#are gaudy af)

[yetanotherthriftblog]

her: Cute clock, but the face is nearly 90° off kilter.

him: Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

[sucrepudding]

Got my fav perfume bottles and spread them out for my friend 2 see on snap but I thought I'd post it here 2 4 my perfume mutuals >:3

[emblazonet]

Given that we're all living in a feudal-corporate hellscape, I'm surprised Robin Hood, as in the folk hero hasn't made a trendy comeback.

[lylahammar]

my personal lifelong burden is that I prefer just doing sketches/lineart and don't love coloring as much, but I also hate the way my portfolio looks when it's all just black/white/grey 😩 My aesthetic is bright saturated colors but my art is usually monochrome and it's the pits

[the-chibi-sempai]

it's supposed to be for safety, same with not wearing earrings while showering. Take this from sb who had their earring unscrew on the shower and freaked out the whole time about the little earring screw thingie ending up in their ear (yes the screw was found after several hours but I still spent the time freaking out about it)

A new pair of earrings I got came with a note that said you should never wear earrings overnight and I laughed, but now I'm curious as to what people do so

for clarification: this is just a question trying to see what people's overall habits are when it comes to wearing earrings, so short removals for showering or swimming don't count. feel free to put in the tags how often you switch between pairs of earrings as well!

[tenthhell]

I need y'all to understand that Orianna's tent is as comfortable as it is a liability; it's soft, it's decadent, it's richly coloured. It will attract attention from thieves. But it's fine bc those caught stealing will either be roasted or flayed and devoured to make a fucking point.

Thing is though....... Orianna isn't an adventurer. She's not used to living in a tent out in the wild, so of course her setup is ridiculous. It's the equivalent of a filthy rich person going camping for the first time bc that is actually on point.

[soysaucevictim]

The mental image of Gymrat!Roceit fuckign jousting with modded canes is now stuck in my brain.

Look. Sometimes you gotta find the funny in life and nurture the inner child.

[p0orbaby]

A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

part 1

-

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that’s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don’t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

[blitheringmcgonagall]

Neverly Ever After

if you are looking to read a fairytale with Lily Evans as Cinderella, Remus Lupin as both Beauty AND the Beast, Sirius Black as Snow White (well, technically Black) and James Potter as Sleeping Beauty, with a disgruntled Genie called Minerva, where the latest Palace craze is speaking in a thing called Gen Z and wearing colours that suit your Colour Season -

Read on …

Chapter 2: Delulu

Summary

Peter, the Duke of Petit-Gru, is NOT having the time of his life. That's before he meets a severe, sniffy genie and Quiet Hires her...

The Duke of Petit-Gru had been experiencing excessive amounts of stress over the past two weeks. Specifically, and in no particular order, this involved the following:

Overhearing the King and Queen of Gyffindoria discussing Prince James’s curse and mentioning the fact it was due to last one hundred years (bro, dude, sis, Your Majesties –W the actual F??) before autocorrecting that to three years, which was clearly a big, huge lie. Did his cheerful friend know this??! What half-assed, salty Wix would do that?? (TL; DR Jimbo was cooked)

He had overheard the perpetually longwinded Albus Dumbledore, Head of the Privy Council, tell the Queen that troops had caught sight of a band of ne’er-do-wells slipping over the mountainous frontier between Slytherin and Gryffindoria, dressed in camo but oddly sporting King Orion’s gaudy insignia (a Portcullis, in silver, crowned; with motto Altera Securitas*) – it was giving assassins vibes, and not in a good way. He missed hanging out with Prince James on his own, but his friend Sirius was lit, and the time where he destroyed Sir Hugo Avery - aka the guy who had bullied Peter since he was five years old - lived rent free in his head. (Anyhoo, TL; DR Sirius was going to be unalived – oof!)

The reason he kept overhearing insanely scary af information was that he could change into a rat at will. He really needed to get a vibe check

But he hadn’t

Which brought him to his next situation –

Keep reading…

[youhavethewrong]

I know Mike Tyson is old, but to spend several rounds in a row not even attempting to throw punches is sus af. Call me crazy but I think the dude who paid his way up the industry and tonight also broke the record for "most expensive boxing shorts ever" with his gaudy ass silver shorts with diamonds and the monopoly man painted on them miiiiiight have bought the "I beat Mike Tyson" title.

