#georgian mansion

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I see such colorful homes, click on them, and the interiors are nothing but a disappointing white & gray. Here, however, is a $27.5M Georgian mansion built in 1795 in Upperville, Virginia that is a riot of in-your-face color. 

Interesting stacked steps in the bright yellow entrance hall. 

And, there are 2 bright blue sitting rooms. Why are people so afraid of color?

The 2nd sitting room is a lovely warm wood. 

And, look at the yellow striped home office and hallway.

Beautiful wood library with red chairs.

Love the peach wallpaper in the dining room. They have a fortune in area rugs not only protecting the flooring, but adding contrasting color.

Even this pantry has cute red & white curtains.

Very nice- love the whimsical curtains and bright blue doors.

The tastefully redone kitchen is huge. It has 2 full-size farm sinks, double stove, and a double fridge.

The powder room looks like it’s in a fine restaurant.

Curving stairs on the next level. The sunny yellow of the main hall is carried thru up here.

In the main bd. each person gets a fireplace.

Even the dressing room has a fireplace.

Check out how large the en suite is, and it also has a fireplace.

There are 9 bds., all beautifully decorated.

Plus 8 full and 3 partial baths- all gorgeous.

Back stairs leading to another level. 

Lovely bd. in the attic area.

And, where does this staircase go?

A guest bd.

There are several bds. up here and an individual kitchen. 

Serious home office.

You can see the age of the house in the basement, with the stone foundation, stone fireplace and tree trunk beams.

Walk-in safe.

Look at the barn and horseshoe shaped stables. 

Beautiful garden and gazebo.

This is a real horse farm. It’s huge. 

https://www.sothebysrealty.com/eng/sales/detail/180-l-84267-4btqq4/21515-trappe-road-upperville-va-20184

[vox-anglosphere]

Surrounded by lush gardens, The Ivy in Chippenham is well named.

[vintagehomecollection]

The 'Wisteria Porch' of Georgian Colonial design, was added to Endean, the Charles Summer Bird estate, at the turn of the century. It stretches 80 feet across the front of the mansion and is framed by a canopy of wisteria.

Interior Visions: Great American Designers and the Showcase House, 1988

[richwall101]

Kings Weston House is a historic building in Kings Weston Lane, Kingsweston, Bristol, England. Built during the early 18th century, it was remodelled several times, the most recent in the mid-19th century. The building was owned by several generations of the Southwell family. By World War I, the house was used as a hospital and then later used as a school by the Bath University School of Architecture. The building is today used as a conference and wedding venue, as well as a communal residence.

The building was built between 1712 and 1719, and was designed by Sir John Vanbrugh for the lawyer and politician Edward Southwell on the site of an earlier Tudor house. It was then remodelled in 1763–1768 by Robert Mylne and again between 1845 and 1850 by Thomas Hopper. The Kings Weston estate possesses one of the largest collections of buildings designed by Sir John Vanbrugh in the UK. Whilst the house and the majority of the estate's buildings are still standing, others have been demolished or have been heavily altered. Bristol is the only UK city outside London to possess buildings designed by Vanbrugh. A significant architectural feature is the grouping of all the chimneys into a massive arcade.

[scenetherapy]

[thesixthduke]

[chainsawcorazon]

im freewriting this bartkon fic with zero outline and basing it off pure haunted house vibes so i don't overthink it, but it's brushing 10k already and i've only been at it maybe a week

[eiregloriana]

Whitestone House Estate

[celebrityresidence]

Elegant Grandeur of Oprah Winfrey's Montecito Mansion

This captivating image showcases the architectural brilliance of Oprah Winfrey's Montecito mansion. Nestled in California's elite enclave, the mansion is a harmonious blend of Georgian and Neo-Classical styles, featuring high ceilings, spacious rooms, and intricate detailing. The photo captures the essence of luxury and elegance, reflecting the mansion's integration of traditional design with modern amenities, set against the breathtaking landscapes of Montecito. Visit: https://www.omnihomeideas.com/design/celebrity-homes/oprah-winfrey-house-in-montecito/

