#there's just no je ne sais quoi.......no flair...........

[ravenkings]

the fact that jude law captain hook looks like this.....................jason isaacs girlies #staywinning 😘😘😘

[p0orbaby]

Centre Court

summary: you’re starting to think that tennis is an aphrodisiac

warnings: suggestive, mentions of sexy times

a/n: yes, i know wimbledon is long gone…

word count: 1.2k

-

You’re on your annual trip to Wimbledon. A place where the scent of freshly cut grass and overpriced strawberries mingles with the murmur of the crowd. Leah’s next to you, a distracting presence as always, her elbow grazing yours every time she shifts. You wonder if anyone else can feel the static electricity she generates with every casual brush against your arm.

“You know…” she begins, pulling your attention from the back-and-forth of the second point.

“Hm?” you hum, eyes glued to the court despite the magnetic pull of her voice. It’s the kind of acknowledgement that means, ‘Please don’t say anything outrageous, we’re in public,’ but you both know that’s wishful thinking.

“You’d look good in one of those little skirts,” she murmurs, her tone low and familiarly conspiratorial. There’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s not really talking about tennis anymore. You’re not sure why you’re so surprised.

You chuckle softly, your eyes drifting to the player’s attire. You had to admit they wouldn’t look out of place in your wardrobe. “Oh, would I now?” you reply, raising an eyebrow at her. “And what makes you think that?” It’s a rhetorical question, though Leah’s known for her uncanny ability to undress you with her eyes.

Leah leans in closer, her breath warm against your ear. “Just a hunch. You’ve got the legs for it. And besides, I’d love to see you show them off.” Her words tickle your ear, and you suppress a shiver even under the rays of the sun.

You smirk, finally turning to meet her gaze. “You’re awfully bold, aren’t you, Miss Williamson?” You try to sound stern, but your lips betray you, curling into a smile.

She shrugs, her grin widening. “I know what I like. And I know I’d like you in one of those skirts.” Her tone is as casual as if she were discussing the weather, but her eyes tell a different story.

You shake your head, amused. “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen, baby”

Leah’s eyes darken, a playful glint there that promises trouble. “True, but these outfits have that certain… je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” you tease, nudging her with your elbow. “A bit of French flair to spice things up?”

The match continues, punctuated by grunts and the rhythmic thwack of the ball. You’re only half paying attention now, Leah’s words and the heat in her stare pulling you in. Her hand rests lightly on your thigh, a touch that’s barely there but feels like a live wire.

“You think you could keep up with me?” you challenge, a playful edge in your tone.

Leah’s smirk turns into a full-blown grin. “Oh, I know I could. I’ve got stamina for days, babe”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a laugh in the quiet of the court. “Big talk for someone who’s never seen me play”

Leah’s fingers tighten slightly on your thigh, her eyes locked onto yours, swimming with amusement and something else that makes your pulse quicken. “Maybe we should find out,” she says, her voice low and full of confident assurance.

You’re about to bite back when a particularly loud cheer from the crowd reminds you of where you are. You glance around, half-expecting to see a camera trained on the two of you, but the spectators are blissfully unaware of the electric current between you and your girlfriend.

“Behave,” you whisper, though the word lack the conviction needed to stop your mate in her tracks.

Leah leans in, her lips brushing your ear. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

You shake your head again, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible”

Leah’s fingers begin to trace small, infuriatingly light patterns on your thigh, the sensation sending shivers up your spine. “Impossible? I prefer determined,” she says, her voice dripping with mock innocence.

You try to refocus on the game, but it’s a losing battle. The players might as well be on another planet for all you care right now. Leah’s hand inches higher, and you give her a sideways glance.

“Leah, we’re supposed to be watching the match,” you murmur, though your tone lacks any real reprimand.

“Oh, I am,” she assures you, her eyes never leaving yours. “I’m just multitasking.” Her hand gives your thigh a gentle squeeze, her thumb brushing just a bit too close to where it shouldn’t be in public.

You let out a small, involuntary gasp, quickly covering it with a cough. Leah’s grin is all too pleased with herself. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” you warn, though you can’t deny the thrill coursing through you.

Leah’s other hand joins the fun, now resting at the base of your neck. Her thumb begins to make small, maddening circles just behind your ear. You try to keep your focus on the game, but the match is losing its grip on you, fast.

“Remember the first time we came here together?” Leah’s voice breaks into your thoughts, once more.

You do remember. It was less about the game and more about the impromptu christening of the private box. “Vaguely,” you respond, the memory making your cheeks warm. “I recall you getting us kicked out”

Leah laughs, the sound drawing a few more curious glances. “I’d say it was worth it, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you reply, grinning at the recollection. Leah had insisted on testing just how soundproof those VIP boxes were. Spoiler: not very.

Leah’s hand squeezes your thigh gently, her fingers drifting higher. “It’s funny, you know. How you always pretend to be so proper and composed”

You arch an eyebrow at her. “Pretend?”

“Yeah,” she continues, her voice a seductive whisper. “Like that time at the charity gala, when you were giving a speech and I—”

“You really want to bring that up here?” you interrupt, your heart pounding at the memory. Leah had been insufferable, sneaking suggestive touches under the table before you tried to maintain your composure on stage.

Leah smirks, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Just saying, you’ve got a wild side. And I love bringing it out”

You glance around again, paranoid about the camera but also thrilling at the risk. Leah’s hand ventures even higher, and you place your hand over hers to stop her. “Leah, we’re in public”

She pouts, but there’s a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “Fine. For now.” Her fingers retreat, but she leaves a lingering touch that promises more mischief later.

As the match progresses, Leah continues her playful torment, her fingers wandering back to your thigh at every opportunity. You can’t help but recall all the other public places where she’s pushed the boundaries: the quiet corners of museums, the back rows of cinemas, even that one unforgettable time on a nearly deserted beach.

You lean in close to Leah, your lips brushing against her ear. “You keep this up and we’re going to have to find somewhere private,” you warn, your voice a low murmur.

Leah’s grin is positively wicked. “Now that sounds like a plan.” She glances around, then her eyes settle back on you, filled with that familiar, enticing mischief. “How about we slip out after this set?”

[k-hippie]

TAROT CARDS LEARNING DECO SET - HALLOWEEN 2024

Unfogging the Future ...

The future is mysterious, but your Sims' décor doesn’t have to be! This set brings the magic of tarot into your Sims’ lives with a beautifully detailed deck of cards from the classic Rider Waite ...

Perfect for those who dabble in divination or just enjoy a little mystical flair on their coffee table. Whether your Sim is predicting the next big love affair or simply trying to figure out why the fridge keeps breaking, these cards will definitely make them feel more enlightened. Or at least, more stylish.

10 swatches to choose from, there’s a card design for every mood—gloomy, hopeful, or “I totally saw that breakup coming” Each swatch gives a different combination of cards, ensuring your Sims can switch up their fortune-telling aesthetic whenever the spirits ( or their ever-changing home décor tastes ) demand it.

And here’s the real magic :D if you place them on a glass table, the back of the cards is fully visible :) Why settle for just one mystical side when you can show off both? The detailed, ornate card backs will impress even the most skeptical of Sims ;)

So, whether your Sim is seriously into tarot or just looking for that perfect "je ne sais quoi" for their haunted or witchy vibe, these cards are a maybe must-have ;)

Remember, this is just a deco clutter ...

download here

...

[lineffability]

The Serpent Files 🐍

chapters: 5/5 rating: M/E wordcount: 13.9k au: human, the magnus archives

summary: Aziraphale works as the head archivist at Eden Institute. Crowley has been supplying them with potentially cursed artifacts over the years -- until he himself gets entangled in a case that turns him from associate to client...