Mike's age just kept being used to explain away his lack of action in a fight that was clearly being thrown, and to make it worse, it was just boring. The battle right before it had blood and cheating and controversy and an anime-like flurry of punches from both fighters. Only to be followed by the boxing equivalent of purposefully playing bad to make your 5 year old nephew think he can beat you at Smash Bros

[whereonceiwasfire]

I saw @theshadowrealmitself's post the other day about what if a supervillain outed their secret identity becuase they infodumped to the cashier (who happens to be the hero) and you know I had to do a DP oneshot for it. It's a few different kinds of AU, so you just have to roll with me here.

Without further ado:

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT (EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE AN EGOMANIACAL SUPERVILLAIN)

Automatic doors slide apart with a woosh as Danny bursts through the entrance of Hattie's Haunted Hardware Emporium, unzipped backpack barely caught in the crook of his elbow, one arm stuffed through the armhole of the gaudy yellow vest of his uniform. 

He's out of breath as he scrambles past the customer service desk, gives a frantic, “I'm here, I'm here!” to the startled employee behind the computer as hops the counter. He’s sprinting past stacked boxes of returns for the door with a STAFF ONLY sign slapped askew across the chipping green paint when a voice stops him in his tracks. 

“Danny Fenton.” The words drip cool disapproval, and Danny's shoulders immediately hunch toward his ears, his fingers uncurling from around the door handle. 

So close. 

“Y-yes?” He slowly turns around, his expression sheepish as he comes to face Hattie herself. 

She stands, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, a MANAGER tag pinned to the chest of her tucked in shirt. The polo is the same hideous yellow as Danny's vest but has the Hattie's Hardware logo—a floating hammer surrounded by a ghostly glow—sewn onto the breast pocket. A funny gag, no doubt, when the place decided to open in the heart of haunted AF Amity Park. Less funny, probably, now that the store room is in disarray every other day because some low-level specter keeps casting stock haphazardly about and flinging empty boxes everywhere.

“You're late,” manager Hattie says, expression pinching. “Again.” 

“Aha. Yeah. About that.” Danny scrubs the back of his neck with a palm, teeth bared on something that's more a grimace than a smile. “The bus was behind schedule?” 

She doesn't look particularly like she believes him, which is entirely valid, since it's a bald-faced lie. But what is he supposed to say? That he got sidetracked by his new archnemesis, that freaking Plasmius ghost, because the guy somehow managed to compel an entire doggie daycare to do his bidding? What that crackpot needed a canine army for, Danny didn't even want to know, but he wasn't about to just let it go down. Stopping ghosts is kind of his whole shtick as town hero, after all. 

He’s just lucky the whole thing didn’t take that long—once Danny managed to snap his fluffy foes out of their trance, they kind of took care of Plasmius for him. Guess they weren't too happy about being mind controlled. Go figure.

But again, Danny can’t exactly just come out and tell his manager, well, any of this. As far as everyone knows, Danny Fenton is a very normal, very human kid—one who maybe isn’t great at the whole being punctual thing and has a penchant for running to the bathroom when ghosts show up—but otherwise exhibits no symptoms of being undead. He’s hoping to keep it that way.  

Manager Hattie’s eyes narrow, as if she can tell what he’s thinking, but she just gives a curt jerk of her chin in the direction of the staff room. 

“Don’t let it happen again,” she says, and he gives an overzealous nod of assent as he lets out the breath trapped in his chest. 

“You got it, boss!” he says, giving her a two-fingered salute and throwing himself into the back before she can change her mind. 

***

“That’ll be eight twenty-two. How will you be paying for that?” It comes out a bored drawl as Danny shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“It’ll be cash—just—give me a sec. I know I had change in here somewhere.” 

“Sure, no problem.” 

Danny crosses his arms over the chest of his garish vest and tips his gaze toward the industrial ceiling, trying to find literally anywhere to look so he’s not the overly intense cashier staring at the woman across the counter as she rummages through her oversized, bubblegum purse for a couple of nickels.  

He hadn’t even wanted to get a job—staying on top of school, protecting the town from ghosts, and keeping his secret identity from everyone in his life was enough of a struggle, nevermind trying to fit his weekend sentences at Hattie’s Hardware into the mix. But turns out if you break your phone (in a ghost fight), lose a couple of backpacks (after dumping them in an alley so you can go stop a bank robbery), mysteriously misplace articles of clothing (AKA, throw them away because ectoplasm apparently doesn’t come out in the wash), or otherwise ask your parents to replace your crap enough times without a decent explanation, they’ll stop paying for it.

