#Albert Slippers

[thurstongrey]

[embarrassementofriches]

Heinz x Kate Spade New York Loafers

[lovelyballetandmore]

Albert Diep | Kaue Vieira | Photo by Alexander Schmitt

[ms-cornucopia]

Albert Einstein | 1950s

[funky-shoe-battle]

FUNKY SHOE BATTLE Round 1

Glass slipper from Cinderella!

Dr. Albert Krueger's boots!

What did the submitters say?

Glass slipper (submitted as "Cinderella's slippers" from "Cinderella- old people")

They shoes were made of glass! Funniest shit I’ve ever seen

Dr. Albert Krueger's boots

i would've put the title screen to his game since he has his feet up on his desk despite being a professional but the title screen is a tad bit glitchy (intentionally) so i went with his official character reference photo instead his shoes are funky and so is he and so is the music in his game. also he respects the queer community this isn't needed but i just thought you'd like to know!!

[ronk]

Einstein wore fluffy slippers. I wore fluffy slippers. And yet, I still don’t really understand relativity.

[mirriorball]

Albert Einstein wearing fuzzy slippers, photographed in the early 1950s

[messenger-of-babel]

Snake in the Garden

Summary: You know Wesker is bad for you, but you still can't pull away from him. (Albert Wesker x reader)

Word Count: 1.8K

Notes: I stayed up to make this, I got tumblr ON MY PHONE BROWSER since I’m away from my computer and fought someone’s Mac, so here is todays post, even though I’m back from a Halloween party and tireddd. It’s a few more resi ones to round out this last week, it’s crazy that we are nearly done with this month. Warnings: manipulation and reader isn’t explicitly female but I do use a reference of reader being like Eve but it’s not strictly a gender thing more like a role thing?? Anyways enjoy my work and I’ll tidy up the last few if I need when I’m back at my PC. Much love~!

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When you were a kid, you had always been taught by the orphanage directors to make good choices and stay out of trouble. The church next door took care of your lessons, teaching you values such as to be good and kind, and to resist temptation.

So how you ended up with Albert Wesker was completely beyond you.

Yet you couldn’t stay away, a moth to a flame. If your old church director could see you now, surely he would pull you aside and make you do bible study. But you were grown now, an adult who could make adult decisions. And Albert just so happened to be yours.

You were on the ship with him currently, while he plotted his domination of the world. You knew it was wrong, knew that his plan for the future was wrong. You weren’t very religious anymore ever since leaving the orphanage, but you couldn’t help the rhetoric that swirled around in your head.

He pretended to be a god, talked of a new age. He sat on this ship in safety as if it was an arc, while it was primed with enough virus to kill the rest of the world. Clad in his leather, gloves covering his hands and glasses over his eyes. He was the furthest thing from a god, apart from the power. But his power came to him unnaturally, a cold and eerie strength that made your skin crawl when he came close. 

He was the devil, if there was a narrative, but your heart couldn’t convince your mind of that. Every time you saw him your heart fluttered disgustingly in your chest, making your pulse race. When he stopped his work, the endless scanning of documents and monitor screens, he had such a charming smile that chased the words “I think we should break up” right out of your throat. It was the way that he pressed against your back to see what you were doing, the warmth from his chest that settled into your back and relaxed your muscles instinctually. The way that you missed how his breath hit the back of your neck and fanned against your cheek when he pulled away.

You couldn’t pull away, despite how badly you wanted to. You lay awake at night, tossing in the bed that’s big enough for the two of you yet always only occupied by one.  When you wake you’d try to leave, struggle against the invisible ropes that he had wound across your heart before tightening them the next day. 

“What are you up to?” You ask softly one night, wrapping your nightgown over you tighter. Your feet are clad only in thin slippers, making the chill from the ship seep into your feet. He has his back turned to you, monitors flickering with life while he stared leant forward, chin on his interlocked fingers. He hums slightly, chair spinning silently so he can look at you from the side.

“Working.”

