#Anomaly's Gallery

[small-world-au]

Monica: "Uh...Hi, I..Drew something for you."

Monica: "...Bye-"

*Monica skedadles like a cartoon character*

Sora:

“Uh! T-THANK YOU, MONICA!!!”

[anomalyztheseries]

ANOMALY Z S1E1: “Anomaly Z” (Pilot Episode) Rated TV-MA, 90 min. Click here to read an excerpt from this episode: "Baby's First Timeheist."

Dr. Fedora Zane travels to the future to recover advanced weather control technology to bring back and stop climate change disasters in the present. When her employer refuses to promote her despite saving the company as well as saving the world, she turns to a life of time-traveling crime across multiple alternate futures.

Images generated by Midjourney AI. Video created with RunwayML Gen-2 image-to-video. Story and concepts by M.J. Romanowski. Copyright © 2023 M.J. Romanowski. All rights reserved.

[pendulumgallery]

Welcome, visitor!

Greetings, dear visitor! If you are reading this, you are exactly at the right place. Let me welcome you to The Pendulum Gallery Of Anomalous Art webpage! My name is Albína Olivia Skálová and I am the curator of this fantastic institute.

Since we were founded in 1916 by Dagmar Cvrčková, we collect and display various anomalous artworks found throughout the history of humanity up to the present day, not only to ensure they are held at the same place but to also educate the general public on just how important art is to us as a species. And trust me, it is very important.

The Gallery itself is located in Cimrmana 23 - Prague - Czech Republic. However, we are currently working on branching out into other places as well, how exciting! 

Each year we host several events, like The Feast, Songs of a Carcass, Deus Ex Mašina, and our beloved and all-time favorite, Children’s Night at the Gallery! However, other things are sure to come as well, how lovely!

We are aware that not everyone may be able to visit us though, which is why we have decided to start this site. Other than updating you, wonderful art connoisseurs, on our happenings, you may expect posts showing off our various artifacts, as well as other members of the staff making their own informative posts once we manage to stop the computer in the lounge from constantly crying in pain.

Have a beautifully strange day, Curator of The Pendulum Gallery of Anomalous Art, Albína Olivia Skálová.

[opscurus]

[[ stardew valley character creator!! || fem version ;; masc version ]]

ichigo

zangetsu

[abysmal-black]

tag dump, we're getting organized

[qilingxiong]

feihua and clothes stealing sharing

(bear with my screenshots here please, i just scrolled back and used images from my gallery instead of grabbing new ones)

di feisheng, during his time masquerading as a-fei from episodes 8-13, for the most part has outfits that are fairly consistent with one another. they all share the same close cut and they're quite functional, good for if one needs to move quickly or efficiently. if you look at the number of layers, too, you'll see that these three outfits here have a white underrobe, a grey middle layer, and then a cinched outer robe. (these under + middle robes are found in other places across di feisheng's wardrobe, iirc? but i'm just focusing on this arc).

the point where this pattern is broken is when di feisheng is wearing the robes he initially had on when pretending to be shi hun in episode 12, during the cailian manor arc. he then kept these through episode 13 until he fought fang duobing, then disappeared back to jinyuanmeng.

the look of this outfit is cut differently than the previous ones— instead of the previous pattern for the inner layers, we have one white underrobe, then one functionally outer robe with little embellishment except for those pleats, and then the layer with draping sleeves. assuming that all the previous outfits were ones di feisheng chose himself, this one is an anomaly, given his taste. where did he get these robes from?

well. you know which person around frequently wears outfits like this, with a consistent white underrobe, and a plain outer layer with the same distinct pleats at the lapel?

i think di feisheng might've borrowed li lianhua's clothes for their fake shi hun interrogation act, and then didn't end up giving them back.

[affectionate-team]

Sugar overdose

Trey Clover × reader

Synopsis: There's this one student in NRC... he always seems to look out for you, expressing his care and making your forced stay in Twisted Wonderland more bearable. Though there are some things about him that you stay oblivious to...

TW for: mild yandere, drugging/food poisoning (?) (basically unconscious potion consumption), stalking (if you can call it that), overall creepy-ish behavior. If you're uncomfortable with any of aforementioned topics, do not proceed, please. :з

(the whole thing might seem rushed or unfinished, forgive me if so, I'm still gaining experience in writing. ^^")

He's always been there.

Since when you first got dropped into this world, Clover has always been somewhere in sight. It was hard to stop your gaze at just one thing when there were so many wonders you'd never seen before, so you never paid him much mind, not until the Heartslabyul incident, at least. Before you could only catch a glimpse of him in the cafeteria or exchange short greetings in the halls, but the first overblot gave him a push to change the matters. First he started calling out to you when seeing you in crowd, then he worked up some courage to ask for greeting hugs (or at least handshakes when you weren't in the mood), and at some point decided to strike up a conversation: one, two, five, to the point where you'll find him approaching you almost every day, helping out with chores, carrying groceries, sharing notes and helping with homework, staying over for night, and-

When did he manage to get so close?

Windows in NRC's alchemy lab expose one's eyes to unique views; usually it's already way past noon when classes end, enough so the sun starts setting by that time, painting the vast free skies in deep shades of pink and yellow. Wisps of colorful cotton clouds frame the canvas, giving finishing touches to the majestic evening painting. And the centre piece of the gallery of nature - the biggest wonder, an anomaly of this world, not unlike a shy flower on a fragile stem blooming among concrete plates or snowdrifts, - the prefect. Rays of dying light wrap around their figure perfectly. They come here every day, doing small chores for professors with the company of the infamous duo of freshmen-troublemakers. Still, even the boys' robust nature and somewhat graceless behavior cannot spoil the picturesque scene.

He lays his books out on a table closest to windows, having already claimed the space for himself ever since he joined the Science club. At first it was all about convenience: pretty views on the school gardens give him inspiration for new recipes, wide tables allow to keep his space as neat as possible and prevent any hazards (no more spilled flasks or lost papers - much easier to work now), fresh air when the room gets suffocating or his cooking experiments go wrong.

