#i am not proud of this

[ratpyramid]

Everyone draws Elias like he puts the 'serving' in 'observing'. His ass is NOT that stylish.

[2plolo]

My biggest fictional crush after Gideon Nav is Caine from the amazing digital circus yes the teeth man yes I’m a lesbian next question

[ilviscontedimezzato]

Hi my name is Mordred Dark'ness Saxonian Ghoul Pendragon and I am a temperated and controlled young man (that's why i choose my name) and i have short black ebony hair and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like someone that would rode his rotten world into the sun (AN: if u don't support that get da hell out of here!). I'm not related (PS I AM YAYYY) to Arthur Pendragon but I wish I was because that would mean that I have a father. I'm a ghoul but my teeth are straight and white even if i am used to eat human meat. I have pale white skin. I'm also a saxon, and I am at Camelot in Fort Galfrian where I am in hope to make peace between the camelot and the ghouls (I am the peacemaker). I'm a goth (in case you couldn't tell) and I wear mostly black. I love the craftsmanship of my tribe and all my all my clothes are made from dyed human skin. For example today I was wearing a black shirt with a black leather jacket and equally black and made from leather trousers and combat boots. I had white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Camelot. It was sunny in the desert and so hot that it seamed that the tube sun would melt the rocks, which I wasn’t very happy about as i grow up in the darkness of the lower levels. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

After this I can die (not in peace).

[honeybuns-bb]

Confession Time

This pisses me off so bad but I unfortunately find Hemlock slightly attractive because he reminds me just enough of Freddy Carter as Kaz Brekker (+ the eyebrow slit) and it annoys me so much

like

fuck all the way off

[jo-the-cosmic-being]

Sometimes I’m normal and I’m fine. But then I’m like umm… “Nathanael from The chosen”(?) And then nothing is fine with me I guess.

[batsyvie]

I love fanfiction authors so much. They must put embed crack into their writing, and I snort every ounce of it up. Do you know how many Good Omens fics I have read this month. TWO MILLION WORDS WORTH. I haven't read this much in years. Probably ever. My family thinks I have become a recluse. Fanfiction authors hold so much power over me. I love them.

[joceshipsafterdark]

I have a confession to make but I’m really fucking mad about it bc I hate this bitch ass motherfucker SO MUCH OUGH

but the cartoon version of him can totally get it

[leetriesart]

Throwback to when I didn’t realize that the lighter wasn’t a zippo in the magnus archives and imagined this for an entire listening and a half …

[lighbo]

if you don't have a neck does that mean i can detach your head from your body and use it as a basketball/bowling ball

[I do have a neck but-]

[bistaxx]

q!luzubur: do you think a spaniard and a british man could fall in love?

War is over...

[asiandra-dash]

Speedran this in an hour thirty for my digital art final

[d1zzypaw]

i have just discovered that i cannot transfer a mew from pokemon go to pokemon let's go, the game it was made as a direct companion to.

this means that the only way to legitimately get a Mew into those games was to buy the go+ ball thing (if they even sell it anymore?) which was yknow. an Additional Expense. that is soooo fucking rude

also i was really hoping to transfer my Go event shiny mew into Let's Go but I guess I can't despite the effort (+MONEY) it took to get the darn thing

[ariadnew]

CTJL 2021, ROUND 7: PARIS

Archie had lived in Paris once, when he was eighteen. He and three of his closest mates, newly graduated, living out of a predictably small, predictably bohemian apartment in Montmartre while they spent the summer making pocket money teaching English to French kids and exploring their newfound adult freedom to the fullest extent they dared. 

All of this is, naturally, entirely new information to Dot.

Much to her delight, he continues on the Metro. One of his best friends, he tells her, got a job peeling vegetables and washing dishes at a restaurant governed by an Escoffier-trained chef, just to line his pockets. He fell wickedly and firmly in love with the world of the kitchen that summer. They barely saw him. He’s a sous-chef at one of London’s swankiest hotels now. And they still barely see him. Another spent those months honing his already prodigious talent for the social. Their apartment, he relates with a smile that is half-nostalgic, half-bashful, was frequently stuffed to the brim with strangers and friends alike; people found in clubs, markets, parks, cafes, galleries, streets; artists, actors, dancers, dreamers, and anything in between. On particularly notable occasions, their guests included a thalassophobic carcinologist, a Viennese piano technician, a professor of film studies, a diplomat’s (alleged) former mistress, and a fascinatingly cheerful mortician. Mostly, however, he recalls women. Lyndsay had a new girl on his arm every time they saw him, it seemed. Sometimes two. Sometimes two on each arm. Two on each arm, and a few in tow for his single friends. He was- by his own testimony- “unerringly generous” in that regard.

– But those, Archie says, as abrupt as the gentle appearance of colour in his cheeks, are stories for another time. His tone and his haste to depart the Metro tell her that another time is likely code for never. 