So, as much as he’d love to not be watching stacks of nickels, pennies, and dimes grow on his counter—the bottle-blonde slapping each coin down with a decisive clack before thrusting her arm back into the depths of her bag—he really can’t get fired. Not only does he desperately need a new pair of shoes after stepping in a suspicious puddle Cujo left behind (please just let it have been radioactive drool), but he has to prove to his parents that he’s responsible, even if he’s going through a bit of a “destructive phase” with his belongings.

“Eight twenty-two!” the woman declares proudly, hiking her purse up onto her shoulder and beaming down at the skyscraper diorama of coins piled up on his counter. “I told you I had change.” 

“Yes. You did,” Danny says with a defeated breath, scooping the first stack of nickels into his hand, and spreading them out across his palm. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

“It’s eight twenty-two. Trust me.” 

“Sorry, policy. I have to double check,” Danny says with his best apologetic grimace before turning his gaze back down to the coins in his hand. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

“Well, that’s kind of unfair, don’t you think? Isn’t the customer always right?” 

“Right, of course.” 

Twenty, twenty-five, thirty…     

“This is a bad look. It makes it feel like you don’t trust your clientele.” 

Danny gives a half-hearted shrug, not lifting his eyes from the coins. “Sorry. Not my policy.” 

Thirty-five, forty, forty-five…

“Well, I never.” 

Danny makes the mistake of looking up as the woman tsks, gripping the strap of her bag and giving him a scandalized glower.

“Sorry,” he says again, shoulders slumping as he lets out a sigh, his gaze falling back to the mess of nickels in his hand.

Five, ten, fifteen…

***

Danny’s fellow cashier heads up for their lunch during the mid-afternoon lull, leaving Danny up front alone, standing at his till, pretending to be busy in case Hattie wanders past. He types random SKU numbers into the computer to see if it’ll bring up anything, he flips through the binder of faded lumber codes, he sprays his counter down with a bottle of something that smells like death and wipes it away with paper towels that come away gray with grime, he sorts the air fresheners that hang on a display beside his counter. And after all that is done, he’s managed to kill about seven minutes. 

It’s almost a relief when a customer finally wanders up to his till. Almost. 

The man wordlessly plops a length of cord, a roll of duct tape, and a box of garbage bags down on the counter—doesn’t even bother to glance up at Danny, just rolls up the cuff of his dark suit jacket and checks his watch as though the point five seconds he’s been waiting is already too long. 

Danny manages to plaster on his best customer-service smile, hoping his eyes don’t give away the “not this asshole again”  that he’s thinking. 

Nearly once a week, buddy here shows up—way overdressed, with his smarmy ponytail and his suit—acts put out that he has to breathe the same air as the rest of Amity Park’s peons, then proceeds to purchase some of the sketchiest shit Hattie’s Hardware has to offer. Danny’s always left wondering if he should be calling the police instead of ringing up the serial killer’s checklist of supplies on his counter.

But, honestly, he does not get paid enough to keep tabs on Hannibal Lector over there, so he lets it slide. 

“Find everything you were looking for today?” Danny asks as he tips the garbage bags on their side and scans the code on the bottom with a beep.

The man gives the vaguest grunt of acknowledgement, and just before his sleeve falls back in place over the face of his Rolex, Danny notices the fresh scratches marking the man’s pale forearm. 

His brow furrows, but instead of prying, he just plucks up the duct tape and cracks a friendly joke as he twists the roll to find the barcode. “Already got the shovel and axe at home, hunh? Good for you.”

The beep is the only thing to split the silence, and when Danny glances up, it’s to find the man’s dark gaze pinned on him, lips pursed on a thin line. He is very much not laughing.

“Just ah—a joke.” Danny blanches as he gestures weakly at the items on the counter. “Because uhm. You know. If you had a shovel and axe, this would look kind of like you were, ah…”

“I get it,” the man answers frostily.

“Okay,” Danny answers, chastened as he drops his head and picks up the rope. 

Immediately, he can tell Sketchy McBillionaire completely ignored the sign in the hardware aisle asking customers to get an employee’s assistance with the custom lengths of cord—there’s absolutely no SKU or length written anywhere, but Danny makes a show of turning the rope in his hand anyway. 

“Shoot. It looks like your label must have fallen off?” he says, doing his very best not to sound too accusatory, just in case the guy really isn’t above murder. 

“I’m sorry?” the man asks pointedly, brow arching, and it is so very clearly not an apology. 

“Uhm. Well. Since you grabbed a custom length of rope instead of a pre-measured spool, there should be a tag on here somewhere. I need that to ring you up,” Danny tries, gesturing uselessly at the cord.

“Are you serious?” the man asks, teeth gritting. “This is just what I need right now.” 