[ art credit and support credit and 1000 hugs to: @chernozemm my beloved ]

start reading:

“Ouroboros. Yes. The introductory statement is meant to be concise, though, akin to a title. You can describe the necklace in detail in your statement, Crowley. Also, I need you to state your name. It occurs to me I don't actually know it. I mean. I'm not saying I want to know your full name, or anything. Just, all these years– erm. You'd have to state it anyway. For formality's sake. We have a system.”

“Sure. So. Name's Crowley.”

“I… know that part. [sighs] Full names, please, throughout.”

“Ah. Anthony J Crowley.”

“I said full names, please. What's the J stand for?”

“Erm. Uh. Just a J, really. Thought it added a certain gravitas, y’know, flair. Je ne sais quoi. Makes people treat you serious, a J like that.”

“Uh. Alright. Well. Anthony J. Crowley, then. I suppose. Seriously? [clears throat] So. Please start from the beginning.”

“Mmmmhhhh wellll. I’ve been coming to Eden for, what, now, six years maybe?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

“Anyway, not like I go here often. We’ve met a handful of times, you and me, maybe nine, ten? I mean, it was ten times. I know. Uh. Not like I counted or anything. Just, coming here, it stays with you a bit, doesn’t it? All that occult shit. Which is why I come here, of course. I’m – what should I call it? A… supplier. Of sorts. I work with – this is confidential, right?”

“Yes. Internal use only. We don’t give out those files. Your words are safe with me. Erm. Us.”

“Good. Right. I work with the Doomsday Group. Can’t really talk about it much, but you’ve heard of them. Shady stuff, crime, theft, trade, religious artifacts, apocalyptic jazz, all that. Supernatural stuff, too, sometimes. Or claimed supernatural. You know I don’t believe in all that. Well. Didn’t. I didn’t believe in it. Now… uh, anyway. Sometimes we get those weird artifacts, right, apparently cursed, so I bring them to you, to, to check, or verify, or call bullshit. Or to lock them away, or whatever you do with them when you buy them off our lot. That’s how we met. Best part of this shit job, really, if I’m being honest. I didn’t ask to be– hm. Wish I could just– ngh. Confidential, right? Wish I could just be done with them. Run off. Can’t, though. But erm. Forget I said that, alright? Please.”

[pause] “You're rambling a bit, de- Crowley. Or should I, should I call you Anthony now?”

“Hell no. I mean – Crowley's fine. You've called me Crowley for years, haven't you? What, now you don't like it?”

“No, no, I do in fact quite – well, for propriety’s sake, the official documentation, I thought – nevermind. So, Crowley, while the background information on your…job is reasonable, might I politely remind you why you’re here? Please talk less about our personal relationship, or at least only insofar as it pertains to the case, and more about what happened to you since… since you put on that necklace.”

“Right. Righty-oh. S’ just, never been in this room before. The tape recorder, all that. I’ve only ever been here as a sort of… co-worker? Nah. You’re not my co-worker, you’re better than that. As a tradesman. So to be here as a client , it feels… surreal.”

“That is understandable. I trust you will muddle through, though.”

“Hey – remember the first thing I said when I came here? Today, I mean.”

[continue reading]

[wizardbracket]

Round 5: Match 1 of 4

(Battle of the German mud wizards)

PROPAGANDA UNDER THE BREAK

Why they deserve to be the ultimate wizard according to YOU:

Caleb:

Vanquished (so far): Essek Thelyss, Adaine Abernant, VR-LA, Will Byers

"consider: Caleb said 'you were not born with venom in your veins. you learned it.'"

"Caleb is a disaster bisexual middle aged ginger with mud in his pockets and an emotional support cat who is also an octopus at times"

"he's literally a little german boy."

"he's an angry ape he's got zero muscle tissue on his body he's a professional diplomat he smells like literal shit all the time."

"There will never be a better wizard than Caleb Widogast"

"Caleb deadass planned to rewrite time to fix his childhood mistakes"

"He is peak sad wizard boy energy, but also has that little bit of flair that is essential to any wizard"

“Caleb just has that je ne sais quoi”

"Caleb has a cat!!!"

“Dedicated his life to learning the ultimate magic to change reality & fix his mistakes, and also opposes the magic CIA.”

“Chaotic bisexual snarky powerful wizard who married a war criminal and killed a living city”

Mud Wizard:

Vanquished (so far): NZ/Aotearoa Wizard, Amaury Guichon, Orb Wizard, Vermin Supreme

"Actual real-life wizard beats out any fantasy/literary/tv wizard"

"he fought the police while being knee deep in mud"

"i just learned about german mud wizard but i respect his field tactics"

"Mud wizard has field experience ... mud wizard is the one you need on a battlefield"

"I'm sure the other dude is very cool but throwing cops in the mud >>>>>>"

"my boy mud wizard getting the recognition he deserves. there is a mud wizard in all of us. and it says ACAB"

"absolutely german mud wizard its not even a question"

"German mud wizard uses his powers for good"

"Mud wizard is objectively cooler"

"Mud wizard takes direct action against cops. He's doing good old fashioned wizardry ... mud wizard embraces the chaos of magic"

“Outplayed cops with mud magic.”

[locked-in-the-tomb]

Maybe projecting my personal opinion here, but the "worst" part of the Ianthe-Babs situation (from their point of view) is that Ianthe Naberius is just cooler than Ianthe Tridentarius. Babs was an immaculate, stylish, cocky showoff and monching on him has given Ianthe a sense of theatricality that is so fucking fascinating. I know she had some flair for the dramatic all her own (can you grow up on the Third without it?), but Babs has still clearly given her just that added touch of piquancy, a certain je ne sais quoi. They are brilliant together and they would both hate that fact SO much.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 8

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** So, a rogue and a bard walk into an inn... ***

“You know, Durge, I don’t mean to insult Gale - he is the smartest man I know, probably - but coming up with names is probably not his strongest suit. Durge lacks a certain… I don’t know, it lacks a certain…”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

It was rare for Raphael to speak a single word while they made their way towards Baldur’s Gate through the night.  As much as Raphael clearly loved the sound of his own voice when he held all the cards, he was much less inclined to speak now that he was markedly at a disadvantage. He usually walked at the back in sullen silence, with Wyll and Durge right in front of him carrying a torch and Astarion and Halsin further ahead, putting their darkvision to use. To be honest, sometimes as they talked among them they almost forgot he was there. His voice made them recoil, and turn back.

“Was that Infernal?” Halsin asked, and got a shrug in reply.

“Something similar.”

“Abyssal, then? The language of demons?” Astarion guessed.

“That does depend on who you ask,” Raphael replied. He didn’t seem inclined to add any further clarification, and the conversation turned to other matters as they walked through much of the night.

However, a few hours later Wyll went back to… well, names. If it were up to him, Durge mused, everyone would have such impressive-sounding names, no name would seem at all impressive anymore.

“I have grown attached to Durge, I’m afraid,” they chuckled. “Odd as it sounds. I think I may just stick with it.”

Wyll made a vague gesture with the hand carrying the torch. “I understand, but you could add something. For a little more flair.”

“I take it you have suggestions?”

“How about… D’urge?”

“... That’s exactly the same?”

“But, with an apostrophe!”

“Why?”

“Ah, a y is indeed a good letter, but not the best for every name. Dyrge doesn’t quite click, does it? Although perhaps--”

“Is this kind of talk how you bested the Netherbrain?” Raphael spoke up. He somehow sounded both weary and genuinely curious. “I for one can feel the contents of my skull shrink with every word you push past your lips.”

“I can take a dagger to your ears if you think that would help,” Astarion suggested without turning, and Raphael had the good sense not to respond. However, Halsin did turn, as did Durge.  For Raphael to speak during their nightly marches was rare enough, but what really caught their attention was how weary he sounded - and it probably wasn’t because his brain was truly shrinking.