[lubicaskalska]

New York Study Space Inspiration for a large timeless gender-neutral light wood floor kids' room remodel with beige walls

[darkbluekies]

Just a fluff piece with Hedwig taking care of sick Reader? Can be gender neutral

I'm never going away

Yandere!richgirl x reader

Summary: Hedwig takes care of her darling who's sick♡

Warnings: none, I believe

Word count: 2.7k

You sigh heavily and lean your head on Hedwig’s shoulder. The teacher’s voice feels like needles. Your head is pounding. It’s only the second class of the day, and you’re already over it.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Hedwig whispers and pets your head. “Are you tired?”

“I don’t feel very well”, you mumble and hide your burning, pounding forehead into her shoulder. “I have a headache, and I’m shivering. It feels like I’m going to be sick.”

“Lunch is in twenty minutes, don’t worry, sweetheart. I will take notes for you, you don’t have to listen anymore.”

She picks out her pink pen case and starts to scribble down in her notebook. You want to fall asleep, but you’re scared that the teacher will scold you. Instead, you try to hold out to the break by drinking water from Hedwig’s fancy water bottle. She has a pink bottle decorated with charms that you picked out. 

“I feel like my throat is getting sore”, you whisper. 

“You’re feeling worse?” Hedwig whispers with worried eyes. She hurries to feel your forehead and gasps. “I need to take you home, darling.”

She takes your hand in hers and tells you to hold out. The second the lesson ends, she throws all of her things into her Prada bag. She hooks her arm in yours, pulling you up on your feet. You’re dragged out to the corridor where Hedwig sits you down on one of the hard benches that stand along the wall. 

“I’ll call my chauffeur and you’ll go home, okay, sweetheart?” she says and cups your cheeks. “I have that math test … if I miss it, I’ll fail the course. I have to stay here.”

“I’m cold”, you mumble and pull the blazer of your school uniform closer to your body. 

Hedwig twists the cap of the water bottle open and holds it out to you so that you can sip on the water while she calls her chauffeur, telling him to come and get you. The water helps with your sore throat, but it’s not near enough to make you feel better. After Hedwig has called her driver, she sits down beside you, taking your hot, heavy head in her hands and kissing wherever she can reach. 

“You’re going to be okay, my dear”, she reassures you. “You just need to go home and rest.”

“Can’t I go home to my house instead?” you ask. 

She twitches. “No! I-I mean … you should go home to me, so that I can take care of you later.”

You decide not to argue against her. You’re in no shape to do that anyway. She holds you close, letting you lean against her. You have started to shiver by now. 

“It’s going to be okay”, she whispers and kisses your temple. “You’re going to get to rest very soon.”

When her chauffeur finally comes, you’re helped out to the car and placed in the backseat. Hedwig pulls the seatbelt tightly over your body and kisses your cheek. 

“I’ll be home in about two hours”, she says. “Make sure to get some rest. Tell the chef that you want soup, okay? You have to tell him. And if you need anything, let the chauffeur know so that he can buy it for you. Promise me.”

You nod tiredly. Hedwig gives you one last, sad, smile before closing the door and watching you disappear throughout the gates. Damn that fucking math test. 

The chauffeur helps you up the stairs as you enter the georgian mansion. Your legs give up halfway and you almost crash into the stairs. The chauffeur grabs you quickly. 

“Sorry”, you whisper. 

“Don’t be”, he says. 

He leaves you on Hedwig’s bed and asks if there is something he can get you. You shake your head. Even if you did need something, you still feel weird asking random people to get it for you. the few times you’ve done that, you’ve offered to pay but they’ve always turned it down. You’re not Hedwig, you aren’t used to having a dozen people do things for you. You have your own two hands and legs and are fully capable of doing things yourself. 

“Should I get you some medicine?” the chauffeur asks. “I’m sure miss Hedwig would like it if I do.”

You give up, your head aching too much to discuss what you do or don’t need. You agree to him buying the medicine. As soon as he leaves, you change into your pajamas and tuck yourself in, hugging Hedwig’s teddy bear. Just as you’re about to fall asleep, there's a faint knock on the door. You pry your eyes open slightly to see the chef sneak in. 