“I can, uh, page someone from hardware to get us the number?” 

“No need. I’ll go get a pre-measure spool.” The words drip with derision, as if this is somehow Danny’s fault, as the man snaps up the rope and twists on his heel. 

“Actually—” Danny cuts in, withering under the man’s icy gaze as he snaps his head back around. Sheepishly, he continues, “Once the length has been cut, we can’t really keep it…” 

The man’s shoulders heave with a deep breath, his grip curling tight around the cord between his fingers.

“Fine,” he snaps, tossing the looped rope back onto the counter with a thud. “But make it quick. I’ve already been significantly delayed today.” 

Danny gives a curt nod, picking up the receiver beside his register and paging for a hardware employee, his crackly, amplified voice sounding weak as it reverberates through the store. Which is so stupid. He’s a literal superhero—can punch a ghost three ways into next Thursday—so why is he cowed by some guy strutting around the hardware store in a suit?

Maybe because he knows punching this dude isn't an option unless he wants to get fired.

Ugh, why do bad things always happen to him?

Danny tries to play nice—determining not to piss the guy off or lose his job—and schools his features into an affable smile. 

“It’ll just be a couple minutes,” he says.

The man gives a tight “hmmm,” crossing his arms over his chest, brows dropped low over cold blue eyes.

As the silence stretches between them, Danny awkwardly drumming his fingers against the metal till top, the urge to claw out of his skin grows unbearable. Against all better judgment, he finally blurts, “how’s your day going so far?”

“You want to know how my day is going?” The man’s tone drips vitriol, teeth bared as he steps in closer to the till. There’s something hysteric in the twist of the words as he repeats himself. “You want to know how my day is going?”

Danny tries to backpedal, jerkily shakes his head no, but it’s too late. The man gives a laugh somewhere just left of unhinged (why does it almost sound familiar?) and is off on a tangent before Danny can stop him.  

“My day started with a very unwelcome intrusion, weeks of hard work thrown out the window because of some insolent boy and his need to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. My day found me bitter and behind schedule, interrupted at a crucial moment because someone has decided to treat my work like some blasted video game. My day”—the man’s eyes dart to the nametag on Danny’s vest, heedless of the way he’s stiffened, heart beating hard in his throat—“Daniel, has left me thwarted, again, an extension of a dismal several months in this wretched town, a string of one disappointment after another. And now I’m delayed once more, stuck waiting here with you, for someone to perform a menial task on my behalf since you can’t identify a length of rope. So tell me, boy. How do you think my day has been going?”

It’s how he spits the word boy, the cadence of the diatribe, the implication behind the words.

Danny just stares at the man, wide-eyed, any kind of response at all sticking in his throat as his palms brace against the back of the till.

It's then the employee from hardware comes bounding over, her cheery, freckled face split on a smile, oblivious to the weighted silence. “How can I help y'all?” 

“I need a price on this.” The man practically snarls the words, snatching the cord and thrusting it at Poppy or Penny or…Genevieve?

Crap. Danny has got to get better at remembering his coworkers’ names.

“O-oh,” she stammers.

“The SKU actually,” Danny manages, and her expression softens with relief—that that’s all he needs, that she doesn't have to put up with this nightmare of a man before them.

She pulls free a small notebook from a pocket in her ugly vest. Thwipping through the pages, she drops a glance to the rope in her hands, flips a little further, then reads off some digits from her hand-scrawled notes. Danny taps them in obediently as Poppy/Penny/Genevieve turns the rope forward and back. 

“Probably about twelve feet,” she guesstimates. 

“Awesome, thank you,” Danny says, the price coming up on screen as he taps in a one-two and thumbs enter.

The man has barely moved, his expression all hard, sharp, unimpressed lines as he stands back and watches them with crossed arms. Poppy/Penny/Genevieve flickers a glance in his direction, then away. 

“Noproblemhereyougotalktoyoulater,” she says, the sentence coming out in one hurried breath as she drops the cord on Danny's counter and bolts. 

With her gone, it's just Danny, the silver-haired man, and the suffocating tension between them once again. 

Danny knows he should focus on getting the purchase rung through and getting the guy out of here, but can't help the beat too long he stares at the man.

He's about the right height, the same goatee, the graying stripe parting his long hair. 

“I don’t have all day.”

“Right!” Danny starts, shifting his attention back to his till’s screen, his pulse fluttering in his chest. Could it be? “Uhm. That comes to—” 

“Yes, yes, it’ll be on credit,” the man interrupts, thrusting a black card at him. 

