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[persuiteerp]

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[recycledmoviecostumes]

This exquisite pillowcase, adorned with intricate embroidery and lace detailing, was originally seen in Victoria, where four of them could be seen on the Queen’s bed.

Two of them were then spotted in the 2018 adaptation of Vanity Fair in the bed of Lady Matilda Crawley.

Fast-forward to 2019 and this same pillowcase could be seen in Gentleman Jack, making a luxurious addition to Ann Walker’s bed.

In 2021 the same pillowcases were reused on the set of The Pursuit of Love, providing a touch of elegance to Linda Radlett’s bed.

In 2023, they were seen in Tom Jones in Sophia Western’s bed.

Most recently, for a split second they were spotted again in the new trailer for the third season of Bridgerton, where a very determined Penelope Featherington wakes up between them.

Costume Credit: bellcs

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[rabarbarzcukrem]

Ok so it's like.

The motorcycle scene: Touga is obviously imitating Akio and failing miserably. Represents an attempt at achieving maturity and adulthood through adopting empty symbols of power. Gives the impression of movement and progress, but in reality is going in circles. It gets faster and faster, there's a sense of danger and agitation. Touga is driving and Saionji sits in the sidecar, they're not on the same level and Saionji disapproves. Seems like they're heading towards some destination, but they're going nowhere.

The bike scene: A reference to their shared memories. Represents clinging to the past and trying to return to the time of childhood. The wheels may be turning, but the bike stands in place. It get slower and slower as Touga gets more tired until he finally stops completely. There's a sense of nostalgia and emotional fatigue. Touga is the only one pedaling, but Saionji doesn't comment on it (meaning that perhaps Touga being in control wasn't the problem in the first place. Maybe it was always about wanting to restore their lost connection and equal footing). They're facing opposite directions, but at the same time leaning on each other.

[ltwilliammowett]

The pursuit, by Wieslaw Wilk (1954-)

[charlie-jpeg]

behold! another rain world oc! Persuit is a bottle and i plan on shattering them into pieces!

[lichtbrenger]

Obsessed with the idea that lucifer has a very strange, tilted moral compass. Like he seems so squeamish about certain things. For example i can imagine him being terrible about seeing others in pain or hurt (how fragile sinners are, that’s scary!), which he thinks makes him an oddity among his people, thus proving hes better than the low life sinners who only want to hurt others and are worth very little. Do you see the spiral 😵‍💫

[gilamasan]

The Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle from Captain Scarlet. both interior and exterior fully modelled, with posable components.

16,010 tris Modelled in Blender Textured in Substance Painter

[sky-kiss]

Hello, sky-kiss! Please help me. I've had the picture in my head for days. Imagine a reader who came to relax in Sharess' Caress and heard about Raphael there. The person has not seen Raphael before and has no idea he is a real devil. It's supposed to be just fetishistic roleplay like with the Stern Librarian. The reader wants to buy sex with the Devil.

What Raphael's actions and reactions will be? I can't imagine it! Help! This situation could happen to Raphael theoretically. You can simply answer me or create a text sketch as you wish. *gasps* Please! *died of shame*

A/N: I’m sorry this isn’t more, but didn’t want to leave you hanging. G/N reader. Also, apologies. I don’t really write in second-person. It was an attempt lol.

_____

The Devil’s Den is excess made manifest. The smell of roses, cherries, and chocolate, all sickly-sweet notes, bleed together with the subtler underpinnings of sulfur and sex. You linger on the threshold. No locked doors: the madame had assured you the devil’s door was always open. Still, there’s something, shimmering and tickling at your skin. A warding spell, perhaps. 

And lingering by the decanter, the devil himself. Looking at him, it would have been impossible to guess the hour. Raphael’s appearance is immaculate: a handsome man, aging gracefully into the later stretches of middle-age. His dress is rich. The smile he offers you is friendly, presuming intimacy entirely unearned. You don’t mind; it feels genuine. He holds his arms out wide, sweeping into a low bow. “Ah, fate does smile upon me; my prayers are answered.” He took a testing sip from his brandy. “Company fine enough to match my drink.” 

You chew the inside of your cheek. His voice has a velvety quality to it, intimate, skating across your skin like a caress. Still, you linger, unable to enter. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end, and gooseflesh on your arms. It’s like being in the room with a predator, stalking and hungry. 