Of course he was. He was always working, his newly enhanced body requiring very little rest. If he needed rest he would sleep in his chair, office door locked. However you still caught him in the rare occasion sliding into place next to you, arm curling around your stomach when he didn’t think you’d notice. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, padding to his side. You don’t know why you decided to seek him out on a restless night, normally trying to pry yourself as far away from him to escape your heart that ached so badly for him. 

“Nothing that you need to be concerned about, dear heart.” He murmurs, calculating with his gaze. “Why are you out of bed?”

You shrug. “Just couldn’t sleep.” You murmur. He hums, uncharacteristically warm. When you come to his side he snakes an arm around your waist, an action that makes alarm bells ring in your head but also makes your skin burn with excitement.

You hated the way that he had you around his little finger. You knew it, he knew it, and yet it was still a game that you both played day after day. You felt shame at the way he had trained you, starving you of affection then showering with so much that it made your heart clench. The way that your eyes would now follow him when he walked past you, to see if he would glance your way or pretend you didn’t exist. Just when you were getting run down, just when you thought that he had forgotten about you, he came back with sweet words and a softer touch.

 His fingers dug into your side, dimpling the flesh with the leather of his gloves. "You should go back to bed, Dear heart" he says, voice a low rumble. His breath fans past your ear, making you shiver. "You'll get cold if you stay out here for too long. We don't want you to get sick now, would we?"

Albert always had a habit of doing that. Soon after you had both started dating, a shotgun romance in itself, he had begun getting interested in your health. Taking a look at your medical records and doctors appointments soon morphed into him conducting them himself, stating that he didn't trust other doctors with something as precious as you. That morphed into him dictating what you could do and when you go could out, Wesker worrying that you could get sick, or hurt, or something would affect the delicate balance of your system.

Precious.

That was the word that he would use when he did give you the time of day, hands stroking over your skin with rough palms. Palms that had killed and executed and committed sins that would have God paling on his throne, suddenly ghosting over your skin like you were glass. He made you feel more fragile than you were, and some days you really did feel that way.

Some days you felt like you were getting sick, despite being healthy the day before. It would be the worrying of Wesker that put the seed of doubt into your mind, suddenly displaying a symptom that he had listed earlier that morning. As soon as he caught sight of it he'd send you to bed or keep you in one of the many rooms on the ship dedicated for you, always soft and comfortable and luxurious.

 It was a contrast to the bleak and military interior of the rest of the ship, a contrast of how he treated you. When you had his attention, you were royalty. When you didn't, it was like you were just another staff member.

Yet you still shake your head, half in response to him and half in shame that you let him toy with you like this, that there was a part of your heart that was so deeply in love it wanted to forget everything that he was doing. "I won't get sick," you mumble. "I'll go back to bed soon."

He raises his eyebrows above the frames of his glasses. "Are you now? What are you going to do in the meantime then?" he purrs, his voice a soft timbre that resonates through your bones. You shrug and the hand gripping your waist tightens.

"Can I stay with you?" you ask quietly. You didn't know yourself why you were seeking him out, only that your brain buzzed at the idea of staying with him a bit more, to have his eyes trained on you.

He sighs through his nose and shakes his head. "I'm afraid this work is too brash for you. Come, let's go back to bed." He pats your hip, and you look at him hesitantly.

"Both of us?" you ask softly, making him chuckle.

"Yes, both of us. I could use some time to lie down. I'll stay with you till you fall asleep if that is your concern.”

He slides you off of his lap, standing and pushing his chair back in. With a gloved hand on your back he guides you back to your bedroom. Your heart races and your head feels light at having him this close, like a drug coursing through your veins.

Your bedroom is dark, lit only by the lights from outside and a single lamp by the bed. Your sheets were tangled from the way that you had kicked them off, soft folds rippling down the side of the bed. When you crawl onto the surface, more excited to sleep than you had for ages, he bends and removes his shoes before dragging the sheets back onto the mattress.