Now it opens another, a little less innocent in nature, opportunity for the young man - to keep a close eye on the cute magicless student. Actually, when you think about it, the fact is not perverse. Is it really wrong of him, a true older brother at heart, to protect those who are weaker than him in many senses of the word? If anything, he's only doing them a favor - prefect always expressed their appreciation of his help whenever they had gotten in a difficult situation with teachers or delinquents, so surely they would've found the notion to be sweet.

Sweet is the first word that comes to mind when you talk to Trey. It's not even only about his personality (the way the man treats his dormmates alone is enough of a proof; putting others' health and wants before his own, prioritizing their happiness, going out of his way to keep things peaceful). Smell of sugar and vanilla follows him everywhere: in classes, in hallways, in his room. You can smell sugar and caramel on his uniform every time Trey comes up to you for a 'good morning' hug. It's hard to resist the temptation to press closer, if only to have more - to get drunk on the overwhelming aroma and warmth.

He'd be lying if he said the prefect's preference for good perfume went over his head. Trey heard them compliment Schoenheit and Hunt for their cologne and seen how they pull away in mock disgust when Ace gets touchy after a particularly long basketball practice. Perceptive to smell. That's where his main hobby comes in handy: when one spends a great part of their day in the kitchen, they're bound to carry out some of its homey atmosphere with hints of cinnamon.

"Good morning! Don't forget to pack your gym uniform, your class has Flying lesson today."

Isn't that nice of him to leave you little notes and reminders? His attentiveness never fails to make you swoon.

"Have you eaten yet? Remember to heat up some lunch for yourself."

"I hope you're not staying up late again? Go to bed before I come over and make sure you do personally. >:("

"Your outfit today was really cute... I mean, you sure are good at styling clothes! Just wanted to make a compliment, don't take it wrong. :)"

Though sometimes his comments sound too... personal. Have you ever actually told him of your schedule? How does he know about your preference? Even Ace and Deuce, who you spend most of your time with, don't know and don't seem to remember that much. 

Prefect favors others way more than they should. Does the spoiled lion prince deserve being pampered by them? Do the troublesome freshmen not annoy them? How can they parade around, gathering crowds around themselves, stealing hearts of each and every student they encounter, and still treat him with such disregard? "Trey's such a mom friend" this and "I wish I had an older brother like him!" that.

I don't feel the same for you.

Why wouldn't you see how I slowly burn for you?

Even now, the dessert he left at your kitchen counter in Ramshackle is lacking flaws. Even layers of frosting, small edible decorations made out of chocolate - it's an intricate work, a miniature piece of art beloved by its creator, with so much time spent over it. And all for you?

Under the plate hosting the sweet treat is a piece of paper. You carefully slip the note from under the plate and read it, eyes crinkling at the corners at the thought of somebody putting so much effort to make you happy.

"I noticed you've been gloomy all day; please, enjoy this little treat. It's a new recipe of mine, so I hope you'll enjoy this."

There was no need to sign the note - identity of the sender was as clear as day. With a fond light and eyes and a prep in step, you move to set a kettle on the stove to prepare some tea - a chamomile blend gifted to you by Jade (he did sound proud of his blends). Not able to resist temptation, you find a fork and lift a portion of the dessert to your lips, taking in its enchanting smell. Cream melts on your tongue, texture contrasting the bright filling and bringing out a new kind of flavor. Tea long abandoned, you take another bite to savor it, sighing in content.

He truly was a master of his art, especially if his work managed to bring your guard down with little to no effort. It was all too late when you noticed how the cold filling tickled your throat, or how your fingers grew colder with each second passed. Staying steady on two feet has never been so hard before, as white noise overwhelmed your senses, disorienting, separating from reality. Seconds flash by in static pictures, and by the time he approached you from behind, there was nothing to do to hold onto consciousness.

There they are now, safe in his arms, not turning or running away anymore. Cradled close to a warm chest, burning with deepest of earthy desires, full of selfish wanting and a new blossom of hope, their heart would soon answer his calling. For a magicless human is no match to the power of true love.

He will always hold you near.

[enigmaticexplorer]

Let Me Love You - Part III

Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

General Summary. An opportunity to expand your grandmother’s business brings you to Coruscant and a chance-encounter with Commander Fox. Friendship is your intent. But feelings grow, and with them, renewed fears. 

Pairing. Commander Fox x female!OC

General Warnings. Self-esteem issues; intimacy issues; trust issues; explicit sexual content. 

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Word Count. 4.6K

7 Kelona, Centaxday

“Are you eating enough?”

You forced yourself to exhale slowly. Even then, your “Yes, mom” came out stiff with irritation. 

Conversation about food—conversations about your eating habits—weren’t uncommon. And yet, even after so many years, you struggled with the topic: frustrated, humiliated, uncomfortable. Avoidance was your strategy; but memories were difficult to silence. 

There was one, particular memory you couldn’t forget. 

One night, when you were visiting home during university, you overheard your mother speaking on her comm with a friend.

“I keep reminding her to eat,” your mother said. “But she brushes me off. Soon she’ll be in her thirties, all alone, because men won’t want something like her.”

A pause and then sharp laughter. 

“Exactly. No man worth his money wants a woman stuck in a teenager’s body.”

Even now, years later, when you took a shower and glanced at yourself in the mirror, the comment replayed. A mocking whisper sifting through your mind; indelible.

It didn’t matter that you valued your body. 

It didn’t matter that you took care of it. 

It didn’t matter that you were proud of its capabilities—it ran long distances, it hiked full days (when you were home), it managed the intricate brush strokes required to clean an artifact, it carried you through long hours on your feet at the gallery. 

It kept you alive. But that wasn’t enough.

You appreciated your body, and you styled it confidently: thin-strapped dresses to emphasize your arms; pencil skirts to accentuate your legs; tight pieces to highlight your waist. 

But the doubts lurked just beneath; if anyone looked close enough, they would see the unspooling string of your confidence. They would learn the depth of your self-deprecation—

The swish of the front door sliding open interrupted your thoughts. 

A smile curved, gradual in its ascent, and you lifted a hand in greeting to Fox.

In the four months of knowing him, Fox’s hair had grown shaggier. More effortless tousled than militarily styled. The stubble faintly shadowing his jaw remained the same, though, along with the white scar on his chin. 