In the flicker of the torch Durge couldn’t see him as clearly as Halsin surely did, but when he stumbled on a root and barely caught himself before falling, they did notice how it took him a few moments to actually regain his footing. 

“... You seem a little tired,” Halsin said, not unkindly. “Perhaps we should have ended that sparring march earlier than we did, after all. Did you not get enough rest before we set off?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Raphael snapped, and staggered again in a way that very much suggested he was not perfectly fine. To be fair he had recently recovered form grievous injuries, they had been walking through the night for nearly a week with heavy backpacks, and he was very much dealing with the limitations of a human body that was, frankly, a few years past its prime. 

When Durge instinctively reached out to catch him, he leaned heavily on their arm rather than pulling away like he’d touched-- well, a rat. It made them all pause, and Durge cast Dancing Lights to better illuminate their surroundings. Once they could see clearly, Durge could tell that Halsin’s choice to describe him as ‘a little tired’ had been a kindness in itself: he looked exhausted.

“I think we have covered enough distance to warrant an early stop,” Durge said. After all, they were only hours away from dawn, and the drizzle that had bothered them through most of the night was starting to turn into actual rain. Against their feverishly warm scales, Raphael felt cold even through clothes; that may very well be the reason why he was not pulling away. 

“... If we can push ahead just another couple of hours, we should reach a town on this side of the Chionthar,” Wyll spoke, gesturing to the path ahead with the torch and forcing Astarion to duck under it. “It’s called Sunridge. We passed right by it last time, but it has a really nice inn. They make some of the best rabbit in wine-currant sauce I’ve ever tasted. If the day will be as rainy as tonight promises, it would be nice to spend it in a room with actual beds in it.”

“Wyll, that sounds excellent. Not the rabbit, not for me, but a warm room and a real bed would be very much welcome,” Astarion declared, and turned back. “If the old man can bear another short walk, that is. Ah, don’t look at me like that. You are by far the oldest here.”

“Speaking of bear, I could turn into one and carry him,” Halsin offered, gaining himself a laugh from Astarion and a snort from Raphael.

“You really only want an excuse to change form, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. I can walk,” Raphael snapped, and pulled away from Durge. Before anyone could point out the obvious fact he’d likely collapse within the hour by the looks of it, he pulled out the lyre and played a few notes. The sense of relief was immediate, and Durge looked around to see the others looked perkier, too. Of course, they thought, the Song of Rest. Useful little spell, that. 

“Well, that was nice,” Wyll commented, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael. The magic had helped with some of the exhaustion, but clearly not with his mood.

“Glad to be of service,” he muttered, not sounding glad in the slightest. “Let us head to the inn, then. I shall gladly bear the walk as long as you keep quiet.”

They did reach the town and its inn within a couple of hours, as Wyll had said, only to find that the inn had no vacant rooms. The disappointment was somehow mitigated by the fact that, despite the late hour - or early hour, depending on what side of the day one looked at it from - the innkeeper was still able to bring them a hot meal.

“We’re hosting our annual Three-Dragon Ante tournament, from noon through the evening, and we’re full with players who came to sign up from out of town,” she explained, placing hot soup, roast rabbit, candied almonds and mulled wine on the table. “I do have some space available in the attic, if you have nowhere else to go, but I doubt more than two people could squeeze in there. I am very sorry.”

“Ah, I see.” Wyll sighed. “No need to apologize, it was bad timing from our--”

“Actually, the attic sounds good to me,” Astarion cut him off, and smiled at the innkeeper, gesturing to Raphael. From his part, Raphael had finished the soup and bread in a few bites and was staring intently at the candied almonds. Very intently. A little odd, that, really. He must be more tired than they thought, Song of Rest and all. “Our friend here is exhausted, and I expect a few hours of rest on a proper mattress would do him good. If you could accommodate the two of us in the attic, we’d be truly grateful.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can be arranged. I’ll have mattresses and blankets brought up, give it a quick clean while you finish your meal. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a lifesaver, my friend.” Another bright smile and the innkeeper was off, leaving Astarion to turn to Durge. “You don’t mind, do you, love? Someone has to keep an eye on him, may as well be me. Staying out of the rain for a while might make my hair more manageable, too,” he added with a sigh, running a hand through impossibly well-coffered hair. 

Later on, Durge would feel more than a little foolish for not immediately guessing Astarion was planning something: with the shared goal of getting to the Hells, there hadn’t really been any need to keep that close an eye on Raphael in the first place. But they were tired from the walk, and a little distracted by the fact Raphael was proceeding to absolutely demolish the entire dish of candied almonds by himself. They simply assumed Astarion wanted to sleep in a real bed for once, and couldn’t fault him for it. 

“Of course, it sounds good. We’ll camp nearby and be back at sundown,” they said. Astarion smiled, and turned to Halsin.

“I know you’re probably looking for an excuse to wander around on four legs again, but would you stay in the tent with them today? Their sleep hasn’t been great lately.”

“That’s not nece--” Durge began, only for Halsin to cut them off. 

“Of course, you need not even ask,” he said, with an eagerness that made Durge suspect they may not be getting a lot of sleep, and that settled it. The innkeeper announced the attic was ready just as they finished their meal, and they took their leave just as the sun rose.

Durge did not notice - none of them did - that their backpacks were only slightly lighter, their gold pouches gone.

***

When Israfel first arrived in Cania, all he had to hold onto was a bag of almond sweets.

There were other things he’d wanted to take with him, all his books and his lyre and his clothes, but everything had moved so fast. Duke Barbas - tall as he was wide, with a mane of black hair slicked with oil and flowing red robes - had refused a forced invitation to stay for a meal while Israfel gathered his belongings. Barbas had declined with a politeness that did little to conceal his disdain.

“As much as I’d love to accept, Lord Sunspear,” he’d said, very purposely misremembering the name, “I am in quite a hurry to return to Cania, as I have other duties to tend to and my liege lord is not a patient master. The boy’s belongings can be collected at a later time.”

Israfel had felt Lord Starspire’s hold on his shoulder tighten, pulling him closer to his side, but there was nothing he could do to keep him there and they both knew it. “His lordship can allow us a few minutes, I hope,” Lord Starspire had spoken, gaze low despite the furious tremor in his limbs, “for Israfel to--”

“Raphael,” Duke Barbas had cut him off, and dropped his gaze on Israfel. He’d smiled with no warmth. “Lord Mephistopheles is keen to choose the names of every spawn he welcomes home. Your name is Raphael.”

Israfel may have protested at being renamed like a dog changing master, if not for his surprise. He’d blinked, taken aback. “Mephistopheles? The archdevil?”

Barbas’ jet black eyebrows had gone up almost to his hairline. He glanced over at Lord Starspire, whose grip on Israfel's shoulder had turned heavy as stone. He looked surprised and oddly delighted. “You mean to tell me you never told the boy who sired?”

The man had swallowed, and looked down at Israfel, whose mind still reeled at the notion that his sire wasn’t just a devil, but the Lord of the Eighth. He had read stories about Lord Mephistopheles, his might and his fury, the power second only to that of Asmodeus himself. And he’d been reading about his father, all along? Israfel had stared at Lord Starspire, eyes wide, and the man’s own eyes seemed to veil with tears. 

“Forgive me, boy. I’d planned to tell you, but I’d grown to hope this day would never--”

“Well!” Duke Barbas exclaimed, clapping his hands once and causing both to recoil. “Now that that has been cleared up, I think it would be proper for Raphael to discard that disguise. He won’t be needing it anymore,” he added, gesturing vaguely at him.

Israfel had wanted to tell him it was no disguise, that this body was real and his own just as much as the one with horns and wings, but the devil before him had raised an impatient eyebrow and he’d suddenly felt very, very small. He’d breathed out and willed his form to change back, from human to fiend. It gained him that smile devoid of warmth again, and the weight of his stepfather’s hand on his shoulder was gone.

