-Nora

OMG Thank you so much, Nora! I'm so sorry it took me so long to answer 🥲

I'm really happy that you like my playlists! I try to give it a homogeneous vibe that fits well with the characters. I love making them! 🥹💜

I just wanted to add that I am IN LOVE with your writing! Please, keep with the stunning work! 💜💜

HI!!

I'm so sorry I forgot to answer this 😅

Hmm, let me see. I think I probably would do something with a dark character, or someone morally gray.

Maybe with Murdoc. You're a young hired gun and you two meet during a mission, he sees potential in you and decides to teach you as his apprentice. But you're still too soft (for him), so he gets you a mission with the purpose of turning you into a 100% cold-blooded killer like him. When you're about to shoot the target, he gets closer, chest against your back and whispers in your ear:

"Breathe in and out. Don't look so tense. Remember, you and the gun are one, when that bullet hit the target you'll feel a heat in your chest…", he puts a hand in said place. "it's important, that you let it consume you."

Right now, my dear!

This is a little draft of a scene of one of the next chapters of Cornucopia (my lil father paul wip), this part was one of the first things I wrote of that wip, so I hope you enjoy it!

She slams her back on the switch and the lights go out, all she can see are his eyes, gleaming like a wild dog's orbs in headlights. Those bright, cold eyes, showing a thousand shades of red and gold that followed her everywhere. Tears pushed up from the waterline of her eyes, pure fear seeping behind the wetness of her orbs.

John is staring at her in the pitch black they were engulfed in, silver coins that gleamed in the dark, focusing on the blinding, swift glow of her veins. Her heartbeat was so fast that the smell of her blood coursing through her veins, under her skin, was almost enough to intoxicate him. He came closer, less than a step between them. Miriam was panting so hard, he could feel her breath rattling against his face. The fervent touch of his hand cradles her face, a shiver at the realization of his closeness shuddering through her body, the gentle touch soothed her.

That was John, her John, not the thing that stalked her in the dark. His thumbs caught the hot tears that ran down her cheeks. She soon realized that she had covered his hands — so large in comparison to hers — with hers. The name slipped from her trembling lips.

"John…?" it sounded almost like a sigh over her ragged breaths.

She had never called him by his name, his name. She had always referred to him as, Father Paul, Father and you. Even when she found out who he was, she continued to call him just that, sometimes adding the occasional "Monsignor". But never John. Until that moment, he had never been John to her. Just John. Hearing his name, his real name, escape those lips so inviting, broke the last link in the chain that bound him to caution. In one fluid movement, John Pruitt let his mouth taste the salt of her lips. Hot, hungry lips meeting trembling, panting lips.

@madsmilfelsen !!!

Thanks for the ask, beloved!

So since I've already posted little snippets of my two JT fics here and here, I'll give you an snippet from the draft of my Mr. Kidd fic!!!

Here it goes! I hope you like!

The tray was steady in her hands as she started up the stairs. Dolores had already taken care of most of the mess, except for the man passed out in her waiting room, flushed face and shiny bald head, it would be difficult to drag him up the stairs.

The corridors at that hour were still dark, she still hadn't had enough time to light the candlesticks. But stumbling around in the dark became the least of her worries when she heard, reverberating off the hallway walls, the sighs of a couple. Stopping her pace, Alma stiffened her posture. It was common for some guests to end up violating the nocturnal company rule at the inn, but normally they tried to be discreet, but this wasn't it.

She started walking again, her eyes meeting the shaft of light that was seeping through a gap in one of the rooms, no, not one of the rooms, his room. Alma didn't consider herself a prude, but she felt her face heat up as her eyes caught a glimpse of the mirror of the room number seven. The reflection was clear, the bedroom lights all on casting shadows across the face of one of the Saloon girls. The snapping of flesh against flesh, the grunts and loud moans pierced her ears. What she happened to see made her grip the sides of the wooden tray with such force that it almost made it squeak.

*excited noises* Uhhh three roses!!!! Hope you like!!!

First, this is from "Shiver" a John Tyler one-shot that is in my drafts for AGES.

He gripped the wheel tightly as he thought of Mary, of her arrogance and contempt for him. The way she treated him when he did her the favour of revealing the loopholes he knew so well that left women so exposed, so vulnerable to him. John hated the way she didn't even consider his proposal, his help.