Danny catches the card against his chest, holds it there as he mashes the man’s total into the debit machine. Before swiping the card, he turns a glance down to the plastic in his hand, his eyes roving past the long string of numbers and the expiration date to find the raised silver lettering beneath.

Vlad Masters. 

His gaze lifts, and he finds the man—Vlad—watching him impatiently. Danny jerks his eyes away as he swipes the card, hands it back, places the printed receipt on the counter to be signed. 

Vlad huffs—doesn't say a word as he fishes a pen from his inside pocket and scrawls a quick, jagged signature.

The arch of his brow, the condescending weight of his gaze, the impatient snap of his movements...

As the man gathers up his supplies, scowling, and pushes through the exit, Danny picks up the merchant copy of the receipt left on his counter. His gaze fixes on the V. Masters on the till paper, his lips twisted on a frown. 

He doesn't know how it's possible, but he thinks that man—Vlad Masters—is his archrival. 

Which means…Plasmius is a half-ghost?

[blackghostm2o]

Guess what time is it? The time for another shitty rambling session about PotO!!! YAYY!

Audience? Me

Phantom ramblings n.??? REALLY LONG YAPPING SESSION BEWARE!

This time it’s PotO at Trieste (I wonder if they’ll ever return to Italy T.T either that or I have to go to London, tho I’ve never been there so it would be nice in general. Also baffled by how many dates are there. Omfg!!!)

This is a non-replica/ reimagined so they do things a bit differently.

The costumes are almost all different, I do admit that I prefer the original ones. For example, the Phantom here doesn’t have his “m’lady” hat (the fedora), his vest is not black but white, the cape has a different cut, not ✨shiny✨ and has red insides. Or the dress in Hannibal doesn’t have the characteristic design with red and green, but it’s pale-blue.

Still talking about costumes, but moving specifically to the masquerade: SO… All the costumes are pretty simple, not as showy as the original ones, but (THO take this with a grain of salt) I think that they decided to take more inspiration from La Commedia dell’arte or at least more traditional costumes and also dances (at least in some parts), which is a really nice touch, so I prefer this choice. (Btw this year, if everything goes well, I’ll participate to one of those traditional ball for Carnevale, maybe I’ll return to this post to “confirm or deny” this statement). Interesting having a moment where Christine and Raoul are completely alone. The Red death’s costume is a bit sad… As other people said: “The Red death is Erik serving cunt.” And here it is SO PLAIN, but also pretty close to how Edgar Allan Poe describes it, a simple red tunic… So maybe they were going for that, idk. Tho him being surrounded by everyone and then vanishing, just to appear again next to Christine (who was “escorted” away by Raoul, being actually useful for once) for the “YOUR CHAINS ARE STILL MINE…” was cool af. Sad how Raoul and Moncharmin have a normal frac, but Firmin was a total slay with his pink dress.

At first I was: “Oh… No funky costume? :(“

Then lmao

This is the Red death btw

Btw I love the Don Juan costume here, it is really strange, but I adore it. Love the gaudy colors and the big ass hat, hahaha. Also during ponr I really really like how he starts to sing to Christine and we hear Piangi’s voice and then it transitions into the Phantom’s one, not the usual Piangi goes away and then Phantom immediately pops up. I wonder if they wanted to show him being able to perfectly mimic Piangi’s voice (so maybe being: “Well… He’s an amazing ventriloquist and his voice is capable of mesmerising people, he would totally pull this shit off”) OR to show the moment in which Christine understands that Don Juan is the Phantom. Another interesting thing is how the second unmasking goes here… Yes Christine gets his mask, but HE takes off the hat… Why? Was he too overwhelmed? Christine teases him a lot and goes for a kiss, which makes him flinch (fucking loved that) and looks a bit uncomfortable. Hmm…

Unmasking you say? Let’s talk about the first unmasking (I’m sorry, ik that this post is such a mess and I’m continually jumping instead of going in chronological order… But I can’t really help it). Hehe, I’m not a really big fan of how MotN has the Phantom mostly sitting while singing it, I do prefer when he’s moving around, teasing, being close to Christine… Don’t understand this change, honestly. The interesting thing (for me) is “Stranger than you dreamt it” (which also lives rent free in my head): here Erik (ik it’s not correct calling him like that, but it’s shorter and a bit more humane than PHANTOM) is not lost in his action of composing, BUT it’s not like the stupid restaged version that has him “Oh yeah! Let’s just do my make up while Christine is right there! OH YEAH! I’VE BEEN TOUCHED BY THE ONLY PERSON HERE LET’S JUST LOOK AT THEM WITHOUT THE MASK.” No, not like that. He stops composing and glances at her (a couple of times) starts again, as if trying to distract himself, but he can’t help himself so he completely stops and turns around not facing her and seeming so anxious about it : “Omg, she’s awake. What do I do???” While swinging a bit. She them sits next to him and he looks at her… Almost lost admiring her, so lost that he doesn’t realise that she’s going to take off his mask. A bit sad that they have cut him crawling on the ground, but God… Him rockin and being scared when Christine got close… Omfg…

I swear I’m really normal about his phantom, I SWEAR!