* It is to Montmartre he is taking them that morning, to a small cafe tucked between a fromagerie and a shop crammed as ambitiously as it precariously with ceramics. It’s a street of vibrancy, filled with colour and quirkiness and life. Awnings flutter bright against the grey Parisian sky; the numbing autumn air is tinted with the warm, wheaten smell of a busy bakery. They pass a record store painted red and a glacier in shades of orange and ice; beneath signs announcing costumières in flamboyant strokes and bric-à-brac with scraps of rusted metal. Tables and chairs are arranged dutifully outside eateries and are occupied by equally dutiful locals taking their morning coffee and smoking in the drizzle. The gutter underfoot trickles and glistens with overnight rain, crumpled with sodden copper leaves and cigarette butts. A middle-aged man looks away in a display of feigned ignorance while the Bull Terrier at the end of his lead hunches over the pavement. A woman in a long skirt flies by on a bicycle hurling words Dot doesn’t understand but cannot possibly be complimentary. A leaf flutters to the pavement; a distant horn blares. Weak morning light gleams in the wet of the cobbled road.

Agatha has agreed to join them for breakfast, though it is not because she has any real desire for their company.

She has taken the seat to Dot’s right, where she currently sits tall and aloof and dabbing a stray rain drop from her cheek with her sleeve, eyeing the eclectic decor and commenting on the oddly tart-sweet smell of baked, borderline-burned apricots. Clad in stiletto boots and an elegant designer coat that’d cover Dot’s rent for the next five months, she does not look like a woman who frequented colourful cafes squashed within a city’s most offbeat streets and ate crooked, bleeding pastries for breakfast. She looks like a woman who’d be more at home dining in the Four Seasons’ breakfast room, or at one of those famed Belle Epoque brasseries Dot read about in a tourist guide, one of green glasswork and gold and all things art nouveau, with prices as impossible as its waiting list. She imagines her briefly, the heroine of some Jazz Age novel, svelte and sparkling in an evening gown and elbow-length gloves with a cigarette holder perched in a languid, elegant hand; smoking Turkish cigarettes and listening to jazz while men in sharp suits and dapper haircuts line up to bring her expensive champagne and beget her elusive attention. It is not an altogether difficult image to conjure. But Agatha is not at the Four Seasons, nor at one of the most coveted tables among the city’s brasseries (nor, indeed, in another time period). Agatha is here, looking as out of place as a Vermeer hanging in a kindergarten classroom—

And she is here, it turns out, because this is not her first time in Paris. 

Parisians, she has found, are frequently afflicted with sudden and violent bouts of amnesia where the English language is concerned. Manners, too. Thus, a companion fluent in the language whilst in the capital is an incomparable advantage. How convenient it is, then, that Archie– as he has frequently reminded them over the course of their stay– is able to speak the language fluently! It also happens that he is in possession of an unnatural amount of patience, and- even more convenient!- is already on her payroll. Why wouldn’t she take advantage of that? Agatha isn’t in the mood to handle Parisian attitude. True, she isn’t really in the mood to handle English attitude, either, but the devil you know and all that. He might as well work for his wage. Make himself useful. Be worth the trouble. For once. 

It is for this reason alone she has deigned to keep Archie around, even if the cost is having to endure a morning of him flaunting his irritatingly good French, being irritatingly nonchalant about how irritatingly good it is, and being around Archie in general.

Dot knows this, because Agatha has just finished telling her. 

Archie must also know this, because she has not waited for him to leave after handing him a fistful of euros and telling him to order for her. Now. Please. (It makes him go away faster, she’d explained) (again, right in front of him)

Archie looks at Dot, the picture of sangfroid, and holds up Agatha’s euros.

‘Care to join me, Dottie?’ His tone is cool and smooth as the inside of a luxury car; his eyes spark with hidden humour. ‘Order what you like; Agatha’s just offered us our breakfast today. Awfully generous of her.’ ‘I put up w-’ ‘Awfully generous indeed.’ Agatha lowers her phone and looks Dot square in the eye. Having been in her employ longer and more closely than most, one would think she’d have grown accustomed to the unnerving, burning darkness of her mistress’ eyes.

She has not. (... If anything, it’d only gotten scarier)

‘Go with him, Dot.’ Agatha turns her eyes back to her phone, her voice low and bored. ‘And make sure you take your time.’

If Archie is similarly unnerved, he doesn’t show it. He meets Dot’s eye, flashes her a smile, and gestures with a sweep of his arm toward the register, as unconcerned and cheerful as ever.

* Part II of angry breakfast tomorrow. 👉 😎 👉

[ouroborosorder]

i would rather you just call me a slur

[maxbytes]

i don’t even like pieces of media i just pluck out a character and give them a little place to live in my head

[riddlertrophy]

realizing that god had to put in two safeguards of me being trans and not having good facial hair genes anyway because i would have been a handlebar mustache cis man