You get situated in bed and turn the light off, sickened at yourself for getting this close to the man again. The man that wouldn't let you leave, wouldn't let you go ashore alone, who wouldn't trust you doing things you had done by yourself before meeting him. The man who had destroyed cities, taken lives, manipulated innocent people and was actively doing it still. But this was the same man who had wooed you with sweet words and false promises, who had approached you about your research into genetic structuring and played the part of a perfect crush. Tall, handsome, smart.

If the old sisters from the church could see you now, curled in the arms of a mass murderer with your heart content, you know they would be hanging their heads in shame. For following someone who was convinced that they were above mankind, but told you those words in a tone so honey coated you could have believed them to be truth.

You let those few tears you produce drip into the pillowcase, exhaling and closing your eyes. If this story was written in the Bible, you know that Albert would consider this place the arc, a safe haven in the destruction of the earth.

But you knew better.

You knew that this was the garden, with its soft beds and easy to fall into luxury, yet boxed in by high walls that were forbidden to cross. You were Eve, peaceful in the garden but curious of the world outside you. You wanted Albert to be Adam, the counterpart to Eve, but still you knew better.

Wesker was the snake that slunk down from the trees and whispered into your ear, soft and buttery sweet. Who told you honeyed words from lips that dripped with venom, eyes beady and always waiting for an opportunity to strike. You knew this, you knew better.

But every time you felt yourself recovering from the isolation of him he drew you right back, and you sank your teeth into that apple once again. You let his honeyed words wrap around your brain in a pleasant fog, completely unaware that he had sunk his fangs into your neck.

[xokyart]

This is not exactly a drawing from DBD, but rather from Resident Evil. Standing next to Albert Wesker is his sister - Alex Wesker. (I forgot about the details and the gloves were taken from the RP game. Don’t throw slippers at me, please 🥲)

[yama-bato]

Albert Renger-Patzsch

Slipper Orchid

[jokeringcutio]

A Gift for his Gift - Albert Shaw / The Grabber x Reader Insert [ WARNINGS ]

Minors, Do not read. There are more warnings and tags to this that you'll find below.

Summary:

“I think I’m gonna keep you,” he had said. And he seemed to keep that promise.

Note: This part can be seen as a (dark and explicit) continuation of The Gift, in which the reader explains how she ended up in the Grabber's basement... to him.

Pairing:  Albert Shaw | The Grabber (The Black Phone)/ Fem. Reader

Fandom: The Black Phone (2022)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Kidnapping, Dark Story, Smut.

Additional Tags: Reader Insert, Age Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Height Differences, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, Female Identifying reader, Angst, Dark Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Dark

Series: Part 2 of The Window  

Written for @willshipanything-blog (Not even sure you'll like it when it goes dark and twisted like this but, lol, I promise I'll try and write a sweeter continuation as well for you ;) )

Read [ on AO3 here ]  Or read below on Tumblr: 

He was going to keep you. The stranger whose house you had barged into had made his promise and kept to it. Waking up to the basement room had you back into a panic, but when your heart calmed down again, and the pain between your legs brought you down to earth, you remembered.

Oh, you remembered how you got here and how things got this far.

A quick glance at the dirt in the corner of the room to see if he had brought a plate, only to realize he was standing there, quietly staring at you. A white polo shirt with thin red stripes vertically and bigger ones horizontally at the hems was covering his chest. It had only a few creases but looked clean. He was wearing brown pants and old man slippers. So ordinary, it made you wince.

Ever since the time he caught you, he’d never shown his true face again. Always there was that damned mask. Sometimes fully, sometimes just half of it. The emotions on it changed as well.

You knew who was behind it though. You’d seen him. You knew the color of his hair and the depths of his pale eyes. You could draw the wrinkles on his head, the crinkles at his eyes whenever he smiled. You knew how his mouth looked, how his lips felt against your skin.

You could measure the size of his hands with two or yours. You knew all the hairs, everywhere, that he had on his body, knew of the shape of his hips or the firmness of his thighs. The way his hipbones pressed against you as his pelvis was pressed to your core, you remembered.

You’d learned the hard way about the shape of his stomach, the lack of hair on his chest, the firmness of his hand when he wielded his belt.

That horrid belt.