I don’t like how Christine wanted to throw herself off the opera house in the roof scene, I can’t really see Christine doing that.

Loved when they had Erik FUCKING SWINGING AROUND THE STAGE MADLY LAUGHING INSTEAD OF JUST HAVING HIS SHADOW!!! AND SWINGS ON THE CHANDELIER!!! HILARIOUS AF. CAT BEHAVIOUR.

Look at this mf

I wonder if it was a stunt double or not, hahaha. Seems fun to do tho.

Having Raoul shirtless in the final lair was totally unnecessary, pfft hahaha. I wonder how they went about it: “ Hmm… Yk… Fanservice has never hurt, we obviously cannot have the Phantom like that, but Raoul… He somehow has lost his shirt while trying to get to Christine!” “But sir-“ “Shush! People will enjoy this!” Jokes aside I like how he actually looks like he is getting chocked (them taking him above the ground) and how he briefly loses consciousness, leaving Christine and Erik trying to get him up (mostly Christine, Erik was like ”GO AWAY! LEAVE ME!” And I was thinking ”My man… At least help her a bit… The dude is massive, no way she could do it alone.”)

About the final lair there are some things that I prefer in the 25th (like the kiss! Ohh don’t get me started on it), but I do like how more aggressive he is here. Also here there’s him rocking like in the first unmasking, this swinging between violent fury and being in a moment of full weakness maybe after realising his actions? Or just being too overwhelmed by the whole situation, not knowing what to do… Everything not going as planned, not following any schemes. Idk, but I like it a lot.

The mechanic wings on Erik as the angel of death are smart and stupid at the same time, hahaha. They where just to show off, let’s be honest. Maybe a bit goofy.

I feel that there where added some small elements to crater more to an Italian audience? Like the “IDIOTI!” At the first rehearsal or Carlotta saying “Ah beh!” As the countess after saying “Pretence” ( pretty funny, ngl). I also liked how she and Piangi had a thick accent (ik that’s not unusual).

So yeah… Enjoyed it. Unfortunately the audio quality was quite horrible, but I’m glad that I could see this thx for a user here who jailbroke it (bless you).

Well… If you’ve read to this point, holy shit! Thx.

G’night :) <3

[dballzposting]

OK so long story short the other day I was abusing the computers at my job to look up dragon ball characters and I came across THIS IMAGE of GOTEN that I found out was from DRAGON BALL AF which is a fan-made thing and idk . Dont worry about the details.

I thought it was soooo cool like put my chin in my hands and sigh lovingly. But also it was more of a rant-and-rave kind of adoration. Becasue I couodt beleieve how cool it was. Becasue here is why

Im super bad at deisgns or redesigns and sometimes I have epic ideas but if I don't then I don't. I think it would be stellar if we had a design for Goten & Trunks when they're older than GT and running the sword dojo. And I've tried to cook some up. But it vexes me for two reasons. First of all Dragon Ball deisgns when colored are gaudy and stupid looking. But also sometimes they use neutral colors. And they're eccentric and unique. And I try to mix all of these factors and the result Does Not Work. Becasue despite the plentiful love that I have for colors, I Do Not Understand Color Theory. Definitely not enough to push it to its limits like dragon ball does. My second problem is the actual clothes themselves. There is something wrong with me that makes it so that i eschew research like my life depends on it. I'm sure it's totally possible to gather a minimal understanding of what sorts of clothing / eras / disciplines certain dragon ball styles are based on, and to cross-reference that with what is actually depicted in dragonball, and come up with an outfit that gels. But I cannot do that. So yeah

This outfit featured here is so familiar yet unique enough to turn my head a bit. For an example. The yellow above his shoes. What is that. Don't answer that. I'm in love either way

THEY JUST ... PICKED TWO COLORS? That's it? THAT'S ALLOWED ????? Just TWO COLORS and only ONE of them isn't a dead-tone-neutral-non-color. Well I guess it's four colors, and still, only one (yellow) isn't a non-color (grey and white and black). I'M SO IMPRESSED !?!??!?!!??