He holds a second glass out to you. “Come in, my dear. The hour is late; the night is cold. And I swear to you: the fantasies in that pretty head pale in comparison to reality.” 

You go to him, and the door of the Den swings shut. 

He smiles, all teeth. “No interruptions. Here. You’ll like it.” Raphael presses the goblet into your hand. Heat licks off his skin, unnatural. It’s like he’s running a fever, but there’s no hint of sickness or sweat on him. “I won’t ask your name, not yet, but allow me to provide my own. Raphael, at your service.” 

“I was worried it was too late.” 

“How dear of you, little thing. So considerate.” He leads you to a seating area, the grand bed still in view, full of promise. Your attention keeps flicking to it. Seeing him and the room, your want shifts, becoming less ephemeral, more tangible. Desire curls low in your belly, heat chased by fine brandy. “Now indulge my curiosity, kitten. Why have you come?” You flush, glancing down. Raphael clucks his tongue. He reaches out, curling a finger beneath your chin. His skin feels like burning. “None of that. What’s a touch of honesty between friends?” 

“The Madame said they had a devil on retainer. I wanted…” you clear your throat, squaring your jaw. He’s here for a reason. This is his profession; why should you feel ashamed? The devil seems to smile alongside the thought. “I’d lay with a devil.”

“Carnal pleasure, is it?” He leans in close, breath gusting over your cheek. “How unimaginative, pet. There are prettier gifts I might offer you.” 

Raphael’s left-hand traces the bones in your wrists, stroking upwards to your forearm. The innocuous touch leaves you shifting nearer, searching for stimulation. “Prettier gifts?” 

“Mmm, secret fantasies. Power, prestige…I could manifest it all. For a price.” 

But your wants are simpler. You shake your head. “Another time…I just want…” You lick your lower lip. “You’re handsome.” 

“I know, sweetling, but kind of you to say.” His eyes, a pretty amber, glitter in the low light. The alarm peels again. “Wanting is simpler. And I’m of a mind to help you.” The hand skates higher, up and over your hips, your sternum, to the base of your throat. “There’s only one thing, a trifling matter, and then…” he smiles, leaning in close. “You will have your devil.” 

“Anything.” 

“Sweet words, although dangerous. Say them again: promise me anything.”

Your throat feels tight. “Anything, Raphael.” 

“Good.” He snaps his finger, fire licking from the gesture. His expression has shifted, still cordial, still handsome, but there’s a note of disinterest. As if the game has been too simple to satisfy him. He’s still touching you, though, and it’s difficult to focus on the minutia. He presses a quill into your hand. “Sign this, little one, and we can begin.” 

It never crosses your mind that it could be real. You sign your name without thinking, without reading, and the devil sighs. Raphael leans back, shrugging. “Not the fine company I’d been hoping for, alas.” You reach for him. The dangerous glint is back in his eyes, a wicked smile. “Ah, ah, dear. Your devil awaits you elsewhere. And they are ever so eager to meet you.” He dips into a half-bow. “Give them my regards, won’t you?” 

He snaps his finger. The Den fades, replaced with a richer room. The heat borders on unbearable. The bed remains. Your eyes widen. A devil awaits you, hellfire glinting in his eyes. Sharp fangs glitter in his smile, nakedly delighted. 

“Raphael sends me such a sweet gift. How rarely considerate of him. Come to, little thing. Come, and let Haarlep taste you.” 

And how could you resist?

[anewcalamitycolored]

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A New Calamity: Page 47 Colored

[botanicallyinclinednerd]

Low key obsessed with the way Janet tells Martise in Lifeboat, "I don't give a damn! You don't belong in that man's body, and I intend to take it back!" The delivery!!! The emotion!!! The little growl in her voice!!! 10/10 will watch again, no notes

[19871997]

not enough to save you (G, >1k)

mostly on connor mcdavid and game 7

-

He feels like he’s on the bench waiting for his shift for hours and for milliseconds before Coach is tapping him on the shoulder and telling him to give it all he has, and Leon’s clapping him on the thigh as he hurdles over the boards, and in the end it isn’t enough, and their season dies with the puck trapped in the corner.