Some days he looked beat: dragging footsteps, slow to smile, circles beneath his eyes. Other days, like today, he was the portrait of easy self-assuredness: chin lifted, eyes dancing, corner of his mouth quirked.

Something warm within your chest reached for him. A tiny hand pressing against the confines of your ribcage. 

Initially, when you first noticed its existence weeks ago, you’d dismissed its polite rap for attention. 

You thought it was a fluke. Your mind merely acknowledging the masculine appeal of a man like Fox. 

But as the days passed—as you looked forward to Fox’s visits—the pesky, stubborn hand refused to be silent. Polite raps hardened into demanding fists that pounded against your ribcage. It hurt. 

The root of attraction had taken hold, burrowing itself deep within you. So much so that when you finally acknowledged it, you were too weak to yank it out. 

The cutting shears of your fear-based logic failed to snip it—the root continued to grow. Defiant and persistent. Even a shovel of insecurities couldn’t dig it out. 

Your attraction was an anomaly. Shocking in its existence.

For you, attraction was rare, elusive. 

Of course, there were aesthetically pleasing appearances you could appreciate, but real attraction—the type that made your smile ache a bit wider, and your body keenly aware of the proximity of a man—required emotion. Both a demonstration of the man’s intellect, respectability, trustworthiness, and aplomb, as well as an emotional connection bonding you together.

You blamed Fox for your ordeal.

Over the last four months, sequestered among the privacy of ancient artifacts, Fox had revealed tidbits of himself—tiles of a mosaic slotting together.

There was the moment when, analyzing a metal trident, Fox quietly confessed he didn’t like oceans (they were too volatile and destructive), and he didn’t like to swim (he was afraid of drowning).

On a different afternoon, after a client loudly announced his new collection of battle droid heads, Fox admitted he’d loathed his position in the War. An even quieter admittance: He felt stuck on Coruscant, watching men sacrifice their lives on the battlefield, never knowing if his closest brothers would return. “I was kept from the worst of it,” he said bitterly. “Tucked away. Safe and sound.”

Another time, when you noticed him eyeing a box of chocolates a donor had gifted you, you invited him to eat some. He ate half the box. 

And on a quiet afternoon, Fox introduced you to Cody, a retired commander, exceptional painter, and one of his closest brothers. Cody was visiting from Naboo where he lived with his wife and their three-month-old daughter. You showed him the old painting of the starry night. Fox joked that in a hundred years one of Cody’s paintings would be in a similar gallery. Cody’s thoughtful “I’d like that” suggested the differences between the two brothers. The meaningful look passed between you and Fox confirmed it. 

And then there was the time Fox sat in the backroom for an hour, silently watching you piece together a broken vase. Dark shadows swarmed, thwarted by the single light you were using. Hidden among the shadows, he told you the story about a soldier he’d killed. The orders he’d received. The split-second moment he had to choose between the life of that soldier and those of his own men. The guilt that still lingered two years later.

So many small tiles uncovered that created the man striding toward you. 

And as you had for weeks now, you ignored that irksome hand resting against your ribcage. 

“For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth.” Your mother’s voice came through staticky on the comm. “When are you visiting again? It’s been so long since, well, you know…”

Your smile reserved for Fox flattened into displeasure.

Your mother never outright mentioned your refusal to visit home for the Harvest Festival back in Yelona. Instead, she relied on snide comments. Attempts to back you into a corner until you reacted. 

Over the years, you’d learned how to ignore her immaturity and control your emotions. There was some satisfaction in knowing that your impassivity annoyed her.

“I don’t know,” you answered. “Why?”

“There’s a young man I recently met—”

“I’m not interested.”

“You don’t even know him—”

“I’m glad you understand my reservations.”

Your mother harrumphed. “He is nice and very kind, and I want you to meet him—”

“I’m still not interested.” Fox regarded you with an arched brow, and you shook your head, grinding your teeth, as you turned away from him. “A client just walked in. I need to go.”

“He’s perfect for you. He enjoys the outdoors, and he has a social life, so he’ll get you outside of the house—”

“How is he perfect for me when you only mentioned one commonality? Actually, it doesn’t matter.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m not interested in a man who’ll ‘get me outside of the house.’ If you actually cared about what I want in a partner, then you would know that I’m not looking for someone who’s the complete opposite of me.”

“You’re being dramatic—”

“Goodbye, Mom.”

The line went dead. 

Your abrupt dismissal would cause issues between you and your mother. Communication technology linking Lefaepa to other planets was unadvanced. Comm calls offplanet, especially to the Inner Rim, required a trip into the city and a visit to the comm tower. Both timely and expensive.  

You didn’t care, though. 

Shoving your comm into a hidden drawer of the counter, you massaged your temples. A measured breath did little to calm the frustration spiking beneath your skin. 

“Trouble?”

You turned toward Fox. “Just my mom.”

His silent scrutiny provided you a moment to take in his unusual appearance. 

A black-buttoned work shirt and loose trousers replaced his usual red-plated armor and helmet. The sleeves, rolled to his elbows, revealed more of the tattoos inking both of his arms. 

You’d never seen him without his armor. You’d never seen his forearms or even the beginnings of his collarbone. 

He was practically naked.

Nonplussed, you tracked your eyes from his belt to the single curl teasing the edge of his forehead. 

“I’d ask if you’d forgotten something”—you gestured to the backroom—“but I know you didn’t.”

Fox tucked his hands into the front pockets of his trousers. “I’m here to see you.”

“Ah.” You frowned. “Has something happened—”

“I was invited to tomorrow’s donor event at the Museum.” Both matter-of-fact and brusque in his speech, Fox’s demeanor radiated calm composure. “I’m allowed to bring a guest. I want you to come with me.”

Your eyes widened. “That’s… Really?”

He didn’t deign your question with a response.

“The event is supposed to be huge,” you said, eyeing him carefully. “There’s a new exhibition they’re opening—it’s about the Starlight Beacon—and I’ve heard there are even salvaged pieces of the wrecked site.” You paused. “Some of my clients will be there.”

Fox interrupted his patient silence: “Will that be a problem?”