“What should I do for you?” he asks. 

“Hedwig recommended soup”, you mumble. 

“In that case I will make soup.”

He disappears again. You fall asleep within minutes and doesn’t notice when the chef comes in with steaming carrot soup, or when the chauffeur comes with the medicine. You first wake up when Hedwig leaves kisses over your face.

“I’m sorry for waking you, sweetheart”, she whispers apologetically, caressing your face. “But I got worried. You haven’t touched the soup or the medicine at all.” She feels your forehead softly. “Have you taken your temperature yet?”

“I have been sleeping”, you explain and cough loudly. 

Hedwig furrows her brows worriedly and helps you sit up. She smiles as she sees you hugging her teddy. You cough again and she caresses your hair, looking as worried as if you'd have cut your arm off. She feeds you the medicine and strokes your hair. With careful hands, she lifts the cold bowl of soup in her hands, feeling around. Her golden rings clinks against the ceramic.

“I will heat it up for you”, she smiles and picks up the TV remote. “What do you want to watch? Not The fox and the hound, you cry when the fox is let out into the forest.”

“Who doesn't? You do too!”

“Yes, I know. What I mean is that you shouldn't be watching such sad things when you're sick. How about something else?”

She finds a movie for you to watch and lets it play while she takes the bowl of soup and walks out of the door. You hug Hedwig’s teddy closer to your burning — yet freezing — body. In these vulnerable times, you want nothing more than to go home to your own house, and lay in your own bed … and have your mom prepare food for you. But Hedwig wouldn’t allow it. Just being away from her for a day causes her to panic. You’re her oxygen and without you, she suffocates. And yet she suffocates you with her smothering love. But you can’t bring yourself to break up with her, because you can’t bring yourself too, maybe you don’t want to. It’s always you and her, two together, and you don’t know what you would do without her. Even though you’re with one of the most popular girls in school, none of the other kids seem to take an interest in you. Hedwig is the only one that likes you … and gosh, does she like you. You have never met someone that takes care of you like she does. She puts everything aside for you. Weirdly enough, you feel like she is supposed to be the one everyone drops things for. She’s wealthy and important, and a lot of people do a lot for wealthy and important people. Sometimes you find yourself questioning her existence, because when you’re with each other, she never lets you see her as the person everyone else talks about. To you, she’s just Hedwig, a sweet girl you’re in love with. And to her, you’re her entire existence. 

“Here you go!” Hedwig smiles and walks in with the bowl. “It’s extremely hot, so please be careful.”

She places the bowl in your hands. You enjoy the heat. Hedwig feeds you with a proud smile on her face. She makes sure that you eat it all, even if you feel like throwing up by the end of it. 

“How are you feeling now?” she asks softly.

“I feel like I'm dying”, you try to joke, but quickly realize that Hedwig’s not in the mood for jokes.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? Do you want anything? A warm bath? A nap? Something else to eat?”

“I just want to sleep.”

“Okay … we can do that!”

She creeps down under the covers and holds you tight to her. Usually, she is the one wanting to be held and squeezed. She hugs you tightly and rests her head on yours. Her hands plays with your hair. 

“I hate to see you sick, my love”, she whispers. “I wish that I could take your pain away. You’re so warm.”

“I’m freezing”, you whisper. 

She takes your hands between hers and blow hot air. 

“I kind of want to bite your fingers”, she giggles quietly and takes a small nibble on your index finger. 

She giggles and is quick to wipe away any saliva with her sleeve and apologize. Without waiting, she continues to blow hot air on your hands.  

The two of you rest together and you eventually fall asleep. Hedwig stays awake, holding you in her arms.

You wake up drenched in sweat. The medicine seem to be working. 

“What’s wrong?” Hedwig asks and sits up. “Are you feeling worse?”

“No, I’m sweating like crazy”, you respond. 

“Then your fever should have gone down — at least for now. That’s good.”

“I’m drenched.”