A satisfied click of his tongue, and Barbas had nodded. “Much better. Your Lord father summons you, little duke. You may say your goodbyes, but be quick.”

The goodbyes had been quick indeed and most of it had been a blur, too fast for his usually nimble mind to catch up. He’d remember Nan holding him tight, whispering something-- You’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that, come back see us -- and he’d remember a few people crying, and the cook pushing something in his hand, a small bag of his favorite almond sweets. 

Last had been Lord Starspire, who’d crouched and pulled him close in an embrace that Israfel-- not anymore, he had a new name now, didn’t he-- was too overwhelmed to return. He couldn’t make himself say anything, his tongue heavy as lead. “Be careful,” was all Lord Starspire managed to whisper in his ear, then he’d pulled back and stood. 

As the boy nodded and stepped back as well, Duke Barbas had cleared his throat. “Come, boy. It’s time to join your kind,” he’d called, holding out a hand. 

Raphael had taken it, and that-- love-- was that.

***

Astarion was not, usually, a details kind of guy. 

He saw little point in planning and plotting when, more often than not, some absolutely insane shit would inevitably happen and make all the aforementioned planning and plotting entirely useless. He’d rather just keep his knives sharp and close at hand, and his eyes peeled. 

This time, however, the situation did require some strategic planning and so plan he did. Quite brilliantly, if he said so himself, paragon of humbleness that he was. A perfect plan that would see them leave a couple dozen thousand pieces of gold richer, allowing them to get Helsik to open that portal to Avernus for them… and have enough left over to buy the best supplies available to give them a better chance at surviving the Hells than a literal snowball. It would all work out perfectly.

If the devil did indeed know how to play Three-Dragon Ante, of course. If not, Astarion hoped he was a very quick learner, or they would be utterly screwed. The others just might be a little cross to learn all their collective gold was gone. 

Ah well. The die was cast, and it was time to find out how it landed.

“Hey, old man, wake up,” Astarion called out, shaking Raphael by the shoulder. He made a noise, trying to shake his hand off, to no avail. “Come now, you’re fine. I’ve let you sleep almost six hours.”

“What do you want, spawn?” Raphael muttered, voice thick with sleep. He sat up, blinking, but of course he could see next to nothing in the dark. Not anymore. “What time is it?”

“It’s time you get up and play your part to win us some gold, that’s what.”

“Wha--”

“Because we do need gold. Badly. You can play Three-Dragon Ante, yes?”

Raphael grunted, running a hand over his face. “I can play any game you mortals ever dreamed up and several you never did, obviously. But what--”

“And are you any good?”

“I am not going to deign that with an answer.”

“I’ll take it as a yes. Great. Come downstairs, the tournament is about to start.”

Raphael’s hand stilled midway through brushing back his hair. Astarion could see him frown while putting two and two together. “... The tournament the innkeeper kept going on about - you signed me up?”

“I did, so you can win that nice prize of ten thousand gold pieces. And I bet all of our money on you, so if we’re to pay our way into Hells, you know what to do.”

“And you didn’t think of asking me--”

Astarion laughed. “Don’t be absurd, of course I did! But you would have said no. Plus the others would have said no, and we really don’t need all that nonsense. It’s a nice simple plan, really. You go downstairs, sit your ass on a chair, and don’t get up until you’ve won every single game and claimed the prize. That should be easy for you. Unless, of course, you think you may lose to mortals.”

“If that’s an attempt at goading me into doing your bidding, it’s amateurishly transparent and--”

“By the way, if anyone asks, your name is Wulbren Bongle.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, darling. Up now, they won’t wait for you. And stop frowning, I’m sure beating scores of people at something will make you feel good.”

Raphael scoffed. “Would stepping on insects make you feel good?” he muttered, and Astarion smiled in the dark. 

“Yes, actually.”

“... Of course it would,” Raphael muttered, but he did start feeling around for his boots, and Astarion considered the argument won.

***

“So, you found him well.”

“I’d say well is somewhat of an overstatement. He’s doing acceptably, for someone who was only recently turned into a mere mortal. Certainly an improvement from the state he was in when I took him to the Material Plane, though I regret to inform you his skill in bed has not likewise improved.”

“... That was not among my most pressing queries. Or anywhere among my queries.”

“Ah, I suppose that is not something that’s usually shared with one’s mother, hmm? Apologies.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“Don’t take it personally, dear. I’m never sorry for anything.”

Dalah held back a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I am no one’s mother,” she muttered. In the back of her mind, she remembered being terrified as months passed and her belly swelled. She’d heard enough stories to know what fate befell any mortal mother of a half-fiend, but ending the pregnancy would gain her an archdevil’s ire, and her husband’s certain death on the battlefield. In the end, it had been for Rahirek. It had always been for him.

She remembered locking herself in her rooms when flowing robes could no longer hide her state, and she remembered spending nights awake praying to any gods she knew of. She remembered what she promised, too.

Let me live, and I’ll learn to love the child. 

But she had not lived, and that promise no longer mattered.

“... I was but the means to bring a spawn of Mephistopheles into the world,” she muttered in the end, her voice bitter as bile. Haarlep tilted their head. 

“Well, you were rather successful. Half-fiends seldom live all that long. The least impressive ones are meat for the Blood War, and the more impressive ones tend to bite off more than they can chew sooner or later, and pay the price. Raphael lasted more than  most. I am pretty sure he is Mephistopheles’ oldest living son, really.”

“It seems to me he did bite off more than he could chew.”

A shrug. “Eventually, yes. But it was always going to happen. That’s how cambions are.”

“That’s how all devils are.”

“Cambions most of all. Nearly all of them think they have something to prove, the silly things.” A shrug, and they grabbed an orange from a silver tray next to the bed. “And how’s the other half of him faring?”

“It’s hard to tell. It-- he seems restless. But he hasn’t attacked anyone without provocation. He has some form of control over himself, at least.”

“And the little trick with the name still works?”

“Yes. He stills whenever I speak it. He almost let me-- I think he may have let me touch him.”

“Good thing you didn’t, or you’d have to make do without hands. Still, interesting. It wasn’t a fluke, then.” Haarlep smiled, seemingly delighted, and finished peeling the orange to eat a slice. “That may be very useful.”

“Useful for what? What is it she’s planning?”

“My lips are sealed. You know that.” A pause, and they shrugged before eating another slice. “As in for talking, not for--”

Dalah held back a groan. “Yes, I know what you mean,” she muttered, already regretting trying to get an answer out of the incubus. They were far from the worst company to keep in Mephistar - not that it was a high bar to step over - but the longer any conversation went, the more she found herself thinking that being torn from the inside out while birthing a devil was perhaps not the most excruciating thing she had ever gone through after all. 

“It’s not personal of course. She clearly trusts you to a degree - why else task you to give him the ring?”

Because it’s on me, Dalah thought. He’s my doing as much as Mephistopheles’. 

Still, she chose to ignore the question. “Have you spoken with her at all since last time?” she asked instead. Duke Baalphegor could change her appearance just as easily as Haarlep could change theirs; it made sense that any communication would take place between the two of them, who knew in what disguises. It was the most sensible way to go about it, and Duke Baalphegor was nothing if not sensible. She had to be, to keep her loyalty to both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles for so many centuries. Until recently, that was.

In an official capacity at least, no one really knew the reason why Mephistopheles’ long-time consort had left Mephistar quite so suddenly. However, for the many qualities even his victims could begrudgingly recognize Mephistopheles possessed, subtlety was not among them. His bursts of temper were not all that rare, but few recalled seeing one quite as terrible as the one that had followed the disappearance of the Crown of Karsus from his vault. 