There was a gulf between Mary's behaviour and what he had just witnessed. There was a pure, almost angelic kindness in how the nurse — Thomasin, he remembered — acted. The care and zeal she had for a dying old man who probably didn't have more than a few measly weeks to live. For a moment, John envied the attention the old man received from the young woman. John had noticed the affable familiarity between them. He wanted that for himself, that…affection.

John didn't even realize that he had already returned to the Twin Cities hotel, only when he parked the red vehicle did he realize how interested in the nurse he was. The lapse of the immaculate sparkle of the young woman's smile flashed in his mind. Something seemed to snap inside him, as if a key had been turned, or a switch pressed. John sighed in another attempt to calm down. A slight discomfort below the waist gave away something he already knew.

It would be a long night of meditation.

Second, a lil snippet from "Young American", my haimgruder short-fic, also lying in my drafts for some time now, it is staring at me from the docs page so here it is.

Sitting up, Eden took a deep breath, her well-cut nails painted beige as opposed to the usual cobalt blue, tapping against the zipper of her cheap little black leather bag that rested on her lap. If she was honest, and she always was, it wasn't not getting the job that scared her, but being surrounded by close-minded old men who most likely wouldn't be content to just stare.

Linda warned her about this.

Linda was her neighbour, friend and former owner of the position she applied for. She knew that Eden was in need of a job, especially after what happened, she thought about it a bit and they both talked about the possibility. Linda had told her that her typing skills would come in handy.

Oh, if Linda had known what she used to use those abilities for, she wouldn't even have suggested that her friend work with them.

The truth was, Eden March spent her mornings helping an old friend of her father's — an Irish gentleman who had lived in the US since being exiled as an unfaithful guerrilla ex-member of the IRA — named Declan. He owned a small bookshop, which at first looked like an ordinary bookshop owned by a nice old man, but which contained one of the most magnificent collections of books on Communism, Socialism, Bolshevism, and Marxism that Eden had ever seen. Declan had a space in his attic where he would meet with some young revolutionaries, and together they would run a newspaper column on social democratic politics.

That's where Eden's typist skills came in.

Working almost full time as a writer for a small left-wing newspaper was rewarding, she loved it, learned a lot, lived a lot, and it was great while it lasted.

Then Nell got sick.

Her sister needed her full attention, just like her nephew, and she had less and less time for her work as an unpaid pseudo-journalist. Too bad, she still wasn't able to take care of Nellie. Nell was gone, and she had no choice but to take the reins of someone else's life but herself.

The rustling of some sheets of paper brings her back to the present.

Inhale. Expires. She remembers Linda's advice.

And as a bonus, because I know you have a AMAZING Brice fic in progress, I'll share a piece of mine as an offering, bc you inspired me sm to improve my writing skills. This is from "If I Give My Heart to You".

Autoimmune encephalitis, the doctors said. Two misdiagnoses later and the disease was already in its final stages. Make her comfortable, stick around and say goodbye. It was the advice given.

Experimental treatments were considered, but the Catledge siblings didn't want to inflict any more suffering on their poor mother.

Brice felt the corners of his eyes sting with the memory of Grace's final days. He moved her to his room, where he could keep an eye on her. A desk by the bed and stacks of papers to sign. A cheeky tear slipped down the waterline of his eye. Many bad memories were made during the worst periods of the illness, but without a doubt the hallucinations she had with his father were the ones that shattered his chest the most.

On the last day, after a particularly severe seizure, Brice lay awake most of the night, sitting in an armchair beside the bed, trying to bring down his mother's fever with cold cloths, when she suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. Brice recalled with a shudder the lack of sparkle — of life — in the indigo of her confused eyes. Grace repeated disconnected phrases deliriously, babbling half-words, calling him 'Harry'. He said nothing, just leaned over, and gently held his mother's wrinkled hand, whispering sweet words each time she looked scared, or confused.

Later, just before sunrise, she fell asleep with heavy eyes and slow breathing, and he knew that this time, she wouldn't wake up again. So he hugged her and cried. He cried the hardest of his entire life. Until his eyes stung, and his throat itched, until the blue sleeve of Grace's nightgown was soaked with his sweat and tears, until the only things he was able to feel were the hot trails on his cheeks and the stinging pain beneath his sternum.