“No.” You tapped the countertop. “You don’t have anyone else to take?”

He levelled you with a bland look. “My closest brothers are offplanet. And as much as I enjoy my men’s company, I can go without them for a night.”

You smiled. “I’ll be there.”

8 Kelona, Taungsday

A rectangular building larger than the Senate, with a silver dome that shimmered beneath the nighttime air traffic, the Museum boasted some of the oldest recordings of galactic history. Its exhibits displayed the rarest pieces available—an amalgamation from both purchased pieces and loans from private collections. 

In your two years on Coruscant, you haven’t visited the Museum. The busyness of work left you with little time to explore the city. More so, though, you’d planned to visit the Museum with your grandmother. Each time you considered buying tickets, grief and guilt withheld you. 

Tonight, awe kept the grief at bay and the guilt restrained.

Inside the atrium—a golden-floored open room that beckoned visitors forward—you surveyed a holographic map. There were ten floors. A total of 368,000 square meters. A lot of history to cover in three hours (the time limit tonight).

“Where do you want to start?”

Beside you, carelessly sipping a glass of whiskey, stood Fox. The gray uniform he wore cut a suave, imposing figure. Like his armor, it emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his height. 

“Sorry?” You frowned at him. “Are you…are you joining me?”

Fox eyed you over the glass of his whiskey. “You didn’t expect me to abandon you, did you?”

Your hesitation resulted in a flat scowl. 

“You’re not stuck with me, Fox.” Your easy smile furthered his scowl. Awkwardly, you clasped your hands behind your back. “I take a long time, and I don’t like to be rushed. I don’t want to ruin your experience.”

His mouth curved upwards. “We are talking about the Museum, yeah?”

It was your turn to scowl. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Honestly, I don’t want you to ruin my experience.” You shrugged at his affronted look. “I read every display, and I look at each artifact, and I take my time in each exhibit. If you come with me, I won’t be able to enjoy myself. I’ll keep wondering if you’re bored—”

“The three hours started ten minutes ago.” Fox set his glass on the tray of a passing waiter droid. “You wanna keep at this?”

With an exasperated roll of your eyes, you started toward the atrium’s inner doors. “I’m starting on the tenth floor and working my way down.”

Thin, gold designs decorated the thick wooden doors separating the atrium from the first exhibit. It prevented visitors from seeing into the Museum’s first exhibit, creating a sense of excitement and anticipation. Fox reached the door first and motioned you inside. 

A second pair of equally tall and gold-laced doors greeted you both. This time, you reached for the handle and tugged it open, gesturing for Fox to step through.

However, Fox placed a hand above your head, pulling the door open wider. “I’ve got it.”

Fingers still wrapped around the metal handle, you scoffed. “Actually, I got it first.”

Seconds elapsed as you both refused to move forward. Fox narrowed his eyes, gesturing more urgently. You frowned back.

Fox glanced at his silver wristchrono. “Less than three hours—”

The irritated purse of your lips preceded your step into the first exhibit. 

Dedicated to the years of the High Republic, the exhibit room was crowded. Various species dressed in their finest clothing wandered the space. Ignoring the smug man beside you, you made your way to the lifts. A thirty-second ride spat you out onto an empty floor.

Fox approached the welcome display. “Mummies?”

“A burial custom among certain planet systems in Wild Space.” Your eyes skimmed the welcome display. Recognizing most of the information, you surveyed the displays strategically placed throughout the dark, cold room. “It’s odd knowing that all of these mummies used to be real people at one time.”

Fox tugged on the collar of his uniform. “You, uh, wanna be mummified?”

“No.” You strolled toward an elaborately painted coffin where a mummy more than eighteen-thousand years old lay wrapped in browning strips of cloth. “I know that once you’re dead it doesn’t matter what happens to your body. But the thought of being preserved for other people to look at doesn’t sit right with me. What about you?”

“I’ve lived through enough experimentation. I don’t want my corpse going through the same thing.” Fox perused a holodisplay describing the mummification process. “Bury me, cremate me, I don’t care. Just let me rest in peace.”

His gruff tone nearly masked the note of resentment. Nearly.

Without much thought, you rested a hand on his biceps; a muscle twitched beneath your palm. You squeezed him. Tentatively, gently; a wordless acknowledgement. And then you released him, stepping away. 

As you moved toward the next display, his fingers brushed yours.

For the next two hours, you and Fox explored the top three floors, each as equally abandoned as the first. Fox wasn’t particularly interested in any of the exhibits. He lingered by your side, reading the displays and listening to your comments. Fearing his boredom, you told him to leave. He threw you an unimpressed look and then continued into the next room of displays.

After completing the eighth floor, you and Fox agreed to a break (much-needed in your case). The cream heels you wore, while only five centimeters, were bothering your feet. And your back was sore. A result of the long day in the gallery bent over a set of coins you were cleaning. 

Fox retreated to the first floor to grab drinks, and when he returned, you sat on a plush bench, overlooking Coruscant’s nightlife. For several minutes, you sat in comfortable silence.

“Were you always interested in this stuff as a kid?”

“I always liked history,” you said. Seated on your left, Fox was nursing another glass of whiskey, his gaze focused on the city beneath. You glanced back out the windows. “It was a subject I excelled at.”

“You’re living your dream job,” he remarked.

“It’s not my dream.”

The words escaped before you could swallow them, and you winced. This was the problem with Fox: baring little bits and pieces of yourself was far too easy. 

Fox twisted on the bench, his brows pulled together. “You told me—” 

“I lied to you…when you first asked me.” With an apologetic grimace, you wrung your hands in your lap. “My grandmother created the job for me. She was so excited for me to take over the business and expand it. It was her dream.”

For so long, you chased after your grandmother’s dream, desperate to make it your own. But it was never yours. All of it—the intense schooling, the exceptional career, the business expansion offplanet—was a mask. A mask to earn the approval of others through tangible accomplishments. A mask suggesting to others that you were in control of your life—and you were happy.

Never mind the mask’s true purpose was to distract from your loneliness. And the overwhelming belief you would never be enough.