How he loved to tie you down to the bed with it, ever since that very first day when he had trapped you in his house. You remembered how tight the belt had felt when he had first used it on you; how the edges cut into your skin whenever you tried to move. He had his big black dog watch you so you couldn’t get away while he moved the rugs. Unfair, it sounded in your mind. How heavy those rugs had been to you, but how easily he carried them away, two at a time. It was not fair, you thought. Nothing about this was.

You had hated how you could not do anything but watch as the man who had tied you to the dingy bed made his way up the stairs, rugs disappearing with him. Your arms were still restricted to the bed, the dog still snarling and growling and sometimes snapping at your feet. You had watched the rugs being carried away until they had all gone, and with them, your chance to escape via the window.

Oh yes, you knew each and every bit of him. From his laughter to his growling as he pounded deep into you, as deep as he could go. You knew the sound of his rapidly increased breathing as he neared his peak, and the feel of the stickiness of his cum as it dripped from your core.

You knew it all, and it was unfair that he had left you guessing at his name. Nothing other than sir, mister or monster. But he was just a man. He had you rasp daddy to him during those moments of heated passion, when he would pin you down to the bed and have his way despite you crying he was in too deep. He urged it out of you, punished you if you didn’t say it.

He loved that you were smaller than him. Younger too. He alluded to your size, to your age, to everything about you that he deemed so different from himself. He often placed you on a pedestal, compared you to goddesses and the virgin Mary.

You were none of that, not any longer. He had made sure of it.

Looking up at him as he stood several feet away, back resting against the grey paint-chipped wall, you hoped he did not see the distaste for him in your eyes. He hated it whenever he caught sight of it, hated that after weeks in his underground prison, you still chose not to love him back. Not fully.

You had to force the memories away. They were all that had been built during the time that he had kept you here. He was your world. He was all you knew now.

And there he was, staring at you like he had done for many of the nights since you arrived. A mask covering his face as if you didn’t know what you would find beneath it. But you would recognize him anywhere. Among crowds. Among any star in the universe.

Your captor. Your keeper.

You rolled over, wincing at the ghostly feel of him still inside of you. He knew how to bruise. You did not know whether he’d done it on purpose and took delight in it, though.

Then your eyes slid to the dried blood and cum stains on the mattress. Your very first time, down here, with him. How dirty you felt knowing what he had done. To know what he had done to you.

He moved. A step forward from the dirt-streaked wall. His polo shirt so ordinary. Like any other man, except he was not.

“Still thinking that they might find you?” he asked, his head tilted, curiously. His mask fittingly neutral today.

“My friends,” you started, but your voice came out dry, barely audible to his ears. My friends will come to find me, you wanted to say. Just… anything to show you had not given up the fight. You’d be out of here, one way or another. But your throat felt swollen and you had to cough. No words came forth. You felt little. Small and isolated.

��Your friends?” he urged you, and you hated it. How curious he sounded, how caring, when you knew he was not.

When had he ever listened to you? Ever since you got here, things had always been done to his terms. He invaded your privacy whenever he fancied, came down to look at you long and hard, even during the nights. He often refused to engage in conversation with you, stating that he just wanted to be with you or liked the look of you.

It made you wonder what was going on in that mind of his.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down next to you. A scent of musky mildew, eggs and something that was all uniquely testosterone invaded you.

His strong hand was upon you, turning you by the shoulder till you faced him. Your lips trembled and you did not dare to look him in the eyes, knowing what you would find there. Raw lust. Possessiveness. A primal need.

“Oh, little dove,” the words came out like a whisper. As if he cared about you.

His free hand drifted to the hem of the shirt you were wearing. His shirt. Your own clothes had long since been discarded and taken away from you. Now you were dressed in his leftovers. Another mark of his ownership of you.

His shirts were a few sizes too big for you and looked more like a dress. He found it easier that way. They gave him easy access to your body whenever he wanted to cope a feel. Like now, you thought, when you felt his calloused hand deftly slide underneath the shirt. His rough fingertips gently tipped against your skin, touch ever so lightly, tracing a pattern upwards, until you felt his strong fingers curl around your breast. His hold was instantly firm, thumb twitching past your nipple, massaging your breast and kneading it in his hot hand.