“Do you want to take a bath? I can fix it for you.”

You dozily look around for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Almost dinner time. I’ve told the chef to make us some chicken noodle soup, some good toasts and prepare some nice tea.” She caresses your cheek. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

You nod with a small, thankful smile, even if you’re not the slightest hungry — on the contrary actually, you’re almost nauseous. Hedwig smiles as well and jumps up from the bed, runs out of the room. You cough into your arm and sniffle and hug her teddy, waiting for her to return. The pain killer have wiped away the fever for now, but it will come back eventually. 

“Y/N”, Hedwig says from the door. “It’s done.”

You drag yourself up from the bed and move over to the door. Hedwig takes your hand and leads your barely alive form to the bathroom. You remove your drenched pajamas and sink down under the fluffy bubbles covering the water's surface. Hedwig smiles and sits down on the floor beside the big tub, hugging her legs close to her chest with a soft smile.

“I don't like it when you're sick but I'm glad that I can take care of you”, she says and sighs. “I don't understand why people go to school even though they're clearly not well. Everyone else has to pay for it.” 

“Most people can't afford missing school”, you say.

“But it's not about money”, she says in confusion.

“I'm talking about time, not money.”

“Oh. Imagine how convenient it would be if you could buy time. You and I would live for a long time.”

“And without me you'd be immortal.”

She goes white. “No, don't say that! I wouldn't want to live forever if I didn't have you. Don't say such things. Gives me nightmares.”

You smile sluggishly. 

“It’s not funny”, Hedwig scolds you sadly. “I don’t want to live a single second without you.”

“I know”, you say and change your smile to a more comforting one, than a teasingly, to calm her nerves before she started panicking and locking herself in her own thoughts. 

“I will get sick now too”, she suddenly says and blushes. “But it’s okay, I don’t mind getting sick if it’s from you.”

You start to cough and Hedwig hurries to pat your back. In frustration over feeling like a walking zombie, you hide your face into your hands.

“It’s okay”, she comforts you. “You’re going to be okay. It’s just temporary, sweetheart.”

“I fucking hate being sick”, you mumble in a whine. 

“I know, I know. B-But isn’t the warm water helping?”

“A bit. I’m not freezing, and it’s a little easier to breathe, but I still feel … heavy and trespassed.”

“Trespassed?” 

“It’s like something is living in my body … and I want it out.”

Hedwig pets your head. “It will disappear but you need to give it time, darling. Now, should I wash your hair for you?”

Without waiting for an answer, she cups her hands into the bubbles and pours the water over your hair, making sure not to get it in your face.

“I’m sorry that you have to take care of me like a child”, you apologize. 

“I will always take care of you”, she says calmly. 

“I have a test next week … I hope I’m well before that.”

“You will be. But if you aren’t, you shouldn’t go. I won’t allow that. In fact, I don’t think that you should leave the bed at all until you’re well. I will help you with everything.”

“You have to go to school. Both of us can’t miss or we’ll both fall behind.”

“My friends will take notes. I will stay with you. I will take care of you.”

You wonder if she wants to stay home because she actually wants to take care of you … or if she can’t bear to spend time apart from you. You know how paranoid she gets every time she can’t cling onto you. You’re like her lifeline. 

“Who … do you think it was that made you sick?” Hedwig asks as she carefully massages your scalp with a floral scented shampoo.

“I don't know”, you reply. “Maybe that Eric Nelson boy? He coughed the entire week.”

“How inconsiderate. I should talk to him-”

“Don’t be like that. I’m sure he had his reasons for coming to school even if he’s sick.”

You cough again. Hedwig opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again and continues to massage your scalp with the bubbly shampoo. She continues to wash you until you’re squeaky clean. You’re tucked into the bed once again with Hedwig measuring up pain killers for your fever. The chef sneaks into the room with the chicken noodle soup and your heart sinks. You’re not the slightest hungry, but you’re unsure if you have the energy to fight Hedwig about that. But if you eat, you’ll most likely throw up or explode. So carefully, you try to eat a few spoonfuls. She watches you intensely. You wish that she could look away, just for a second so that you could breathe. 