“My grandmother was stuck,” you said. “She was unhappy, but she couldn’t leave my grandfather. Once he passed away, the War started. And then she got sick. And I thought I owed it to her—to women like her—who’ve never had this opportunity. But I’m not like those women. I’m not like my grandmother.”

“That’s why you want to return home,” Fox said.

“I never wanted to leave,” you admitted quietly. “I wanted to keep my grandmother’s gallery and stay on Lefaepa. Live alone with just the stars and not another soul for dozens of kilometers. But the business is now here and I’ve promised it five years. Five years and then I’ll sell it and I’ll go back home. It would crush my grandmother, but I can’t stay here. I just can’t.” 

Regret for the expected sale, embarrassment over your evidential failure, twinged within your chest. You massaged it, and managing a strained smile, you glanced at Fox. “When will you retire?”

Fox settled into the bench’s backrest. A muscular thigh pressed against yours. The slit in your dress allowed his uniform’s stiff fabric to rub against your bare skin. It was a complemented contrast of colors: dark gray to creamy sequin.

“I’ll get out in five years.” Fox’s eyes slid from the windows to your touching thighs. He averted his gaze. “It’ll make ten years of service.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Will it really take that long to prepare your successor?” 

He scrubbed his jaw. “I told you that I stayed for my men.” At your nod, he tapped an unfamiliar beat atop his thigh, staring out the windows. “That was true. But…I also stayed to make up for my past. I thought that if I could protect more people, then killing—” 

Fox cut himself off. Guilt scoured deep lines across his forehead; pain shadowed his eyes. 

It was natural—instinctive human empathy—to reach forward and smooth the harried line between his brows. He let out a tightly amused breath. You offered him a small, understanding smile.

“Where will you go”—you perched an elbow on the bench’s spine—“when you retire?”

“I…” He lowered his eyes to your arm. The thin straps of your dress left your collarbone and much of your chest exposed. “I haven’t given it thought.”

Fox stretched his arm across the bench. Slowly, hesitantly, he skimmed a thumb along the inside of your forearm; a touch so light it felt like a breath against your skin. 

“Why not?” you asked.

“Might not be alive in five years,” he said distractedly. At your stunned silence, he grimaced. “It’s…a survival tactic. From the War. No point in planning for the future when it’s not a guarantee.”

You reached for his knee. “The War’s over, Fox.”

“I know.”

After downing the rest of his whiskey, he gained his feet and offered you a hand. You accepted. However, before he could open the door to the next exhibit, you gripped his elbow, peering into his face.

“You deserve to rest,” you murmured. “To live your life how you want. I hope you know that.”

With a final search of his gaze, noting his guarded surprise and weary stoic, you continued forward.

Eventually, the three hours concluded and the Museum began its closure procedures. You and Fox joined the throng of people departing. Outside, you expected him to bid you goodnight but instead, he followed you into a taxi. A privacy window separating you both from the driver, the spacious taxi provided enough room for six adults to fit comfortably. Even so, Fox took the seat beside you. 

“Have you opened that bottle of whiskey?”

Fox smoothed a hand down his thigh. “I’m saving it. For a special moment.”

You suppressed a smile. “Any specific moment?”

“I’ve got an idea.” He lounged back into the cushions, that stubborn curl dusting his temple. He regarded you for a quiet moment. “You’re not interested in men who will ‘get you outside the house’?”

You side-eyed him. “You know, it's rude to eavesdrop.”

“My interest was piqued.” Fox shrugged with a slight smile; it was more supportive than humored. “Are those types of conversations normal?”

“Unfortunately.” You clenched your hands in your lap. “My mom is desperate for me to marry.”

Fox considered you with a carefully blank expression. “Do you want to marry?”

“I…do. But…” Hesitating, you dug your thumb into your palm. “My parents are married. They’re compatible and they’re comfortable, but everything about them is so sterile. Sure, they go on vacation together and they look happy in their photos. But…I don’t think they’re in love. Not the way I view romantic love, at least. And my mom doesn’t get that. She doesn’t understand my reservations; she doesn’t know what I want.”

“What do you want?”

The question interrupted your spiel, and you frowned at Fox.

“What?”

He bent closer. “What do you want?”

“I want…” 

Your frown deepened at the complexity of what should’ve been an immediate and simple answer. But voicing your wants…it was personable. Vulnerable.

And yet there was Fox, staring at you with characteristic patience, the expression on his face composed yet open: calculating, curious. 

“I want to be known,” you whispered, “without the fear of him leaving me.”

The taxi slid into a gradual halt and the door swooshed open. With a lingering glance on Fox, you thanked the driver through the comm and then stepped onto the platform outside your apartment. 

It wasn’t a surprise when Fox followed you; an expectation born from his steady presence the last four months. 

The walkways in your upscale neighborhood were empty; unlike other sections of Coruscant’s housing, your neighborhood demanded a respectable quiet, most of your neighbors much older and less inclined to wild nights.

Outside a security door barring access to nonresidents, you faced Fox. He was surveying your building, his attention drawn to the security cams hidden throughout the building’s exterior.

“Thank you for tonight.” You studied his eyes—the depth to them bottomless, easy to lose yourself within—and smiled. “I know it must have felt like a waste of time reading every single display”—a hint of annoyance flexed in Fox’s jaw; you ignored it—“but I really enjoyed myself. So, thank you for inviting me.”

Fox stared at you, hands tucked into his trousers’ pockets, a troubled look on his face. Like two thoughts were warring within him and he was trying to decide which to follow. 

You shifted between your feet. “Well, good night—”

“One other thing.”

Resolve set his features as Fox closed the distance. A hand cupped your jaw, angling your head back; the other tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He lowered his face. You stilled, your heart beating too fast, too hard. 

Breaths mixed in the infinitesimal space between your mouths. 

Fox searched your gaze, his thumbs sweeping along your cheekbones, his clutch tightening. Still, he waited. An unspoken request. 

And there was that warm feeling within your chest, fluttering and insistent, and you considered ignoring it, but he was so close, and you wanted to know what he felt like and what it felt like to be touched by him, and so you leaned forward.