A gasp escaped you, unbidden, but you could not hold it back. You felt his touch shoot sparks down your body, all the way to your core, betraying your mind. Slick started to form between your legs, your pussy throbbing with each and every pinch his fingers made.

You hated how your body betrayed you. It had only taken a few weeks, but now, whenever he touched your breasts or kissed your neck, slick would form down below, lubricating your passage for his awaiting cock like an invite. That bulbous monster riddled in veins, that was too thick and too large for your body to handle. Yet he made you take all of him, and your body adjusted to his size. Every. Damn. Time. 

Fit him like a glove, he'd said. You imagined it being a glove a few sizes off.

You knew he craved you hot and slick and ready. Pussy pulsing and throbbing. You thought that despite your feelings for him, he had trained you well. As if your body adjusted naturally; an instinct to survive that had kicked in. The first time your walls had been dry and it had been awful. Awful, what with the size of him and all. And he had given you no respite, thrusting and grunting and coming deep inside – with only his pre-cum and spit to guide the way.

He usually wasted no time before he penetrated you deep, you knew by now. He'd shown his true colors during the many visits he made. He came downstairs to the basement only to watch or touch or come deep inside. There was nothing else. Just that.

Like now, when he lifted the hem of your shirt to reveal your dripping cunt. How he nudged your legs apart – it only took a soft nudge of his elbow and you spread them. Your own hand instantly snaked between your legs to help him, knowing he liked it this way, your fingers spreading your glistening lips.An invite in. A glistening core. Tight walls pulsing with need.

He positioned the head of his cock between your glistening moist lips, then, without delay, pushed the tip of his throbbing shaft inside. You threw your head back in a gasp, fingers clawing at the stain-streaked mattress below. You felt him, all of him. His ridges, his veins, his pulsing hardness as he thrust deep inside and stroked your vaginal walls. Hot skin deep within you.

He started a firm and modest pace. Deep strokes that made your walls quiver and pulse. Dirty, you thought, while your hands clawed at his shoulders to give you some leverage. This man, who showed you no mercy in his thrusts. Who dived even deeper, hitting your core, making your pussy itch while battering your cervix painfully. This man who grunted dirty little nothings in your ear, gasped and puffed and bit his lip for you to hear. So very close upon you, his sweat covered skin rubbing against yours.

And still, that damned mask would not come off.

Wet, sopping sounds filled the room. The heavy scent of sweat and sex coated you like a thick blanket, suffocating, unable to break away from. The scent filled your lungs as he thrust even deeper, his strokes irregular now as he reached the point of no return. How he loved slicking you up and then filling you up with his seed. How he loved to paint your womb with his semen. He retreated with a loud squelch, his cock popping free from your abused core. How many times had he been within you today? Two? Three? You’d lost count, and you could not quite say. Sometimes, the days seemed like nights here.

You looked at him through your lashes, lying on your back while his hand pushed your tummy down, pinning you to the mattress. Your knees fallen to each side, showing your treasure to him. You could see the fascination in his eyes despite the stupid mask he wore.

His grey-blue eyes were upon you, watching, intently, as the white dribble slowly started to trickle out between your legs, only to push it all back inside of your pussy with one thick thumb, his index finger then joining in as he stuffed you full – and yes, there it was. His finger was all in, all the way up to the knuckle while you heard him whisper for you to be his good girl and take it all in.

A gift for his gift. Why not let him give you something in return, when you came to him so willingly?

You bit your lip and turned your head to the side. You did not want to see this, did not want to see the fascination in those eyes and imagine how he was biting his lip behind that mask in pure fascination. You did not want to feel him push all of the juices back inside, but did you have a choice? How could you not feel his fingers teasing your itching core? Ignore how your sore vaginal walls fluttered around his fingers as he pushed back his sperm and your cum?