“Are you okay?” Hedwig asks worriedly. “Do you need to lay down? Do you feel worse? Should i get something for-”

“No, I’m good”, you say, poking around in the soup with your spoon. “Just not very hungry.”

“You need to eat. Here, let me help you.”

Before you have the chance to say something, she has started to feed you again, just like she did before. Her hazel eyes glow with worry. 

“Hedwig, I will throw up if I eat too much”, you say. 

“Do we need to go to the hospital?” she almost stutters. 

“No, I just need to do this in my own pace. I don’t want more for now.”

“A-Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

She sighs, gives you one final look and then nods, giving up. Hedwig takes the bowl out of your hands and tucks you in again, making sure that you won’t be able to use your arms. She holds her hand on your warm forehead before letting her hand travel down to your cheek, caressing it gently.

“You’re so precious to me”, she whispers seriously. “I wish that I could take your pain away from you, I wish that you never had to feel any pain at all.” Hedwig kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m never going away, you’ll never have to be alone.”

She looks so sweet, talks so sweet … and yet you can’t help but shiver and let your eyes wander off to the window … and gaze at the trees swaying free in the wind.

[vox-anglosphere]

Wentworth Woodhouse: Britain's largest home has over 300 rooms

[vintagehomecollection]

Soon after John Y. Brown, Jr. was elected governor of Kentucky, he and his wife, sportscaster Phyllis George, discovered Cave Hill Place, a romantic antebellum mansion in Lexington. With the assistance of R. Wayne Jenkins, the home, built in 1821 by a nephew of Patrick Henry, was totally renovated and decorated in a matter of six short weeks. Lofty pink oaks and maples provide shade for the neo-Federal style residence; its Georgian portico was a 1916 addition.

Celebrity Homes II, 1981

[scenetherapy]

[indiefilmfatale]

words of so sweet breath compos'd

part one (prof!cumberbatch x virgin!reader)

plot: your drama teacher, mr. cumberbatch, swears he can pull something out of you for your upcoming performance as ophelia in hamlet. all he needs is a handful of one-on-one sessions... content warnings: graphic language, flirting, drunk!reader, age gap, pot smoking, reader wears a tiny lil skirt, reader is a virgin word count: 2.8k a/n: i can only guarantee a couple of chapters but strap in folks! this is just the beginning

A warm, chatty haze floats around the Georgian mansion. The place is crowded, and even in your drunken state of mind, you know there's more people here than are in the drama department.

You're sat on a large, old couch in a corner of a room. The light keeps changing colors, from pink, to purple, to green, then back again. Your blinks are slow, and your gaze is out of focus.

"Woooo!" A enthusiastic scream knocks you out of your trance, and you realize whoever you're sharing this couch with is snorting something white on the glass coffee table. Part of you is intrigued, almost asks to join in. But most of you just wishes you were home.

You stand up shakily, tipsily stalking away from temptation. You pull out your phone. Uber tells you it'll be over an hour for a car. Your best bet is finding your friends. Where were your friends?

You're just standing there, in the middle of the room, wobbling from one foot to the other. No wonder you catch the eye of the stoned professor making his way toward the exit.

"Y/N?" A deep voice calls out, echoing. "You okay?"

You barely recognized your professor at first. Usually he was clad in the typical professor attire: Dark sweaters, tweed blazers, khakis. The final performance of the drama department's autumn show Hedda Gabler required something more elegant, even for the director. He went with a simple brown suit.

But the performance ended hours ago, and what was left of your professor's ensemble was something a bit more unkempt. His collar unbuttoned, tie loosened, and suit jacket draped over his arm. His dark curls, usually styled cleanly and away from his face, was a tad disheveled, like he had been sweating. A single curl dangled into his forehead. His five o'clock shadow was setting in.

"Professor?" You call back, small voice drowned out by bumping music. Despite your heart rate beating on the slow side, it managed to flutter at the realization that he was walking toward you.