Your lips brushed; the barest of touches, a longing hardly satiated. An ephemeral embrace, your mouths hovered. You peered into his eyes, their black irises blooming, and it was only natural to let your own eyes flutter closed. 

There was no hesitation as Fox brought his mouth to yours, as one hand drifted down your spine, guiding you into his body. And yet his kiss was slow, testing. Like he was studying your mouth, your body, in order to determine how he fit with you.

The tip of his tongue snaked along your bottom lip. Bold, inviting. Your lips parted, and his tongue brushed yours. Still slow, still testing. You flicked your tongue against his; he tasted like whiskey—spiced, intense. You pressed your hand into his stomach. A physical presence; steadying. 

A low groan rumbled into your mouth. Fox backed you against the security door; the hand on your jaw drifted to the back of your neck, and the other gripped your waist. You brought your palms to his chest, to just beneath his jaw. Tugged him closer, held him closer, sought those long, unhurried presses of his mouth.

And when you broke away for a breath, Fox pursued your neck. Warm lips skimmed your throat; they trailed lower, to your collarbone. The wet tip of his tongue traced the lines outward, and upon reaching the thin strap of your dress, he brushed it aside. Lowered it to your biceps. Sought your bare shoulder with hot, open-mouthed kisses. 

Dizzying pleasure tingled down your spine. Want throbbed between your legs.

A callused palm grazed your thigh. It rose higher, unapologetically audacious as it slid between the silky interior folds of your dress, hungrily demanding as it stopped just beneath the scalloped band of your underwear. 

Your fingers tightened on the collar of his uniform; your lips parted in a breathy sigh as his thumb mapped the outline of your seamless underwear, exploring the crease between thigh and hip.

Fox buried his face into your neck. Ragged breaths heated your skin, and you dropped your hand between your bodies. Brushed his belt. Moved lower as you grazed your knuckles over his clothed cock. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. The fingers on your upper thigh spasmed. Your thumb traced the hard length of his cock, and Fox moaned lowly against your neck, his curls tickling your ear. 

He was panting against you, trembling, as you cupped him. It was such a simple touch—a mere curiosity. You wanted to know what he felt like. That was all. 

His thumb ventured along the edge of your underwear, trailing its outline as it explored lower—

“I want you.”

The words were a hoarse rasp, and Fox raised his head, his eyes half-lidded with drunken desire. And it was that look in his face—the meaning behind those three words—that doused the heat burning in your veins.

Because the thought of what came next was too much.

Naked beneath that intense gaze.

Expected to perform.

Vulnerable to his judgment.

A disappointing fuck.

All you wanted was to feel him, to bask in his presence, to be in the moment with him; you hadn’t considered sex. You hadn’t meant for it to go this far. 

It was supposed to be a kiss. A few touches. Nothing more.

You pushed Fox away. He stumbled back a step; confusion blinked away former lust. 

Folding your arms close to your chest, you looked away, trying to gather your thoughts. Wanting to apologize for the abrupt change in your behavior, but also not believing you should have to apologize for not wanting to have sex. 

Wanting to explain your concerns, your fears, your issues, but too afraid of his judgment to admit to them aloud.

Wanting to catch your breath and compose yourself into a presentable manner, but spinning too rapidly, too chaotically, unable to collect your thoughts. 

You clenched your jaw and lifted your chin—an attempt to appear in control, indifferent to your denial of sex. Even so, mortification warmed the planes of your face. 

“I don’t do hookups,” you said curtly.

With that, you keyed the code into the security door. It swished open.

Fox murmured your name. His fingers brushed your elbow.

The door closed behind you. It locked him out.

Masterlist | Part II - Part IV

The sequin dress (pretend it has a slit down the leg).

[thisiswasabis]

וTumblr Artists NoP-ifcitaion, behold ו

I wanted to add more, but I run out of the good ideas and my hands, once again, said "Nope, Vive La la révolution" and refused to cooperate

But anyway–-

Artists on this piece are:

@rusty-courage

@rabid-mercenary16

@endomentendo

@shandzii

And @ladybugkisses

Make sure to check out their blogs, they all have great art!

EDIT: ⚠️Warning⚠️ a lot (and I mean a lot) of reading ahead. If you don't want to, don't read it.

It's okay to skip it

___________________________

Now, to the

Notes on the designs:

Endo and Rabid

• For Endo and Rabid, as I don't know their nationality, I've gone for the mexican/spanish, inspired by this art by Endo

• In this AU/imagery, Rabid is a coulrophobia (fear of clowns) and Endo is hemophobia (fear of blood)

• In this AU Rabid has an ability to make people laugh no matter how un-funny the joke is. She can't really control it, but over the years she learned to make actually funny jokes and recognize when it's good depending on others reaction (ex. gentle smile - not so good, coughing on laughter - nailed it)

• Endo looks like a human, bc they supposed to be one, but with mouth like this, there's no way they're human, oooohhh no

• I gave Endo poncho to represent the "dress" (cloth???) Their sona wears (??? I don't know?. . . What this is?)

• I'm imaging their conversation (on this art) to be like:

Endo: So, you're a clown huh?

Rabid: Emm. . . Yeah, I guess I am (kind of)

Endo: Then you have to be very un-funny one

Rabid: Wha? Why?

Endo: Bc you gone gray out of your saddness

Rabid: ಠ⁠ ⁠೧⁠ ⁠ಠ ExUssmE, I can tell jokes, you little [very creative inslut here]

Endo: Mhm, the real question is - are they making others laugh or cry (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

*moment of silence*

Rabid, very angry: c'mere, I'll give you "un-funny clown"

*10 minutes later*

Rabid: *jokes like a pro in John Mulaney style*

Endo, trying hard not to laugh (rip their dignity and lungs): Rabid, no - that's so baAaaad

Ari

• For Ari I was going for the philophobia (fear of falling in love) and inspired by pics/paintings of the cupids and this art

• "But Wasabi, shouldn't she be a aliurophobia? (fear of cats)" No, she should not. Ari is famous for her lackadaisy art, that true, but, in fact, her blog is self-insert themed. She has a different form depending on her current fixation/crush. So with so much self-ships, it's logical for her to be a fear of love

• I have her this funny hair things (ears? Horns? What are those?) 'cause:

A) she would look identical to her angel sona otherwise

B) I like to think it represents the "evil"/fiery turn love can take

• In this AU, she needs to cover her eyes. She have a power to make anybody obsessed with her just by one glance into her eyes, but this is not something she can control. So she just covers them with a cloth or sunglasses to avoid the trouble

• I feel like she would have her own art gallery, where she shows (and sometimes sells) her paintings

Shandzii

• Secound non-phobia in this set (first is Rusty)

• I couldn't decide if she should be aquaphobia (fear of water) or muso/murophobia (fear of mice/rats) so I made them neither of them!