Did you have a choice not to? Was there a place to spit it out when he had abused your mouth? To hide his cum after he was done? You tried it, so many times, to just sit on that dirty cracked toilet and push it all out. You’d used your fingers, clawed at your own cunt, tensed all of your muscles, just to get the last traces of him out of you. But like him, his semen was thick, it stuck. It would only escape you hours after he had been done. And if he had abused your mouth, the taste of his cum would remain on your lips and down your throat till the next time he came down to have you taste him. You'd gladly have his eggs and soda, if he hadn't started to cover them in his sperm to ensure you'd never get rid of the taste of him. It'd be nutritious for you, he had said.

He was ingrained in your being, in so many ways.

His fingers diving deep inside of your cunt broke you out of your thoughts and your eyes flew open wide. Another gasp. Your body clenched. “So wet,” you heard him chuckle in your ear, his voice breathy and dangerously low, his breath ghosting past your ear. “So willing.”

You pressed your lips into a tight line and waited for him to remove his hand, but he did not. His fingers remained there, nestled deep within you.

“Thank you,” it were those huskily whispered words that made you close your eyes tightly and turn your head away. He thanked you for wanting to do this with him? But you had not-

He caught your chin with his fingers, aware of how you tried to block him out. But he’d have none of that. He turned your head back to his, forcefully with his fingers on your chin. As if to make a point, he moved his head closer to yours, forcing your lips tightly against his mask.

You knew he was regretting his choice of mask now, that he would have wanted this to be his real lips on your skin. But he had chosen for this, to be masked, and he would stick to it. He always would.

Soft humming in your ear. He was delighted by what he had done. Another wet squelching sound and his fingers were gone. You felt like you could breathe again.

The sound of a zipper and the rustling of clothes. You could hear him fasten his belt.

It took a moment, but you managed to catch your breath and bring it back under control. Your chest moving less rapidly, you turned to face him. You felt the mattress dip again and watched as he lay down next to you, head propped upon his hand as he lay sideways, elbow supporting his weight. He hummed an unknown tune near your ear. The mask muffled the sound somewhat.

“They said this place was abandoned,” you slowly said, while you watched how he seemed to tense up. He was resting on his elbow, mask towards you. His wispy grey hair fell around it like it was part of the attire. You wondered if he was unshaven underneath. If there was a grayish stubble like there had been a few days ago.

“My friends,” you said, swallowing while you gathered your courage. You’d never told him this. You’d never explained how you got to be in his home.

“They said this place was abandoned and dared each other to check it out. I was on my way home when I came across so I…” the words died on your lips when you saw tense again, spine straight. There was a glint in his eyes, one you could not place, and it frightened you. You tugged the shirt you were wearing down, as if it could cover the whole of you and create a barrier between you and your predator.

The man stopped humming and you thought he looked to be lost in thought. Had you said too much?

You saw him sit up fully now. He held his mask, as if the object was about to wobble off.

“Abandoned?” you heard him say, voice muffled from the mouthless mask he wore today. His fingers twitched, and a low laugh escaped his throat. He wanted to change masks, you thought as you studied him. This face did not fit his emotions anymore.

“Oh no,” another dry heaved chuckle, “No, dearie.” It was odd to see this creature, this abomination of a man, propped up on the bed next to you, probably smirking behind his mask. His pale eyes were upon you. “This place is lived in.”

You merely looked at him as if to say, yeah, I figured that now, but then the man started laughing again. His right arm fell to his side, then slid around his own belly. Your eyes traveled there, noticing how the white shirt he was wearing had ridden up, revealing parts of his naked stomach. How often you had felt that part of him pressed against your own. Naked. Sweating.

“Good God, I am lucky.”

You watched as his laughter died down and you imagined how, behind the mask, his tongue came to peek from between his lips, tipping one of his canines as if in thought. You could see his eyes, drifting away from your form and sliding across the room.

The words that came out of him next sounded unbidden; like they were a thought fleeting away from him. “The house, the unlived in house? They must have meant the one across the street.”

You stiffened. Wait. Did that mean…?

But as he said it, his voice faltered. Another realization, you thought. But what?