… That may be partly due to the fact that most close witnesses to his tantrums rarely lived to tell the tale, truth be told, but that day his fury had been felt throughout the citadel, and probably through the entire glacier it was perched upon. And while there were many accusations one may move against the devils who formed the upper crust of Mephistar’s hierarchy, no one could accuse them of being stupid. They had immediately noticed that Duke Baalphegor had seemingly disappeared immediately afterwards, and put two and two together. More or less.

Among them, some whispered that Mephistopheles had destroyed her because he thought she’d played a role in the theft of the Crown; others said he had taken her prisoner. Others yet, more shrewd, knew that even in anger Mephistopheles would not risk Asmodeus’ ire quite so brazenly, killing such a close ally of his. 

“Think of it, our Lord of Hellfire has always coveted Asmodeus’ throne--”

“Nearly every archdevil does, Quagrem, except perhaps Zariel with her obsession for battle. Or do I need to remind you what became of Levistus?”

“Ah, but none was ever brave enough to say as much in Asmodeus’ face. Why then would he sit on that crown and its power for so long, without using it for his highest goal?”

“It was the work of a mere mortal, who tried and failed to be something more. Perhaps it was not powerful enough to take on the Lord Below, even on his brow.”

“Or perhaps, Duke Baalphegor convinced him not to use it. Perhaps she even used your same arguments. Everyone with sense knows that Baalphegor’s diplomacy was all that’s kept the Lord of Nessus from removing Mephistopheles--”

“Do you truly think Duke Baalphegor had a hand in taking the Crown?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Nexroth. She certainly did not sneak in the vault like a common thief, and may not even know who did, but think of it - she convinces him not to use a powerful artifact against Asmodei, he listens to her as he always does… and when the Crown goes missing, he’s lost the chance to ever use it. To her great credit, Baalphegor balanced her role as Mephistopheles’ consort and close ally of Asmodeus for millennia, but even she couldn’t keep it going forever.”

“And you believe the Crown incident is what upset that balance?”

“Can you think of anything else that might have?”

A pause, a hum. “... Perhaps there is truth to your words. But if that is so, the Lord of the Eighth is in a more precarious position than ever before. As you said, without Baalphegor here, Asmodeus’ tolerance may run thin.”

“Indeed it might,” was the reply, and that had been the end of the conversation, because neither was foolish enough to push it further, to even voice thoughts of a possible demise of Mephistopheles. Neither of them had paid the slightest attention to Dalah, and why should they? She was one of hundreds of thousands debtors doing menial tasks in the citadel, the vast majority of them uttering to themselves whatever gibberish crossed their broken minds. No one’s sanity lasted long, with few exceptions. 

Namely, Baalphegor’s personal attendants, all of them mortals who had been tricked or terrified into bearing children for her consort. As far as masters went, she was not unkind as long as instructions were followed… and she had extended some sort of protection over them, for none of them had lost their mind as other debtors eventually did. Not out of charity, clearly - it paid to have eyes and ears everywhere, those of debtors no one paid attention to - but Dalah cared little for her reasons as long as it kept her mind intact. 

Except that now, suddenly, she could think of nothing but her reasons. 

Saving Raphael, or at least part of him, had been a clear move against Mephistopheles - but to what end she couldn't begin to imagine. What game was she playing? Was it even just her game, or was it Asmodeus’? What role was Raphael supposed to play? What role could he play now that he was split into two beings, one enslaved and one a mere mortal?

Is he to be yet another lanceboard piece to sacrifice? Did I only delay his demise?

Not knowing ate at her, but one thing was clear: she may be on shaky ground but, very suddenly, even Mephistopheles’ position in the Hells didn’t seem all that secure anymore.

***

As it turned out, stepping on insects was making Raphael feel a great deal better indeed.

That was not something he planned on admitting to the spawn, of course. Not that he could have even if he wanted to, as players were not allowed to speak to anybody other than their opponents and the judges.

That, and Astarion was currently busy: it seemed that betting all the gold he had on him was not enough, and he had started his own little gambling ring. He was collecting small bets for each round from spectators whose chosen winner had clearly already lost, but who still had gold left to lose. 

And lose it they would, unless they did the clever thing and bet on him. 

Raphael smiled and leaned back on his chair, looking at the other five players in his group as they put down their cards. The only truly decent player, a half-orc with a sound strategic mind, had the highest strength flight by far; a quick calculation told her that Raphael could not possibly have a stronger one. Raphael allowed her a handful of seconds to celebrate her victory before putting down his own cards. The weakest flights by far, and yet…

“Unfortunately, my friend, I must claim this round.”

“What! Your flight is nowhere near--” she began, only to trail off when she properly paused to look at the cards.

Raphael smiled. “I have the Druid. The lowest strength flight wins,” he said, and smiled again - admittedly, only a touch smug - before leaning back to let the judge look over all flights and declare his victory, letting him pass the turn to the next game.

The announcement was not particularly well-received by the half-orc, who made her displeasure known by grabbing the judge and flinging him against a table where another game had just concluded. An impressive throw, considering that the judge was roughly the size of a particularly burly gnoll. 

A brief bout of chaos unfolded, several of the judges banding together to throw out the sore loser. Raphael ducked under a thrown stool, took a moment to drink a mouthful of wine, and looked over to his left. Astarion was distributing wins and pocketing his fees, but he paused a moment to look back and grin.

Raphael didn’t quite smile back, but the corners of his mouth curled up just a fraction, and he raised the goblet in a silent toast. Another sip of wine, and he looked around again. 

Several hours and many games in, the pool of players had significantly been narrowed down. They were now down to twelve tables and, in the last rounds, only one player would advance from each; two more games, then, and that entire travesty would be over with. Until then, he supposed he had no choice but to keep winning. 

Not the worst task in the world, he had to admit. Compared to the dismal experiences he’d had in the past half a year, this was almost… acceptable. 

As some semblance of order returned and the winners from their respective games were seated in groups of six, Raphael briefly considered losing on purpose right at the grand finale. Watching the spawn trying to explain to the rest of their companions where most of their gold went would be amusing, he had to admit… but they did need that gold to open up a portal to the Hells, so losing it would be too great an inconvenience to be worth it.

Perhaps the vampling’s little plan hadn’t been all that foolish after all. That, too, was something Raphael would definitely not admit aloud. 

He turned his attention back to the game instead, and went ahead to stomp on a few more insects on his way to his first victory in a long time. A laughably small victory, in the greater scale of things, but a victory nonetheless. 

May it be the first of many, he thought, and emptied his fourth goblet of wine just as finished his winning hand.

***

“I still maintain you should have told us what you were planning--”

“Thirty thousand gold.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to--”

“Sorry, love. I can’t hear your point over the jingling of thirty thousand gold.” Half drunk on the bottle of blood he was drinking from, Astarion sat more comfortably on the tree branch he was perched on along with Wyll. He turned to Raphael, who was precariously sitting on another branch, and grinned, lifting the bottle. “Sharee!”

“... What?”

“Isn’t it Infernal for ‘cheers’?”

“It means turnip.”

“Ah. Well-- cheers for the Three-Dragon Ante champion of Sunridge, who just made us rich. We’ll very much enjoy carrying this money to Baldur’s Gate, where we’ll promptly spend it all to go, literally, to Hell.”

As Astarion set to work to empty the bottle, Durge shifted a little on the fork in the tree trunk they were sitting on, with Halsin in his cat shape sitting across their shoulders. They glanced over at Raphael. “... Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

A shrug. “It was a childishly simple endeavor. Bragging would be poor form on my part.”

“He said, bragging,” Wyll muttered, but he seemed amused and even Raphael’s scoff sounded almost like a barely held-back chuckle. Durge suspected he’d had more than a couple of goblets of wine during the game, but said nothing of it and let their gaze wander back to the ground below, where they had set up two tents and started a fire, as visible as a beacon into the night. 