Everyone in that course had a crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. Maybe it was the cheekbones, or the way his arms looked when he would shed his blazer and roll up his shirt sleeves during rehearsal. Maybe it was the way he was able to dictate the energy of the room, just from the tone in his voice. You felt an unconscious loyalty toward him, even if that loyalty was coaxed in desire.

He tries to speak to you as he comes closer, but the music blasts through the next room. "What?" You shout unabashedly, almost stumbling over before--

Two pairs of arms catch you, hold you, while you regain your balance. You let out an embarrassed giggle. The room spins around you, but Benedict remains close and still.

He leans in and presses his cheek against your hair, "Where's Bridget? You came here with Bridget, yeah?"

You catch a large whiff of skunk and a smaller whiff of the sandalwood cologne he's been known to wear. It's intoxicating, and it takes everything in you not to press your nose against his neck and breathing him in completely. You bring your lips to his ear and reply, "You smell like fun." A wide, typsy smile spreads across your face as you pull your head back. "Do you have any more?"

You watch his face contort in thought. His eyebrow furrows at first when he realizes what you said, then softens as his eyes meet yours. He chuckles, blinking himself out of his head. "Let's go outside."

He guides you past the music, past a dance floor, past the bar, through two grand doors where a soft breeze hits your face, arms, and legs. You let out a long sigh, basking in the night air as you walk down the marble porch stairs, until you can hear gravel under your shoes.

Your professor remains at the top of the steps, pulls out a cigarette from his pants pocket and lights it was he watches you roam free. "Have you taken anything?" He calls out.

Your voice is small in the short distance between the two of you, too lazy to raise it above a conversational tone. "Just those fruity little cocktails that Bridget kept making. Unlike you, Professor..." You weakly point your finger in his direction. He sighs, squints away out of bashfulness but returns an amused gaze back to you.

You walk back toward him, clinging to the handle as you stalk up the stairs. "Bit of a weakness for Miss Mary Jane, hm? Care you share with the rest of the class?"

He's unable to hold back a laugh, then holds his lit cigarette between his lips while he digs through the pockets of the jacket over his arm to pull out a metal cigarette case. Except when he pops it open, four neatly-rolled joints greet you.

"So classy," You chuckle, taking a joint from his collection and turning on your heal, walking down the stairs again. "C'mon, this'll straighten me out."

You hear footsteps on the gravel behind you, following you. "Where are we going?" Benedict asks.

"Away from this monstrous mansion," You stomp, pulling up the dress strap that was beginning to falter off your shoulder. "It goes against everything I believe in. D'you have a light?"

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

"No! No way!" Professor Cumberbatch argues, smoke pouring out of his mouth. He clears his throat, then laughs, "No fucking way, Y/N."

"C'mon, you're going to make me beg? Please, Professor, please tell me what the Spring show is, please." You clasp your palms together, mimicking prayer, but keeping your elbows down as to not knock off the suit jacket that was draped over your shoulders. "I won't tell a soul, I promise."

He smirks as he takes another hit. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the state of you right now; untamed, begging him, your arms subtly pressing your breasts together to reveal the sweetest bit of cleavage over the neckline of your dress. He drinks you in with his eyes, and you can feel it.

Benedict exhales a cloud of smoke, "How come you're never like this in class?" He offers you back the joint.

You regain your posture, suddenly hyper aware of yourself. You take the joint, "I don't know." You inhale a long hit. "Because I don't usually have six cocktails in me."

"No, I suppose not." He leans back against the large oak tree you were seeking shelter under. "But it's nice to know you're capable of some sort of fluidity. You're always so stiff, like you're afraid to say your next line."

You blink at him, masking the tendency to feel hurt by the warmth of acknowledgment. "I'm surprised you noticed. Here I was thinking I was never going to catch your eye." You throw back at him, taking another hit.

"What caught my eye was your potential."

You stare at each other as you hand him the joint back, his fingers brushing past yours as he takes it. He never breaks eye contact as he inhales, and your eyes wander to his lips, to his neck, to his hands, back to his eyes.

He lets the smoke pour out of his throat, slowly, controlled. "I'll tell you what," He cocks his head in your direction. "I'll tell you what the Spring show is..."