The only idea that I had for post-GT Goten was FOR SOME REASON the visual flair of something long and sharply flowing off of him. Like a scarf, or a long sash, or a Dr Drakken style rattail. But I can't do all three. Becasue that's too much. But I like all three. So IDK what to do.

YEAH THEY WENT ON AHEAD AND GAVE HIM THIS SASH ON HIS HEAD. Sure. Go on ahead. Throw it on there. Looks good. Good contrast against his black hair. Makes it to you can draw his eyebrows over it and so he can emote clearly. SO GENIUS. So simple. I'm gobsmacked

HE'S COLORED LIKE A BUMBLE BEE ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!??!?!

My conclusion is that this is the best non-canon design of adult Goten that has ever been and we should all adopt it immediately from Dragon Ball AF. I am so stunned and impressed by the fact that he is wearing just grey and yellow. I have tried to break down all of Goten's canon outfits to find a pattern in the color schemes but I could not find one. But I can tell when it works for him or not and I don't understand how or why. I have at various points tried to design new outfits for him. I have experimented with yellow, teal, pink... Never really red because red only appears on two of his outfits in a minor way. More astutely because red is not really Him (like it is for Bura or Videl).

Definitely the most promising color I've found for him is Yellow. It's a sunshine-soulchild color. But I still haven't figured out how to practically incorporate it. For example, is it a predominate color or one of several? I've seen dragon ball outfits go either way. I definitely prefer the former becasue that's how I'm used to seeing it in my silly little western cartoons - every character has a color, don't they? And that's Their color. But this is dragon ball.

If you pull a warm yellow or pair it with orange, you are reminded of kid Goten and his orange gi. If you keep it colder or pair it with green, you get something reminding you of his EOZ "Goten Son" shirt. But what if you want something new? The next step in the evolution of Son Goten, but still unmistakably him? You would want to stay away from yellow and orange, becasue Trunks wears a lot of that himself. What about yellow and not a green bice, but a forest green? What about muddy non-colors? Dragon ball colors tend to be warm-shifted becasue it was the 90s, but you can work within that color range. But exactly HOW? What about yellow and pink? Teal? Aqua?? You can't use lavender (Trunks's color). And to be fair I have experimented with grey before, since he wears grey pants in DBS:SH. But I always tried to find other colors to shoehorn in there because I thought I had to. And what's really left...?

DRAGON BALL AF has the answers.

Yellow and GREY.

....THAT;S IT!!!!!!!!!!!

A mature grey. NO OTHER FLUFF.Just straight up. Yelloew and grey.

And he looks like a bumble bee. I love bumble bees. You love bumble bees. He loves bumble bees. We all love bumble bees.

I will close with a quote:

"Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see." (Arthur Schopenhauer, 1788-1860).

THIS DESIGN IS GENIUS.

Thank You ALL !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[xxthe-hidden-spyxx]

My favorite thing about this panel will forever be Erik and Macbeth's GAUDY AF outfits.

I love them, and their fashion sense is ATROCIOUS, but they are ROCKING it and I love them sm for it. :>

Also going back to the Macbeth and Erik bounce fashion ideas off of each other: Macbeth is wearing leg belts like Erik used to. :>

[varlaisvea]

The story so far…

Ok no one asked, but I was really proud of this art (warning: mildly spicy) I posted the other day, so I want to talk about it a little! I have very few followers, so I am unsure whether anyone has read the fic it references, which takes place in both the 4th Era (Skyrim) and the 2nd Era (ESO).

But, the jewelry in this art actually contains some interesting hints about what we’ve learned so far in the story... summary under the cut!

(detail cropping out most of the espicy)

The Khajiit (Araszha-dar/Ara, he/him,) and the Altmer (Eymei Gwylanwe, she/her) in this image are both wearing jewelry featuring large pearls, both of which have a faint blue glow to them. Ara wears an enameled amulet, with gold inlay to hold the pearl, depicting the Moons in Cathay-raht. Eymei wears silver jewelry that wraps around her arm and neck, with the pearl set in the center of an eleven-pointed star.

Eymei’s earring and hair decoration you can kinda see if you zoom, but I’m going to tell you what they are: the ear cuff/earring is enameled silver in the shape of wisteria blossoms that hang from the cuff and attach to the earring stud. On her braid, there’s a mother-of-pearl charm and a spiral seashell. There are also two pearls, both surrounded by silver mesh depicting moons. A large pink pearl represents Masser/Jode, and a smaller black pearl represents Secunda/Jone. Both are depicted as waxing, which corresponds to the Moon phase Cathay-raht.