If anyone had set out after them with the intent of robbing them of the winnings - more a certainty than a probability, to be quite honest - they couldn’t miss it. What they would hopefully miss was the fact that the several barrels near the tents contained smokepowder.

“... Well. How much longer are we supposed to wait?” Raphael asked, and Durge shrugged, holding back a yawn. Sharing a tent with Halsin was rarely conducive to a sound, long rest. 

“I’d give it another hour at most,” they said, and they were not too far off: in the end, it took only about forty minutes before Halsin, still perched on Durge’s shoulder, hissed. They looked down to see shadows creeping at the edges of the small camp, a group of at least ten people. One dragonborn, from what Durge could tell, and a couple of dwarves, along with what was probably an half-orc and others who may have been human or elves - hard to tell. 

In the flickering light of the campfire, they watched them split in two groups, each surrounding a tent; weapons were brought up, swords and axes, and they fell on each tent, the silence of night broken by cries and hollers as they proceeded to hack at the tents and… well, at the people they assumed to be inside. 

“Not precisely professionals, these ones,” Wyll murmured. “Who wants to do the honors?”

“Oh,” Astarion whispered back, the grin almost audible in his voice. “I bet the devil wants to have a go. Don’t you, Raphael?”

“I’m surprised, spawn. I thought you’d be eager to end them yourself.”

“I’m just generous like that,” Astarion replied, his voice making clear he was also a little tipsy. Wyll reached to grab him by the shoulder, just to make sure he wouldn’t fall off the tree while he gestured widely at the scene below them. “Go on, old man. This shot’s all yours.”

“It will be my pleasure,” was the response, just as someone below spoke up.

“Wait a minute, there is no one he--”

“Ignis!” 

The firebolt shot through the air, a streak of bright light in the dark. For a moment it illuminated the faces of the bandits below - one of them saw them, a dragonborn with blood-red scales, but it was too late to do anything - and then the barrels of smokepowder blew up in a deafening explosion that covered any screams, and left their would-be killers no hope for survival. Bit of a shame to lose two tents like that but, Durge figured, better those than their skins.

The shockwave of the explosion was powerful enough to make Astarion entirely lose his balance, but Wyll caught his leg on time and he just dangled for a few moments upside down, laughing at the carnage below. He glanced up with a grin, the flames beneath turning his hair into a bright halo.

“Admit it, devil,” he said, holding up the hand that wasn’t clutching the now empty bottle. “You had fun today.”

Raphael scoffed, of course; he seemed to spend half his time doing that lately, so it wasn’t surprising. What did surprise Durge was the fact he actually leaned over to grab Astarion’s hand and help him back up on the tree while Halsin dismissed his wildshape and cast an ice storm at the fire below, to keep it from spreading to the forest. That particular task covered, Durge’s attention stayed on Astarion and Raphael.

“I suppose that your antics do provide a sort of childish entertainment,” Raphael was muttering. “For those who care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re drunk.”

“Sounds to me like you both had enough to drink,” Wyll laughed, only to recoil when both turned on him as one. 

“Look who’s talking!”

“That’s a bold stand from someone who guzzles wine like water at all times of the day.”

“Hey, that’s not--”

“Amazed the Blade still recalls what end of the blade he’s supposed to hold, really.”

“Granted, your passable taste in wine makes it marginally more tolerable--”

“I only sample a little wine every once in a--”

“Oh, that’s sampling now? If I sampled necks the way you sample wine, I’d be leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”

“I-- well--” Wyll groaned, clearly realizing he’d bitten off more than he cared to chew at the moment. “Oh gods, I did not sign up for this. Can you two go back to hating each other’s guts?”

“We still absolutely do,” Raphael pointed out, and Astarion grinned. 

“The feeling is mutual,” he declared, and patted Raphael's shoulder hard enough to make him fall off the branch with a cry. Later he’d deny doing it on purpose, but as Durge nearly fell themself to cast Feather Fall and spare Raphael a very painful landing on icy ground, Astarion looked at them with a lopsided smile. 

“You know, love,” he said, “I still think he likes us.”

***

[Back to Chapter 7]

[On to Chapter 9]

[Back to Start]

[gctchell]

" In the depths of darkness Where the flames burn bright There's a little demon With a soul pure as light Niffty's her name She's a maid from the abyss But my heart's on fire Just aching for her kiss With her fiery eyes and her playful wink She's got me under her spell I don't wanna think Her demon wings They shimmer and they shine With Niffty by my side Everything feels fine

Oh Niffty my angel from the fiery pit You're the one that I desire Don't you know it? Our love burns strong like the fires of Hell Together In darkness Forever we shall dwell! "

Whoooooooooa.

Geez, there it is - the flair of the stars! Niffty wasn't immune to the charm of a rockstar on stage, even though her flavor was more preferable to the men of her time. There was a certain je ne sais quoi to them that could not quite be replicated beyond the Golden Years, but leave it to the First Man to be able to own his own sort of flavor that could make her grin. Matters helped that the subject of the song just so happened to be about her!

Oh, her heart was all a-flutter!

Giggles spilled from Niffty as she huddled her hand beneath her chin, grinning wide as her eye blazed and furthered its orange halo, pupil shrinking to the size of a dime, completely focused on Adam with unbroken attentiveness. Her other hand disappeared into her apron pocket, clicking the red REC button of her cassette player. You better believe she was recording this to later play until she had to rewind all the film back in.

She's the one that you desire, hmmm? She'll remember that.

[lexa-griffins]

I love your headcanon for Lexa's ass that won't quit 🤣 Is that why she always wears her long coat for any unexpected wardrobe malfunctions?

Lexa's jacket is so long because it's full of secrets, and the secret is actually her ass 😌 it covering any mal function is just a plus, girl got it for the drama and the swoosh and the flair!!!

That jacket was there to keep everyone humbled and focused on anythingnbut the heda booty and add a certain je ne sais quoi to Lexa's entrances skdnskznd

[editorialistcom]

How to Master French Girl Style

The essence of French girl is timeless elegance, a blend of classic silhouettes and contemporary fashion. It’s a style that has been emulated and admired around the world for its effortless chic and understated sophistication. At Editorialist.com, French style is celebrated and explored through various lenses, from the iconic staples that define the look to the modern interpretations that keep it fresh and relevant.

The Timeless Appeal of French Style

French style is often characterized by its simplicity and attention to detail. It’s not about being ostentatious but rather about being well-dressed in a way that seems natural and unforced. This approach to fashion is exemplified by icons like Jeanne Damas, a model and founder of the Parisian brand Rouje, who embodies the Parisian chic aesthetic.

Key Elements of French Style

To truly capture the French style, one must consider the key elements that are staples in a French wardrobe:

The Breton Stripe: A classic pattern that originated from the uniforms of French sailors, the Breton stripe has become a symbol of French fashion.

The Trench Coat: A Burberry trench coat is a quintessential piece that adds a touch of class and versatility to any outfit.

Ballet Flats: Comfortable yet stylish, ballet flats are a go-to shoe for many French women, embodying the blend of fashion and function.

Well-Fitted Denim: A pair of well-fitted jeans is a must-have, perfect for casual outings or dressed up with a blazer for a more polished look.

The Basket Bag: Adding a touch of rustic charm, the basket bag is both practical and stylish, a favorite among French fashionistas.

Incorporating French Style into Your Wardrobe

Adopting French style doesn’t require a complete wardrobe overhaul. It’s about incorporating key pieces and understanding how to style them. For instance, pairing a simple white blouse with high-waisted jeans and ballet flats can instantly give off a French vibe. Adding a trench coat or a silk scarf can elevate the look further, providing that signature French flair.

The Role of Editorialist.com in Promoting French Style

Editorialist.com plays a significant role in promoting French style by providing insights, guides, and curated selections of French-inspired fashion. The platform offers a window into the world of French fashion, highlighting the latest trends, essential pieces, and style tips to help readers master the art of French dressing.