"Yes!" You pump your fist, giggling to yourself.

"—But," he continues, "You have to attend a number of solo lessons, with me, to work on your part."

You furrow your brow, only retaining half of his sentence, "I have a part?"

He chuckles, "Yes, but only if you work with me on it. I have a very specific idea for Ophelia and if you're really ready to buckle down—"

"I'm sorry, I'm playing Ophelia?" Your smile grows even wider. "Oh my god, we're doing Hamlet. Bridget's going to lose her fucking mind!"

"—You can't tell anyone until after I announce. Seriously, it's already above my pay grade to direct the bloody shows, I don't need any actor drama affecting the rest of my casting choices."

"I won't, I won't." You whimper, gleefully. Finally, you whisper, "Thank you." Your professor breaks into a smile. "You're welcome."

You take what is left of the joint that was dangling between his fingers down his side, and proudly inhale the last hit before flicking it to the ground. "And to think, I almost tried to sleep with you tonight."

He hums. His brow raised in surprise, but a smile creeping onto his face. "And to think, I almost let you."

You bit your lip, stifling a giggle as the two of you made your way back to the party.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Two weeks went by in a flash. A few days at the parents' house for Christmas, then back in your campus apartment preparing for the next semester. You'd already bought a script for Hamlet.

You had gotten an email the day before your classes begin.

Tuesdays and Thursdays 6PM, rehearsal room 3. Try to have your lines for Act 1 memorized

Best, Benedict

You took note that he signed his name Benedict as opposed to Professor Cumberbatch and wondered if it was an attempt to form a more casual relationship between you two. You hoped so.

You hadn't been able to stop thinking about him throughout the entirety of your winter break. His hands, his eyes. You were dying to have those eyes on you again, as intently as he looked at you the night of the cast party.

You were silently begging for it during your first class of Acting Technique II. Sitting in the third row from the back, watching him walk around the small stage lecturing about Stanislavski's System. But he never so much as glanced at you, leaving you in a cold heat, clenching your thighs together in your chair.

That was Monday. Today was Tuesday, and you wondered around the drama department's second floor, miniskirt swaying with your hips as you walked. You knew what you were doing, contemplative of the way the skirt hugged your figure, wearing your best bra underneath a black leotard. Rehearsal-wear, you told yourself, adjusting your breasts so that they reveal the perfect amount of cleavage.

Completely inappropriate for January, which is why you covered yourself with a thick ankle-length coat.

When you found rehearsal room 3, the door was slightly ajar.

You pushed it open to find two folding chairs in the center of the room, and Professor Cumberbatch sitting in one of them, reading a script.

"I'm not late, am I?" You say as you push the door open.

He doesn't check his watch, "No, no." He sits up properly, folding his script over his leg. "Come sit." He's wearing his glasses, you notice, something he typically reserves for moments of serious concentration.

You let your school bag fall off of your shoulder and you drop it to the floor, making your way toward the empty chair across from him. You shimmied off your giant coat and wrapped around the back of the chair. You feel his eyes on you immediately, like the warmth of a spotlight.

When you sat, your bare knees were only inches away from him. You take a breath.

Benedict clears his throat. "You don't need to be nervous." He says, amused at your awkwardness. "You certainly weren't nervous when you asked to smoke my pot last month."

"You're right, I should've had a shot of vodka before coming here." You quip back.

"No, no, we'll get you there. So—" He stood up from his chair, only to walk around it and stand behind, arms crossing over his chest. You feel his eyes on you again. "What stands out to you, about Ophelia?"

You think, carefully. "Obedience. Desperation. Shame. Then, inevitably, a disintegration."

"But..." Your professor leads, slowly walking around the chairs.

"She has an ego. She can be, almost, proud. I mean, she's fragile, yes, but not like a glass cup is fragile. More like, a metal cup that's filled to the brim. And then—"

"She spills." You hold your breath as his voice rings through your skull. He sits back down across from you.

"Have you had sex, Y/N?"