• But! He, in this AU, has a phobia parents (Aqua– and musophobia)

• "How could this happen? Is that even possible!?" Short answer: yes. Long answer Info dump answer:

In NoP, Phobias are actually some type of genetical anomaly. It's really rare but if at least one of the parents have a recessive gene for it, their kid can be a Phobia.

But that also not the case.

As I said, it's really rare to have a child like that, especially if only one parent have this gene. And, sadly, if a child had bron a Phobia, their parents can get abandoned. many Phobia kids are abandoned by their biological parents, as they don't want to rise a little "freak".

But, what is even less possible, when two phobias with human parents hook up, they can have a human kid instand of the Phobia one.

It's rare, but it can happen

• She dose not have any powers, but have a big weakness for water and sea/ocean. Also is really small and fast (in my NoP headcanon, not generally)

• I gave him a coat instand of a jacket, as I'm pretty sure there was no Red jackets in 1940s

• Also, a lot of pockets and pins, bc they reminds me of mice

Rusty

• Actually, I've already drew NoP!Rusty once. You can find her notes and design here

___________________________

I info dumped more than drew, sorry if it's a problem.

And, once again, check their blogs and art! They all are great!

And now, up to hole I go!

*slithery sounds of little gremlin*

[dinopant]

its a shame the whole 'backroom' concept is just being used for horror, specifically to the people who make their lil backroom fan games

like because its not scary to me, i wish it was just utilized as a like, a walking gallery with a hint of unnerving as your just solo walking endless halls that you'll never leave

nothing going to get you, i just wanna see a space utilized to do weird fun shit. like the part of spc where its non hostile shit, its just weird anomaly type shit thats just fun to look at and interact with

[elodiah]

WIP Wednesday

Because somewhere in the world it’s Wednesday… which is here, where I am.

Thanks to fanart, I’ve been inspired to maybe possibly write a Loki/Star Wars crossover, specifically involving Loki and Obi-Wan, my beloveds.

And thanks to WIP Wednesday, I’ve just written the first lil tidbit.

Loki never pays much attention to the actual missions Mobius attends to on the timelines. As long as he’s not in any obvious danger, Loki just appreciates the opportunity to check in on him, make sure he’s okay. He watches on as Mobius confers with the two hunters for a moment, then one of them opens a time door and the hunters step through. Mobius turns to leave as well, but before he does, he hesitates and looks skywards for a moment, wistfulness in his eyes. Loki smiles. Mobius always does this when he’s outdoors, and he knows that he’s thinking of Loki, possibly hoping he’s watching.

Loki longs to tell him that he is.

Mobius finally departs, returning to the TVA, and Loki goes back to browsing the timelines, looking to select one that might be of interest. It’s reminiscent of the way one might flick through articles of clothing in their wardrobe, or swipe through photograph galleries on their electronic devices.

Huh. That’s new…

On this one here… there’s a tiny blue spark. It’s minuscule, but it pulses like a beacon nonetheless. Loki frowns. This is not like anything he’s seen before, although admittedly he’s hardly scraped the surface of the vastness of existence he holds within his hands.

Intrigued, he delves into the timeline, casting his View upon the luminous anomaly. Closing in carefully, following the gently glowing blue thread that trails off either side of it. As he does, fleeting feelings and impressions begin to assault him.

Oh.

This one… it is a life of pain.

Tagging @kcscribbler , @lokimobius , @loki-is-my-kink-awakening , @in-my-loki-feels , @thosegayoldmen , @silentxsymphony , and anyone else, as usual!

[taralen]

Title: E-Mail Guy's first day lol

HEY EVERY !! ITS HIM! N0 BUDDIES FAVORITE [[E-MAIL GUY!!!]] 

Well, well, here is my first ever DELTARUNE fanart! I've loved this game since it first came out, and while on disability, I played Chapter 2 and loved it even more than Chapter 1. This guy captured my [[HeartShapeObject]] the moment he popped out of the trash. He's officially my favorite character ever made (yes, I am dead serious about this.) I REALLY like this character, so expect to see more of him from my gallery even if you don't want to!

Why did I draw him this way? Answers Below!

Spamton's back story is mysterious, and the game doesn't give us much to work with regarding his past. This drawing is based on my interpretation of him before he became the lovable trash puppet. There are a lot of fan interpretations of Spamton as an Addison, but I rarely see anyone draw him with black hair. I like his contrast with the black hair against the white skin (is he Snow White??!), but I understand why fans choose to depict him with white hair while he was still the "e-mail guy." I included a variant with the white hair for anyone who prefers that version. The white hair makes sense, but I like the idea of him having black hair as an "error" or anomaly. The gray outline is based on the sprite of both him and the Addisons. I'm a little bummed out to see most fan art does not include their cute little glow. No other NPCs have this look, so I believe it was intentional. 

My theories regarding the Addisons and Spamton are based on my experiences working in Sales and Customer Service (and yes, at some point, I was the e-mail guy lmfao.) Spamton confirmed in a Q&A that he was shorter than the others before his downfall. It's hard to tell in this picture, but he is still short, just closer to canon height, which is slightly shorter than Kris. I imagine the Addisons as being like male ballet dancers because of their attire and pointed feet. I'll probably write a speculative fanfic on this because I find how these characters work fascinating from the perspective of someone who studied advertising and sales. I also did ballet for nine years, so funny that. HAHA!

In this image, Spamton has not yet been relegated to the e-mail job just yet as they test him to see how well he performs on the floor. From my experience, if you suck at doing something upfront but your employer still likes you, they'll move you into another position. So, this is before they do that. LOL  Likewise, if you are not very good at ballet, you get sent to the back or to a spot where the audience can't see you very well. 