In conclusion, French style at Editorialist.com is not just about clothing; it’s about an attitude, a way of life that celebrates simplicity, elegance, and a certain je ne sais quoi that makes French fashion eternally appealing. Whether you’re a seasoned admirer or a newcomer to the concept, Editorialist.com is your guide to embracing this timeless style.

….

View more: https://editorialist.com/style/french-girl-style/

[fashioneditswebsite]

5 spring coat trends we can’t wait to wear

Stay stylish through April showers or sunshine with the latest Spring Coat trends. Spring might only have just started to appear, but the seasons are shifting, so lightweight outerwear is in vogue now. When it comes to transitional jackets, we're all for hard-working pieces that marry function with flair, have room for an extra layer underneath (in case there's a sudden cold spell) thanks to a relaxed fit, and are versatile enough to know you're going to get lots of wear out of them. "Here are the latest trends for spring coats." 1. Utility View this post on Instagram A post shared by Max Mara (@maxmara) Utility wear was a hot pick on the spring/summer 2024 runways, and the combination of beige neutral colors with warmer sandy tones makes this style la crème de la crème of casual cool. Cropped Cargo Jacket Madwell $99 The Barn Jacket Everlane $178 2. Overshirt View this post on Instagram A post shared by Sézane (@sezane) Sure to be a big hit this spring and beyond, it's time to swap out your cardigan for the far trendier, loose-fit overshirt. One should wear over a sweater, T-shirt, or bandeau top (yes, they're back big-time), and shirt styles are shaping to be the cover-up this summer. Shirt Jacket Rails $348 Oversized Shirt Denim Overshirt Reiss $290 3. Parka View this post on Instagram A post shared by Damart UK (@damartuk) We know it's not a game-changer in the style stakes, but when those April showers call for something with a bit more coverage and a hood, an effortless parka hits all the right notes with jeans and trainers. SIGNATURE OVERCOAT ALO $238 Parker Jacket 3 in 1 waxed cotton cost Landsend $146.96 4. Cropped trench View this post on Instagram A post shared by MAJE (@majeparis) If you're used to longer styles, the cropped trench takes a little getting used to, but it looks ever so hip – and that's exactly where the length should hit. A hero piece can be in any wardrobe, and they can also be packed for the summer holidays for a quick cover-up if sudden showers threaten to dampen your style. Mango $99.99 Cropped Trench Cropped Trench H&M $33.60 5. Classic Trench View this post on Instagram A post shared by The White Company (@thewhitecompany) Furthermore, despite the changing fashion trends, a full-length trench coat still remains a standout for spring. The key to pulling off this classic look is how you wear it. Timeless and universally flattering, it's the fashion chameleon that keeps on giving and manages to combine effortless chic with a certain je ne sais quoi. The golden rule? Furthermore, you could try wearing the outfit open and keeping the belt loosely tied at the back. Additionally, you can dress it down with denim this time to give it a more casual look. Classic trench coat Mango $139.99 Classic Trench Coat Phase Trench Coat $298 Read the full article

[safethaw]

Wood Decks: The Ultimate Selection Guide.

Ever walked barefoot on a warm deck, felt the grooves of the wood beneath your feet, and thought, "Ah, this is the life"? There’s a magic in wood decks, an old-world charm that's hard to replicate. But, choosing the right wood? Well, that's a saga. With so many varieties in the market, each singing its own tune, the process can be a tad overwhelming. But fear not, for here’s your quintessential guide to choosing the absolute best wood for decks. Buckle up! Cedar: The Sophisticated Elder In The Wood Clan Cedar, with its age-old legacy, is kind of like that elegant aunt we all have. The one who’s seen it all, been there, done that. Protection Par Excellence: Imagine Cedar as that cool dude with natural sunglasses, warding off bugs and decay. It's all thanks to its inherent oils and tight grain. Eco-Awareness on Point: Cedar’s the tree-hugger of the wood for decks world. It's sustainable and doesn't put too much strain on Mama Earth. Redwood: The Maverick With Flair If Cedar is the elegant elder for wood for decks, Redwood is that younger, edgy cousin, always in the spotlight. - Dapper Looks, Solid Soul: A wood that’s not only easy on the eyes but also stands tall come rain, sun, or snow? That's Redwood for you. - Nature’s Moisturizer: This one's got natural oils that give it a certain... je ne sais quoi. An allure, a charisma that keeps rot at bay. - Pressure-Treated Lumber: The Workhorse - Reliable and ever so consistent. Kinda like that trusty old friend who's always got your back. - Tough Love: It's ordinary wood that's been given a boost, a little pep talk to beef up and resist decay and those naughty termites. - Friendly on the Finances: It's the everyday hero for those of us watching the wallet but not wanting to skimp on quality. Bracing For Winter: The Cold Truth Winter's great for snowball fights and cozying up with a hot chocolate, but for your deck? It's like that uninvited guest who overstays their welcome. You might think of using salt or some other chemical concoction to deal with the ice. But, and this is a big but, there’s a downside. - The Gritty Truth About Salt: It's a double-edged sword. Melts the ice, sure, but also plays havoc with your wood, causing wear and tear and dulling that lustrous finish. But wait, there’s a silver lining. Enter Safe Thaw! - The Gentle Giant: A potent blend that’s gentle on your deck, but tough on ice. No more corrosive nightmares or short-circuit scares. - Meld of Magic and Science: This isn't your run-of-the-mill melt. It's a marvel, a concoction of a modified crystalline amide core and some special glycol admixture. Sounds fancy, right? That's because it is. To Wrap It Up: Your Deck, Your Statement When you're choosing wood for deck, you're not just picking planks. You're crafting a vibe, a feeling. Whether you're swaying towards the classic aura of cedar, the robust allure of redwood, or the steadfast spirit of pressure-treated lumber, remember to care for it. And when winter comes knocking, arm yourself with Safe Thaw. After all, your deck deserves the best. Cheers to making memories, one plank at a time! Read the full article

[wizardbracket]

Round 4: Match 1 of 8

Why they deserve to be the ultimate wizard according to YOU:

Caleb:

Vanquished (so far): Essek Thelyss, Adaine Abernant, VR-LA

"Caleb deadass planned to rewrite time to fix his childhood mistakes"

"He is peak sad wizard boy energy, but also has that little bit of flair that is essential to any wizard"

“Caleb just has that je ne sais quoi”

"Caleb has a cat!!!"

“Dedicated his life to learning the ultimate magic to change reality & fix his mistakes, and also opposes the magic CIA.”

“Chaotic bisexual snarky powerful wizard who married a war criminal and killed a living city”

Will:

Vanquished (so far): Rupert Giles, Mickey Mouse, Schmendrick

"His mom probably made him his costume & I love his mom"

"Look at his cute little hat!"

"He's a fashion icon and we love him. Address him by his full name. Will the Wise"

"Will the wise was such a certifiable slay that’s that”

“he is my sweet cheese, my rotten soldier, my good time boy”

“everyone’s soooo jealous because Will’s hat is pointier than theirs and their robes aren’t even breathable”

[maleficentmrsofallevil]

Here me out: Googly eyes fashion pack.

They just add that little je ne sais quoi flair.