Your mouth falls agape, blinking a few times to actually resonate what he's asked you. "Uhm, uh,"

"Look, I should make something clear." Benedict scratches the back of his neck. "You have the part. I know you can do it. You don't have to attend these sessions if you don't want to." He sighs, placing both hands on his thighs. "But... I see something in you, Y/N. An honest performer. And in order to be honest on a stage, in front of an audience of people, you have to first be honest here, in the workshops, building the character. Without these sessions, I'm sure you'll go out there and put on a great, willful performance. But if you want to create something, if you want to create Ophelia, with me..."

He leans in, just a few inches. "You should stay."

Neither of you move for a moment, both of you waiting for the other to say something. You take a controlled breath, considering running out of the room, or grabbing his face and kissing him into oblivion. Instead, you break the silence.

"I've never..." is all you can manage, gaze falling toward the floor.

Your professor does well in hiding his satisfaction, except for his bottom lip tucking into his top lip, just a tiny bit, lubricating the skin gently. He knew it, he knew it from the second he saw you.

"Anything?" He offers quietly, afraid to scare you.

You sigh, feeling defeated. "Just a decade-long love affair with my right hand, I'm afraid."

He chuckled, and the tension in the air deflated a bit. "Do you know why?" You shook your head, "That's an odd question."

"Have you had opportunities that you turned down? Is there something, someone, holding you back?"

"I guess, I never put myself in situations where I would have an opportunity." "I found you stumbling drunk, all by yourself, in the middle of a party."

"A consensual opportunity, Professor. I never said I wasn't reckless."

"Hm," He hums, leaning back in his chair. "Have you ever had a boyfriend?" "Boys never liked in me in school. Never really figured out how to make a boy like me, in fact," You feign innocence.

"Oh, please." He rolled his eyes. "Look at you."

"What?" You looked down at yourself, and though you knew what you were doing wearing such a short skirt, you suddenly become aware of just how much leg you're showing off.

"You're clearly capable in the art of seduction, at least to a level that appeases your average college-aged boy."

"I don't want to appease the average college-aged boy."

"Well clearly, you're trying to appease somebody."

"Are you accusing me of something, Professor?" You ask sweetly.

He's at a loss for words, swallowing spit as he watches you twiddle your thumbs on your lap. Benedict knows you won't make a move, take this any further unless you're led there. He's getting dangerously comfortable with the idea of running his hand up that tiny skirt you wore just for him.

"Let's run some lines." He suddenly stands from his chair, walking over to the other side of the room.

You stay seated for a beat, not wanting to leave the moment you were just in.

"C'mon," he ushers you softly. You sigh, and stand up.

The next hour was filled with back-and-forth on dialect and tone, perfecting Ophelia's fragility in her voice. Just after 7:30, he glances down at his watch.

"That felt short." You say bluntly, watching him pick his script off of the floor and walk over to where he left his stuff.

"Don't worry, we'll be back here in two days, as long as you memorize the rest of the first act." He packs his script into his briefcase.

You shift your weight between your feet, feeling the paper of your own script between your fingers. You take a breath, almost completely holding yourself back, but then— "Could you tell? That I never had sex?"

He freezes for a second, then continues putting on his coat before turning around to face you. "I could."

You chuckle awkwardly, "What gave me away?"

He's thinking of all the things he can't say. "The first time we spoke, just before class started in September, do you remember that?"

You were sure he had forgotten. "I almost tripped on that damn crack in the tiles by your door. You caught me." You blinked, remembering the night at the party, how you stumbled into his arms drunkenly. "You keep catching me.

Benedict nodded as he tucked down his coat collar, arms finally resting at his sides. "It felt like I could do anything to you, right there, and you'd let me." He says, hesitating in his spot just to keep looking at you, dumbfounded and completely captivated.

But then he throws the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder. "See you Thursday." And then walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

read part two here

[hyperions-fate]

Greek tourists should just start smashing fuck out of England's picturesque Tudor estates and blue plaque Georgian slaveowner mansions until the British give in. Make it physically impossible for them to film another wack Jane Austen adaptation.