(tbh, Ara’s earrings don’t have a lot of significance; between his fruity lil earrings and her maximalist gaudiness, i’m just doing what I can to let you know these two are both bisexual/nonbinary af 😂)

Anyway! Everything I detailed above has already been dropped as lil hints in what’s been published so far. Some of it is obvious (his furstock is Cathay-raht, the eleven-pointed star references the psijic Eleven Forces) and some of it isn’t (the wisteria’s been mentioned as significant, but you don’t know why yet). And the pearls have been mentioned—we know they’re very important—but we haven’t yet learned about them all that much. And of course, all of it is already running into the Elder Scrolls unreliable narrator trope!

A quick summary:

So far, 5 chapters have been published:

1- The Dragonborn (Altmer), Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, gets a surprise visit from Psijic Monk Quaranir 2- The Arch-Mage reads a book entitled The Psijic Elves of Sunhold, written by a mage named Eymei Gwylanwe 3 - While holding the Saarthal Amulet, the Dragonborn finds some hidden text in that book—a righteously angry (“Apraxic” and “boring”) condemnation of the Psijic Order. 4- The Dragonborn goes to Artaeum with Quaranir. J’zargo is tasked with returning Kharjo’s moon-amulet, which had showed J’zargo some hidden text in a book about the first Khajiit Arch-Mage of Winterhold. 5. A journal entry from the Second Era, written by Eymei Gwylanwe, who is arriving at the College of Winterhold as a new professor of Restoration.

——

J’zargo returns Kharjo’s moon amulet—which, naturally, comes with a family story: according to what Kharjo’s been told, its original owner was a mage, killed on the way to become a student at Winterhold College, but brought back to life by a witch with an enchanted pearl, which the mage then stole from the witch. J’zargo wonders if it’s the same person as the first Khajiit Arch-Mage of Winterhold, about whom—thanks to Kharjo’s amulet—J’zargo has recently learned some previously-hidden information. Of note: this (“embarrassingly dull-clawed”) Arch-Mage was seduced by a witch, who had compelled him to teach strange magic at the College, then, after killing the Arch-Mage, betrayed him and the College and joined the Psijic Order.

In the chapter featured in this illustration, you find out that the Second-Era Khajiit Arch-Mage has been married to an Altmer witch for the past 20-30 years (a relationship that obviously must be kept hidden). She identifies herself as a psijic Elf from Sunhold.

——

If you’ve read this far, I have two other cute little bits of lore from the illustration I made:

On the left, a decoration on the hood of Eymei’s robe. It’s two cords twisted together: one is Varla-blue and silver, the other is Khajiiti red and gold. idk if this detail will make it into the final story, so I’ll tell you: the robe was a post-wedding gift from her family, and the hood decoration is made from a ceremonial cord that is traditionally worn with such robes.

On the right, Ara’s Arch-Mage robes, in Winterhold green. They have the traditional Magnus’s Eye design, and the little Magnus-Eye charms on the sleeve are made up of crescent moons—obviously, he’s had these robes specially made, as the Arch-Mage should! Magrus’s Eye, if you will.

Since I know there aren’t a lot of ESO dorks here: both of these outfits are loosely based on costumes from ESO: Glenmoril Witch Robes and Wizard About Town, respectively.

Anyway, thanks for reading if you have. I do not actually know how to art in any official sense, so according to Procreate, this thing took me 250 hours of beating my head against it to get right. So I kinda wanted to talk about it!

[evansblues]

So the print version of the GQ interview does have the quote oh him calling her his gf he's had for awhile but doesn't mention the wedding bit. I'm just wondering how's this going to be played out in the future.

Btw, "My girlfriend that I've had for awhile....." is so fucking sad and hilarious to me. Like damn bro, couldn't come up with some decent lines to describe the love of your life whom you married?????

Also, just adding in but today morning I had dream where pictures of the wedding in PT were leaked and they were dressed hideously in gaudy clothes and it looked like a costume party. Like in the dream Chris looks terrible, wearing some gaudy lacey suit with a skirt/train,looking uncomfortable af and AB is wearing this really gaudy red lace dress with a corset top. Like in my dream I saw the pictures and said "that is one hideous wedding dress wtf". Lmao.

We knew the wedding thing was a last minute decision.

I have also been having weird dreams. Someone send one in before the full moon stuff, too. Is everyone having strange dreams? Is this a collective thing going on? Mine are very strange but very real feeling.