Anyway, I hope to do more pics of this character and his co-workers soon because I really like them, haha!

Unmarked Full resolution + processes on my Patreon if you're into that. Link: https://www.patreon.com/taralen

[anomalyztheseries]

ANOMALY Z S1E4: “Time Opens All Wounds” Rated TV-MA, 48 min.

A quick in-and-out heist goes terribly wrong when Zane gets caught in the crossfire of a decades-old feud between a ruthless CEO and a militia leader hellbent on revenge.

Images generated by Midjourney AI. Story and concepts by M.J. Romanowski. Copyright © 2023 M.J. Romanowski. All rights reserved.

[brokehorrorfan]

Phase IV will be released on 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray on March 26 via Vinegar Syndrome. Adam Maida designed the new cover art for the 1974 sci-fi horror film are include; the original poster is on the reverse side.

Acclaimed title designer Saul Bass (Psycho, North by Northwest) makes his lone directorial effort from a script by Mayo Simon (Futureworld). Michael Murphy, Nigel Davenport, and Lynne Frederick star.

Phase IV has been newly restored in 4K from its 35mm original camera negative with HDR and mono sound. The 84-minute theatrical cut and an 89-minute preview version are included.

Special features for the three-disc (one 4K UHD, two Blu-ray) set are listed below.

Special features:

84-mintue theatrical version (4K UHD + Blu-ray)

89-minute preview version (Blu-ray)

Theatrical audio commentary by film historian Matthew Asprey Gear

Evolutions: The Making of Phase IV - 48-minute documentary with Jeffrey Bass, actor Michael Murphy, screenwriter Mayo Simon, archivist Sean Savage, and Saul Bass biographer Pat Kirkham (new)

Formicidae Sinfonia: The Music and Sounds of Phase IV - 15-minute featurette with composer Brian Gascoigne and electronic music artist David Vorhaus

Deleted shots and sequences

Raw footage from the original ending montage sequence

Theatrical trailer

Still gallery

Following a mysterious eclipse-like solar event, scientists begin to notice strange and unexplainable behavioral changes in ants. While initially written off as an unconcerning anomaly, it soon becomes apparent that the creatures have developed advanced intelligence along with the ability to work collectively. Scientists Ernest Hubbs and James Lesko have been transferred to a futuristic lab in a remote part of the Arizona desert in which to study these phenomena. However, when the ants begin to attack and kill both wildlife and humans, Hubbs and Lesko realize that the entire human race might now be at a deadly evolutionary disadvantage to the tiny insects...

Pre-order Phase IV.

[artbribery]

But what if danny became jason became danny.

As in, coming out of death portal/pit, both 14 year olds suddenly take each other's place.

And hey, if they act a little... a lot different? Well, this was a traumatic event that would leave anyone absolutely changed.

it's like they became a completely different person.

Jason was very amnesiac, much confusion when he went in so it could be excused that he will panick and show absolutely no chill at being surrounded by strangers that aren't doctors, let alone ninjas, when he came back to life

(after the shock and subsequent almost drowning that went from vertical standing in a hell/hallway to horizontal swimming in a hell-pool. the reverse is also applicable to jason-as-danny)

Oh Jason lost all his fighting skills? He doesn't know Bruce or Gotham? Must be some trauma response. No matter, there are no flaws to correct, just a blank canvas to paint on!

Bad times for "Jason" might include: oh no my morals, murder and stuff, is this hell and all these ghosts?, incredible anger issues, a whole cult of ninjas, coming to terms with the situation that went from 0 to 100 (like, seriously, nothing had ever happened to danny before), evil cult leader and the ??? cult leader's daughter that is kinda your mentor now?,

On the flipside

Danny hasn't yet had his rebellious teenager phase right? He seems very withdrawn for some reason?

Danny? Reading the classics? Doing well in literature class? Lancer is very proud and very concerned

Suddenly Danny is out of the house and won't return until very late, Teenagers am i right? Wanting their independence and all

His friends seem worried but guilty, maybe they had a falling out? And that's why they don't seem to hang out? Don't wanna look too close, they'll figure themselves out, I'm sure

Danny? Awkward string bean and nasa nerd, getting into fights? He really grew a spine, he must have grown tired of the bullying

Bad times for "Danny" might include: first prize for weirdest basement, oh no powers out of my control, im? dead? or not???, suspicious nosy sister who wants to psychoanalyze him, great(derogatory)- new rogue gallery just for me, regular teenage problems, oh yeah evil rich godfather probably

and

(problem that might: oh yeah this is not my body and that's not my name wtf)

Bonus

I am assuming the mish-mash things they have would be those pertaining to the body they just pseudo-isekai'd to but what if

they followed the soul

the powers followed danny, the anger followed jason

which would mean that "danny" would be reliant on the fenton tech which would not be too different from being robin, gadgets and all, and would be an absolute vicious terror on ghosts

which would mean "jason" would be in absolute hell because the waters already made people some sort of meta but this was never seen before,

dam boi can't catch a break

Jason, The Chosen one, it must be Fate, the will of Lazarus, we either become the next "molecule by molecule" in an effort to find out more or we will worship the child—the league of shadows maybe

Or

They don't bodyswap and but still swap stuff

(but who's danny angry at? his parents? sam and tucker? ghosts?)

(in other news jason is a meta now, yep, ghost? no, whatever made you think that... he is still in hot water though,, for that whole "anomaly" thing)

This is all assuming they both don't get away at the first chance they get and actually deal with the "life" they were thrown into

[a-mediocore-writer]

An Angel, A Demon, and A Pheonix

Hands card through my hair with a Featherlight softness I've come to expect of the angel. I'm laid softly in the bed behind the bookshop, more of a gallery really but the last time I said that Az gave me a look. Crowley is fully cuddled up against my side, looking every bit as vulnerable that he tries so hard not to be. Aziraphale is reading, with my head in his lap, his face is scrunched slightly in focus. I am a anomaly wanted by both heaven and hell, and I can't help but feel like I've never been luckier.