Icy splatters hit his skin, and he stared at the gray sky. The pouring rain drove him off the porch, as if it mourned him or was just tired of watching him grieve.

because I saw dark!Andrew Keneally and blacked out for a second 👀

Thank you for the ask, Peg!! 💜

Ohh that is a piece that started out with a very simple question.

What Andrew would be like if he was a manipulative bastard? And how he would react to a messy breakup where the reader (or oc) became emotionally dependent on him after getting out of a previous traumatic relationship?

Like, in the beginning Andrew was sweet and protective, and took care of the reader and of everything for them (as a way of gaslithing, but the reader doesn't know that), but as the reader starts to heal and becomes more independent, he starts to show yandere/obsessive/possessive behaviors and the reader knows they need to let him go if want to heal completely, so they decide to break up, let's say he doesn't take that so well.

Oh, I see. Thank you so much for clarifying this, it's very sweet of you 😊

I was recently lucky enough to find an archive of The Phantom of the Opera Concert at the RAH, and I simply fell in love with him. Since then I've been looking for as many projects he's been a part of as possible. I particularly love him as Bamatabois in the 10th Anniversary Concert of Les Misérables, it was a magical experience.

Unfortunately, it's a bit difficult to find archive footage of the plays he acted in, especially outside the UK. But I keep trying, and it's been a fun task. So, thank you for sharing the photos of that Les Mis concert and the "Save the Children" video, I wouldn't have known of its existence without your post.

Lots of love to you, and thank you again for taking a time to explain that to me 😊❤️❤️

OMG HIIIII!!!!! @everythingbutresolved 💙

First of all, I would like to apologize, unnecessarily took ages for me to answer, I lost the notification and ended up forgetting, BUT I have something for you, my love.

This is just a little unfinished piece of the draft, but I hope you like It. I'm so sorry again.

"Maybe I should go home, Liz, it's getting late. Thanks for the lovely afternoon, oh, and by the way, don't worry about the screenplay, you're doing a great work.", they stay there, feeling their breath in their lashes, bodies pressed, foreheads almost touching.

Noah takes a deep breath, inhaling her smell one last time before walking away. He gets his jacket, sending her one last look, wanting to keep the image of her parted, panting lips to himself. He's almost at the door when Eliza follows him, calling his name using that sweet tone she used when she met him for the first time. Stopping before the door, a smirk pulls his lips. She walks to him, putting herself between him and the door. They once again stare at each other. He gives a step ahead, getting closer to her, she hits her back against the door.

"What's the problem, Liz?", he's using that particular cynic tone, she studies his traits. Noah's showing his false innocence, furrowed dark brows and sweet puppy eyes, looking down at her, waiting her next step into his trap, so he can finally devour her.

"Eliza, what-", he starts, convinced to test her, but she shuts him, scooping his face with both her hands, thumbs kindly caressing his cheeks while she looks right into his eyes. Eliza takes a deep breath, there's no coming back now, she pulls him to a kiss, she smiles when he starts to answer to it almost immediately. Noah presses her body completely against the door, his own enfolding her. When she let go of him, he's panting. "This was a little unexpected.", he lies, his pupils so wide that it almost covered the warm chocolate of those eyes. She smiles, she knows she fell in his trap, but who said he didn't fell in hers? She bites his lip.

"You're not good at reading the signs, aren't you?", she teases, two could play this game, whispering in his ear while pulling the lovely salt & pepper curls in the back of his neck, they both laugh, his laughing reverberating inside her bones.

"And you, are you good at reading the signs?", he asks, biting her collarbone, pressing his waist against hers with a convinced smirk. He pulls one of her thighs up to his waist, so her body can embrace his, so he can make her feel him.

"I'm the best at it, boss. Oh…", he bites her neck, those unusually sharp teeth sinking softly into her skin at the bratty reminder of their professional relationship. Noah sucks a sweet spot behind her ear, and grunts when she sinks her nails in the back of his neck.

"You were thinking about that the whole afternoon, weren't you?", he whispers, teasing her, sinking his nose in her hair, letting his tongue slip in the taste of her skin. He smiled, vanilla.