His whole attitude seemed to change all of a sudden and within a flash, he had scooted to the edge of the bed. With a clap of his hands on his thighs, the man rose. You watched his hand fall to his side, his rings glinting in the faint light that came from the window high above you.

His voice was low, dangerous almost. “You hang in here, dearie. I’ve just been remembered there’s something that needs to be done.”

And with that said he left, leaving behind the realization that your friends, if they had been looking for you would have been visiting the house opposite of the one you were trapped in. And wasn’t that a horrible thought?

[fancyfeathers]

albert seems like the type to fall for a cinderella esque darling. like, seeing their state just triggers his sense of justice and feeds his savior complex. he has to save you, he has to torment your abusive family. he has to keep you in a luscious room with everything you want(wait, where are you going darling? what do you mean you don't love him? he treated you so kindly! nicer than anyone has in your life!) like i can see him chasing you down during a ball , using the m16, and if you happened to drop your slipper nearby...

Yes yes oh my goodness yes

His darling being the only daughter of a nobleman and his wife, her childhood being happy until it was ripped under her when her mother dies and her father remarries only to pass on himself soon after, leaving her in the care of her step mother and step sisters. Her step mother tries to marry her off as soon as possible so that she is out of sight and out of mind, not even caring if her suitors are kind or not, her step mother really only caring about how deep their pockets are. She is dressed up at parties and balls, but back home all of that goes away and is replaced by chores because in her step mother’s words, a lazy girl is a girl no man wants. Then her meals are practically scraps because her step mother watches her weight to look more beautiful, but this is just another cruelty.

Then she meets Albert one evening at ball, she standing close to the wall while watching her step sisters and step mother try to find them more acceptable suitors rather than the ones she picks out for his darling. Albert sees her against the wall, watching everything, when he approaches her. He is so gentlemanly to her as he take her hand to kiss, introducing himself, and while she is sweet she seems quite skittish and just something about her draws him in. Albert asks her to dance and she very hesitantly accepts, not quite sure since he is not one of the suitors her step mother approved of and one of her step sisters may be more preferable rather than her, but before she can worry about it being too late she is already in the center of the floor with his hands on her waist. It feels nice to be treated so gently for a change, the way he smiles and looks at her just beams with kindness.

She ends up spending most of the evening with him, sipping a glass of wine or champagne while Albert tells her about his two younger brothers, William and Louis, and her telling him of her late mother and father which then leads to the question of who are her caretakers now and she is hesitant to answer, her hand fidgeting with her glove and then when Albert pushes into the question more she quickly excuses herself and Albert reaches to grab her hand, slipping away her glove only to see bruising that was practically black and blue.

“Who did this to you?”

“I-“

She backs away before running off, dodging her way through the crowds of people as Albert ties to catch up, but when he looses track of her outside he honestly thinks he lost track of her until he sees her slipper on the stairs of the manor, leaving it behind in the rush she was in in her panic.

Albert takes advantage of his position in the MI6 to track her down and only when he sees the conditions she lives in does he feel such a horrible anger burning inside of him. He is welcomed into his darling’s home by her step mother, half expecting for him to call upon ever one but her. The way she laughs nervously and tells him that the lazy girl is up in her room. Albert wastes not a second before snatching the key from her and running straight upstairs but she was in none of the bedrooms so the last place to check is the attic, he finds the door locked and he is practically fuming when he unlocks it. The room was cold with a draft would be horrible in the winter, the floorboards were old and the gaps between them were practically dangerous and they get threatened to beak under any more weight, and there she sits, beautiful but practically in rags. She honestly starts crying when she sees him, because no one has cared about her this much in a long time, he holds her tightly to him as he takes her out of there, practically fuming at the sight of her step mother as she just cries and sobs.

She begins living with the Moriarty family during her engagement to Albert and its nice at first but soon Albert’s coddling becomes too much, he makes sure she eats properly due to how malnourished she was, not letting her lift a finger to pick up after herself or even get dressed since she had been worked to death over the years. She tries to tell herself that he will lighten up on the babying treatment eventually but never does and even after their wedding he treats her like a porcelain doll, terrified that she will break. It becomes suffocating as Albert will practically never let her out of his sight when he is home, but she has no where else to go, especially when her step family were reported to be found dead the morning after their wedding.