He plays his fucking heart out because he knows that if he can just get the puck to Leon he’ll bury it, and it’s not until the final buzzer sounds does his belief wane and the score, and the cheers of South Florida around them, and the digital banners, and the sight of his team truly defeated for the first time this season, does he accept that they’re not winning. That they lost. 

He’s numb throughout the handshake line, mumbles congratulations to the guys who’ve achieved their dreams, and annihilated his in the process. There can only be one winner, after all. Logically, he knows that they were in their position a year ago, but he doesn't think they know what clawing their way back from 0 and 3 felt like.  

He’ll have no real memory of the handshake line, no concrete vision of what was said to him and what he said to them. He’ll trust it was mutually respectful and sportsmanlike. He knows he’ll remember sending his team off the ice for the rest of his life. He knows he’ll remember the tight way he hugged and got hugged and the tight, choked apologies mumbled into his ear and the way they made him feel sick to his stomach, and his own whispered sorries, because all he had to do was make a pass, or make a goal, and Stuey stood his head and Bouch broke records and Leon could barely breath during his shifts and every single man on their team showed up and hundreds of things had to go their way just for them to end up here to begin with, and all he had to do was score. 

Connor keeps his head down as he makes his way through the hallway. If there’s reporters and film crews he doesn’t care. Knoblauch and Coffey stand at the door to the locker-room. 

“It’s just the team,” Coffey tells him.

Connor stands at the mouth of the room. It’s as silent as he’s ever heard it, every man stock still in his cubby, rid of helmets and gloves but not much else. The floor is wet with ice shavings melting off their skates and tears dripping off their faces. It’s quiet enough that they can hear cheers outside. 

“Boys,” he starts, and his voice cracks, throat thick with it and blinking back tears, “I’m proud of everyone in here, I’m proud that we gave ourselves a chance after everyone counted us out. I know, I know we lost, and I know we gave it all we had, but I’ve never been prouder. And I mean that, alright?”

He sees some nods, hears some agreements, and there’s some movement to begin to wipe their tears and peel off tape and ease off their shoes. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough that the thunders of celebration can thus fade into the sounds of his team quietly packing away the remnants of their season. 

He sits in his stall between Leon and Nuge. Leon places his hand above his knee, just before his shorts start, just about where his socks end, and squeezes. Connor places his hand atop it, clammy and sweaty and shaky as it is, and squeezes back. 

“Go to the trainer, okay?”

Leon tries to clear his throat, his pupils dialated from the tramadol, and says, “You too,” rough and choked up and Connor tries not to think about how long it’ll be until he’s home. 

Nuge hugs him, winds his arm around his neck and leans fully into him. Connor wants to apologise to him, desperately. He knows it won’t make anything better, he knows he’ll just dismiss it, so he buries his face into his neck and cups the back of his head and focuses on not saying I’m sorry. 

“I’m proud of you too, kid,” Ryan tells him, and then he has to focus on keeping his composure. 

“Thanks, Nuggy.” Nuge hugs him a little tighter before he lets him go. 

Knoblauch comes in and tells them that he’s proud of the way they gave themselves a chance, that the belief they had until the end wasn’t for nothing, and that they’ve been an honour to coach.

“I know it’s a long way home,” there’s some dry chuckles, “and I know you’ll all be replaying the game and thinking of what-ifs, but I want you to remember what it took to get here, and to know that you have that ability in you, and for that you should be proud.

“Alright. Shower, get dressed, let’s get you home.”

There’s a knock at the door. 

“Connor, they want you to accept the Conn Smythe.”

Connor wants to throw up. He doesn’t think he can get up. He thinks if he goes out and sees the Panther’s lifting the Cup above their heads across the ice while he has to shake Bettman’s hand over a trophy that feels like the worst consolation prize he’s ever received, he might actually hurl his pregame chicken and pasta onto the chewed up ice. He tries to steel himself to go. Thinks about lacing up his skates. 

“You don’t have to go,” Leon tells him. 

“I’m not going,” Connor says, before he thinks he’s decided. 

Later, he’ll say it’s an honour. They’ll hear it in his voice how little he cares in the moment. Maybe down the line, when he’s hung up his skates and they’ve put his jersey in the rafters, he’ll list it among his greatest accomplishments. Now, it’s a stark reminder of brushing his fingertips against his dreams.

