenly lifted up from your seat. You were put on top of the piano, facing Lady Dimitrescu, and she nudged your legs apart so she could lean forward a little more. Your eyes were level with hers now, and you caught a flash of her white teeth as she smiled, lovingly, but devilishly.

“Do you think you can sing well?” she asked, one hand wrapping around the entirety of one of your ankles. You immediately shook your head. The dampness of your feet and legs caught her attention, and she tutted again.

“Off,” she ordered, leaning away, before wiping her hand on her dress. You hurriedly did as she asked, tugging down your still-wet stockings, ripping a little bit of the fabric, but you couldn’t mind with the way Lady Dimitrescu was eyeing you.

“Good girl.”

You clamped your thighs together, and she definitely didn’t miss that. Her hand went back to wrap around your ankle, now fabric-free. The other reached out to cup the side of your jaw, trailing down and wrapping around your neck, squeezing lightly for less than a second. Then it lowered even more and undid the top button of your dress.

“Still want to stay and sing for me, little songbird?” she asked, her hand lingering, but not moving from its spot. “Your tasks are long done.”

That was not true, you hadn’t even swept yet. But you slowly began to realize maybe the chores had nothing to do with you coming up here tonight.

The question burned deep inside you, and Lady Dimitrescu looked like she wasn’t going to move until you gave your consent. Though you loved the tension that was building, you began to feel restless.

“Yes, please.” You inched your legs a little wider, and her smile grew.

“Such a pleasant sound, your voice,” she said, as her hand from your ankle trailed up your leg. “I was enraptured many weeks ago, when I heard you for the first time.”

“You.. you’ve heard me before?” you gasped a little, because her cool fingers pressed against the sensitive inside of your thighs. You thought you were always alone when you sang during work.

“Oh yes,” she grinned, “now sing for me, little pet. Make all the noise you want.”

Her mouth was on yours in an instant, filling your lungs with perfume and warm breath. The buttons on your dress came apart as her hands pulled at them one by one. Your skirt was pushed up, and then she pressed down on your torso to get you to lie on your back. The piano was smooth and cold beneath, and there was a brief moment you regretted that it was definitely going to be dirtied by what was to come. But then Lady Dimitrescu’s mouth latched onto your neck and all thoughts evaporated from your brain.

There was a pinch as she nipped at the soft skin between neck and shoulder, making your back arch and your body lift off the piano.

“Hmm.. delightful,” she growled. Her large hands slid up your dress and your entire lower half was exposed.

“Oh, I can smell you,” she sighed. She pulled back only a moment to tug the dress off your whole body. Your fingers scrabbled against the piano’s slick surface as you felt your nipples harden at her touch.

She sat back on the bench and scooted forward, leaning down to inhale your alluring smell as you lay there, gasping for air.

“Now.” She pulled your legs apart, eyes zoning in on your cunt. “I want to hear you sing.”

Her mouth pressed against your folds and a warm, wet tongue slipped up to catch your clit. A squeal escaped you and she kissed it a little more in reward.

“That’s it. More.”

Her fingers dug into your thighs before she began sucking and licking almost aggressively. Your body was trembling with every swipe of her tongue, every delicate nibble on your folds.

Your gasps rose in volume, your voice breaking in small squeaks and whimpers. Though she adored it when you carried a tune, this was much more satisfying.

Her tongue pressed inside without any hesitation. You felt it curl and push inside you, catching your wetness and scent. A low growl in the back of her throat made you cry out, and her grip tightened even more.

It wasn’t going to take long, you realized. The despair in her relentless tongue, her piercing eyes watching your body rise and drip with sweat made the coil tighten with every passing moment.

Her pupils were blown, and every time you let out another sound, she pressed on a little harder, a little faster.

“Oh!” Her tongue had slipped out and were replaced by two thick fingers. Your cry of delight earned you her warm lips wrapping around your clit, and you couldn’t help but grab at her head of thick, smooth hair.

The curls slipped delightfully through your fingers and you were watching the ceiling, trying to make out the shapes in the darkness, until she pulled away and said,

“Eyes on me, dear. Nowhere else.”

You had to hoist yourself up with one hand to watch her, and she got back to work immediately. Eyes locked, one hand in her hair, and hers wrapped around you so tightly you couldn’t move away.

“Fuck..” you hissed out as her fingers curled. Her eyes flashed; she seemed to like it, so you kept going.

“Please..” you begged, hips trying to buck in her hold, “oh, please please.. it feels..s-so good.”

Your thighs had been completely smeared by her lipstick, or those were bruises forming from her grip. Either way, the marks made your head spin with arousal.

“Please don’t stop... Please, don’t ever stop.” You were gasping, trying hard to focus on your words, but then her mouth sucked hard on your clit, and you were lost in meaningless sounds and little cries of pleasure as you came.

She didn’t stop, revelling in your gasps and broken whimpers, music to her ears. When your body began pulling away and you felt a tingling sensitivity every time she tried to touch your clit again, that was when she knew to let you go.

Lady Dimitrescu sat back a moment, basking in the sight of you, wet and spent, spread out over her piano and with cum dripping down your thighs. She lifted her hand and wiped her mouth with the back of it to catch any further stray lipstick, but she didn’t quite catch all of it.

When you could finally breathe normally, you sat up slowly and trembled again under her piercing gaze.

Your small hands reached out to cup her cheeks, startling her. She thought you’d dash off with your bucket and leave immediately. You inched closer and used your thumbs to wipe the last bits of lipstick, and then kissed her. Soft, sweet, just like your singing.

You peppered her lips and chin with kisses for a few minutes. She allowed all of it, held you close as you breathed her in. You shifted, feeling your body unstick from the piano with an unsavoury sound and you pulled a face, making her laugh. It made you giddy inside.

You stayed like that for a long while, and you relished in how warm and soft she was.

“Perhaps you can sing again for me sometime,” she suggested, “an actual song.”

You buried your head into the crook of her neck, making a whiny noise in the back of your throat. She said she liked your singing, yes, but it still intimidated you. Whether it was nerves, or the fact it was her that was listening.. but you did want to please her. Always.

“You realize you sing beautifully, little one?” she eventually asked. “Even when I’m not inside you?”

You let out a burst of giggles and she lovingly kissed your shoulder. The glee of her enjoying your voice and the aftermath of your orgasm soared like butterflies inside you.

“You best get back to your duties,” she hummed, though her hand curved around your waist and held you close, like she wasn’t going to let you go. “The shelves in this castle aren’t going to dust themselves.”

You laughed again, feeling adoration swell up inside you as you ran your fingers through her loosened locks of hair.

“...can I come back tomorrow night?” you asked feebly.

She chuckled, low and sultry, and tipped your head up to look at her, “you can come whenever you want.”

Your face went beet-red in a matter of second and she grinned widely.

“But tomorrow night.. come to my chambers. And don’t bother with your supplies. Won’t want you getting wet again... at least not like that.”

A/N: thank you all for the love on part 1 ☺️ I hope this meets your expectations <3

#Lady Dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x you #lady dimitrescu x reader #tall vampire lady #alcina dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x you #resident evil #resident evil village #re8 #merry writes #wlw

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