[alexaloraetheris]

Sysiphus is not happy, and that's the whole point

I never in my life understand Sysiphus as well as when I'm vacuuming.

Because rolling the boulder up the hill is a punishment. He's free to go to the Asphodel Meadows if he just stops. It's the promise of Elysium fields that keeps him pushing that boulder up, endlessly and forever.

Vacuuming is the same. The dust is endless, and so is the animal hair. I keep pushing that heavy machine, into every goddamn nook and cranny I can reach (but I can't physically reach them all) and it all feels pointless, but it must be done.

Could I alleviate my suffering? Could I have fewer animals? No. The dog is mom's. The two older cats have gone through enough trauma in their lives, I can't uproot them again. I can't give Kalašnjikovka away, because she may be cute and cuddly, but how do I trust her new owners won't throw her out of the house after she breaks their cups, their porcelain figures, their Swarovski bunny set? Her last owners did just that.

Could I share the burden? Have someone else push the boulder up the hill? No, my mother has chronic pain and a bad hip. On a good day she can do the dishes. There is no one to share the burden with.

Could I stop? No, because the dust accumulates. And the Asphodel Meadows (a dusty house) have no appeal to me.

So I push the damn boulder (vacuum cleaner) again and again, hoping against hope to see the Elysium Fields (a clean house). But the boulder is enchanted (the house is old, and the animals always shed). I shall never suceed. Because for a moment I reach the top of the hill, and the boulder stays still, I, in my endless hubris, am satisfied, and sit on my rock in Tartarus, in peace.

But then mother comes home, sees the dust bunny hiding in her slipper, and says: "I thought you said you were going to vacuum today! Have you even done anything?"

And just like that, the boulder rolls down the other side of the hill. And I have to get up from the rock again. And again. And again.

One must imagine nothing. Sisyphus is suffering. But if we must, I suppose we can imagine that Albert Camus has never had to push a vacuum cleaner.

[lovelyballetandmore]

Albert Diep | Photo by Alexander Schmitt

[fucking-move-sancho]

idk if anyone's asked this before but what do y'all imagine albert wesker wearing to sleep??? a fuckin wifebeater? silky PJs?? a bathrobe and slippers like the default sims 4 sleepwear?? and don't pull the 'he doesn't need to sleep card' lmao i need it for fic purposes

[fashionsfromhistory]

Chasing Evil

Bubu Ogisi for IAMISIGO (Kenya)

Autumn/Winter 2020

Bubu Ogisi founded womenswear brand IAMISIGO in 2009. Based between Lagos, Nairobi and Accra, Ogisi works with small artisan communities across the continent to create collections which spotlight a variety of indigenous textile traditions. Ogisi’s work explores the role of clothing as a vehicle for communication, noting, ‘Our work primarily focuses on how fashion and textiles can not only keep history alive but also pass on information for the future through preservation of techniques and expression through matter.’ Present throughout her work are ideas of rawness and anti-finishing, which Ogisi uses as a visible representation of anti-Eurocentrism.

This ensemble comes from IAMISIGO’s Autumn/Winter 2020 collection, ‘Chasing Evil’. The collection was centered around the Belgian exploitation of the Democratic Republic of the Congo at the turn of the 20th century, but also the colonial exploitation of Africa as a whole. Through the collection Oigisi wanted to explore how to overcome issues of post war trauma, post-colonial exploitation and neo-colonialism through fashion. Ogisi worked closely with war victims in Bukawa and Kinshasa to research the collection. Palm leaf raffia, sourced from the Congo and Nigeria, was a prominent feature in the collection, with Ogisi using it to visually reference forms of Congolese dress. The jacket from this ensemble is made from cotton with cut raffia woven into the warp. It is paired with a cotton dress and pink faux leopard slippers.

Victoria & Albert (Accession number: T.2338:1to4-2021)