[persuiteerp]

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[rotzaprachim]

shouldn’t let me write fics of high school shows because I will feel the need to remind everyone what fucking idiots high schoolers are

[conceptofjoy]

I think dirks philosophy stuff is so silly I genuinely think Andrew hussie either read Plato in undergrad or skimmed the Wikipedia page 😭

for sure lol but i was in the library and im listening to what the old men were throwing down so i was like hey why dont yall hop into my bag and continue ur discussion at my place and they were like as long as you got enough olive oil to placate our ancient greekean fetish brah

[gayemeralds]

Whats your honest opinion aboutnthe fandoms love for sonic and tails brotherly bonding biven that canon is not as strong on that regard

sorry for waiting like. months. to answer this question i’ve been pondering the best way to answer this for literally. months.

i guess the thing is i’ve never really thought about the domesticity of their relationship? a lot of fan things that depict them as brothers are very domestic, the little interactions between them living together and all that. sonic brushing tails’s fur. sonic telling tails to eat his vegetables. them shopping together. things like that. like, i do think they are brothers, and that they view themself as brothers, but i guess i don’t see them as conventional brothers? i’m not quite sure how to articulate this. like they ARE brothers, and they care about each other, and have a different sort of relationship than knuckles and sonic, and sonic and amy, and sonic and cream. but i wouldnt say they’d be anything like ed and al from fma. hm. it took literally thirty years to hear sonic call tails his brother in a game.

like, when i think of them, i’m inclined to think of my sister and i’s relationship. we’re about six years apart, no siblings in between. we love each other a lot, but we don’t see each other a whole lot, because we’re just in super different parts of our lives. i don’t live with her, but i’ll crash on her couch every once in a while. i don’t see her often. i am excited to see her when she visits.

so like, i think sonic did raise tails, in a sense. i think sonic probably took care of him when they first started hanging out and tails was literally just four years old. but sonic’s independent by nature and older by a good chunk of years, and i don’t really think he’d actually enjoy taking care of someone. sonic CARES and loves tails but i would not say he’s a nurturer, and he doesn’t want to be tied down. so once tails got a workshop, assumedly around sonic adventure (at least, a stable one), sonic ditched. i don’t think the two of them live together. sonic’s literally homeless and loves to wander the world for like, months on end. i don’t think sonic and tails do chores together. i don’t think sonic’s at tails’s workshop for long periods of time. maybe to crash on his couch and read a book every once in a while.

sonic visits, yeah, but i also think there’s just long periods of time where they don’t see each other. early sonic games from adventure to the “dark” era of sonic games indicate they don’t see each other for long periods of time (”long time no see!”) and when they do see each other, its often because of a new scheme from eggman or a danger to the world. like, sonic 06- they didn’t even plan on meeting each other, they just happened to cross paths.

i don’t know if this particularly makes sense. i just don’t really see them being particularly domestic together. neither of them are conventional people, and sonic especially is the type to enjoy alone time and adventuring; tails is a little more inclined to stay in place so he can work on his new machines, traveling usually for research or to help sonic. they’ve got different motivations and hobbies so i think they don’t actually spend a lot of time together. it’s probably similar to how much time sonic and knuckles spend together, since knuckles is almost always stuck on angel island with the master emerald.

(plus, if we consider the timeline sega’s been trying to tell us, where every game seems to happen in the span of a year, and tails has always been eight and sonic’s always been 15, or something similar, where tails isn’t a literal toddler when they meet, i really don’t see them doing anything domestic together at all. sonic’s always on the road and tails is off doing inventing or occasionally helping sonic out. if tails wasn’t four-ish when they meet, i don’t really think sonic would... like, take care of him the same way a “parent” would. amy rents her own house in station square, and she’s like twelve. it seems to be the norm, at least in our perspective, that young mobians are allowed to be left to their own devices; like, we still don’t know what’s up with charmy and the chaotix. sure, he could ahve been adopted by vector i suppose, or are his parents just super chill with him hanging out with a bunch of detectives? lmao. and besides, tails is a pretty smart cookie. he really can take care of himself, and sonic would just leave him be since he seems “old enough”, at least in the sonic world, to do so.)

[classics-cocks-and-concoctions]

The way I can do this for a book I’m reading for fun but when I have to read a book for school suddenly im strapped for words