Introducing: Doll-Wigs from Packaging!💇

We've always been committed to supporting environmental sustainability and recycling, which is why we're excited to introduce an innovative new product packaging that will surely surprise you! Yes, you read that right! We're launching a brand new product packaging that is not just packaging but also a stylish wig! Our design team has meticulously crafted and tested cardboard material to transform it into a soft, wearable wig, ensuring that your products are not only well-protected but also adding a touch of fashion to your dolls! 💁‍♂️ Upon receiving our products, all you need to do is follow the instructions on the packaging paper to effortlessly fold it into a wig of head-sized proportions, making your dolls even more charming and trendy! This innovative product packaging will officially debut on April 1st, but please note that this service is currently limited to dolls within a 30-centimeter range. We apologize for any inconvenience caused to those with larger dolls. Thank you for your continued support and trust!💋

[lesjolismotsfont2bellesphrases]

C’est la fête, je sens que tout avance. J’ai un peu moins envie d’écrire. Hier j’ai pas écrit d’ailleurs. Je voulais essayer pour voir. Samedi j’ai un peu bu, du coup l’lend’main fatigue, flemme, mais douceur aussi, c’était agréable. J’ai passé la journée à dormir, marcher, manger des glaces, lire, regarder du sport et des côtes au lit ou sur le canapé, toujours bien accompagné. Je préparais les matchs avant qu’ils se lancent en regardant la carte, les stats et la forme actuelle. En moins de 72h sur 10 matchs sélectionnés, j’ai 5 côtes au-dessus de 4 qui sont passées et seulement deux qui ont loupé. J’ai pas joué ou très peu mais j’étais en observateur. Comme un surfer qui rentre dans l’eau, nage, s’allonge en flottant, pour comprendre le sens des courants, la manière des vagues, le son des baleines et le cri des oiseaux. Pour parier, c’est comme dans la vie, il faut s’imprégner. Il faut regarder les matchs, suivre les résultats, se poser à l’instant T pour regarder ce qui s’est passé jusqu’ici et comprendre ce qui pourrait se passer ensuite. C’est ça que j’aime faire, voir, saisir et prédire. Les chiffres c’est une chose, je ne suis pas excellent avec les probas et tout, mais à force de faire et de regarder, t’as même pas à savoir calculer pour savoir si une cote est bonne. C’est le flair, l’œil, tu vois, tu sens, tu sais. Si c’est le moment ou pas, si un momentum arrive ou pas. Derrière les chiffres, il saut aussi saisir la trajectoire qu’il y a, si un match est important ou pas, quel est l’enjeu etc…plein de choses, comme de la narration, qui ne rentrent pas forcément en jeu dans la cotation. D’ailleurs, j’ai progressé sur un point et j’en suis bien content. Je ne joue plus quand je ne sais plus, je peux regarder toute une carte sans avoir envie de jouer et ne pas y voir, ni trouver d’inconvénient.

Bon, là c’est facile car j’ai un rythme de croisière, je joue très peu, je regarde beaucoup. Plus dur quand on est au beau milieu d’un tournoi et qu’on enchaine les matchs et les paris. Mais c’est la première fois que je sens cette sérénité, cette assurance, ce détachement, je suis là pour jouer, pas pour trouver la grosse côté ou le match qui va passer. J’attends sagement l’information, l’œil à l’affut, à l’écoute de mes tripes. Les infos sont partout, sur twitter, un signe à la radio, la parole d’un pote, un chiffre qui saute à l’œil en ouvrant sofascore ou winamax, à toi de faire le tri et d’analyser après coup, pour choisir, oui ou non. En tout cas je me laisse plus aller à parier à l’affectif, parce que j’aime un joueur ou qu’il devrait sans doute gagner, sans trop regarder l’autre parce qu’il a l’air nul. A tout moment les tendances peuvent s’inverser. Un bon peut devenir mauvais et celui qui a beaucoup perdu va finir par gagner.

De plus, il faut saisir un truc aussi, comme le karma, y’a des journées ou les bons perdent et où les mauvais surperforment, des journées à match à nul, des journées de match à l’extérieur. Des journées d’incertitudes aussi, où il faut savoir ne pas jouer les forts en pensant qu’ils vont gagner comme d’habitude. La sécurité, la fausse, pour se rassurer, parce qu’on ne sait pas quoi jouer, est un leurre. Quand on ne sait pas quoi jouer et qu’on joue la côte basse, statistiquement et d’instinct je dirais, on joue pour perdre. Ceux qui ont peur n’ont jamais été de grands gagnants, alors s’ils jouent, ils font les pires perdants, car il leur faut une multitude de coups pour accumuler (petite cote) et juste un seul pour dégringoler, tout perdre. Par exemple, un joueur qui place des côtes entre 1.2 et 1.4 devra gagner entre 7 et 9 matchs sur 10 pour être rentable. Ca peut marcher hein, mais mieux vaut connaitre la discipline, savoir attendre le bon moment, pour jouer quelque chose de plus gros, avec un ratio risk reward bien plus élevé. Pour ça vous pouvez attendre qu’un favori perde un peu dans le match, ou juste aussi attendre qu’une équipe soit surcotée et l’autre inversement, à force de victoire et de défaites.

Je racontais ça à ma copine hier pour les investissements et les tendances. On ne se place pas sur quelque chose quand tout le monde en parle. Ca veut dire que l’info est déjà beaucoup partagée, que le marché s’est adapté et que la valeur réelle, estimée, va bientôt disparaître pour chuter. Les seuls qui peuvent gagner la dessus, une info déjà connue, sont les traders court terme, qui vont profiter d’une dernière explosion pour gagner et sortir. Le mieux c’est de savoir quand tout est à plat ou que c’est sur le point de se passer. Au fond c’est pareil, quand le séisme ou l’irruption est sur le point d’arriver, très peu de personnes sentent les grondements qui annoncement quelque chose, il ne se passe encore rien. Et bah voilà, quand on aime le sport, les marchés, ou une discipline, à force d’expérience, on peut arriver à sentir ces moments-là et se positionner. Ça demande plusieurs qualités : un nez, une appétence pour les scenarii, un certain réalisme, de la vista, et une capacité à jouer : se placer en avance, tenir sa position ou en sortir quand la situation évolue. Pour jouer il faut être connecté à soi et à la réalité. Avoir un plan (mental, discipline) et savoir sortir de ses représentations (ouverture), ses schémas (clairvoyance), pour comprendre réellement ce qui se passe. Les chiffres, les stats, au service de rien du tout ne donnent rien du tout. On peut tout faire dire à des chiffres et se convaincre de n’importe quoi si on ne sait pas. Par contre, si on a une idée, une intuition ou une information comme je le dis souvent, ce sont les données disponibles qui vous aideront à valider ou invalider un pari.

Mais voilà, pour tout ça, il faut avoir joué, perdu, gagné, et compris qu’on ne jouait plus pour gagner le gros lot et devenir riche. Avant tout, il faut établir une stratégie qui nous plait, se faire plaisir, et trouver dans quoi on est bons, quand on a une vision, puis établir une méthode, des règles, qui sont au service de notre jeu et qui nous gardent en vie, à l’abris de la cupidité et de la surchauffe. A tout moment on peut être pris dans l’engrenage. Après une victoire, une défaite, la volonté de se venger, penser qu’on est imbattable. En pari comme dans la vie la roue tourne, tout le temps. Après une grosse victoire il faut savoir capitaliser. Après une défaite, s’épargner pour se reposer et pouvoir rebondir dans les bonnes conditions. C’est un marathon tout ça, comme dans la vie, et il faut trouver ses règles pour step up et devenir gagnant, rentable, un survivant qui continue d’avancer malgré tout ce qui peut se passer, le bon ou le mauvais.

Parce que la vie, c’est un grand casino, tout ce qui monte peut descendre très vite et inversement. Et il vaut mieux prendre une montée tôt que s’engager quand tout le monde surfe déjà la vague…et encore moins quand on sait pas très bien surfer. Il faut savoir à quelle ligue on appartient et ne pas jouer là où on n’a pas les armes. Y’a 1000 et une façon de gagner, y’a plein de conseils, de tips, mais y’en qu’une seule de bonne, c’est la sienne. Les gens peuvent vous inspirer, vous guider, mais y’a que vous qui pouvez y arriver.

[sleepingfancies]

The way saccharine walks down the crane the way rackham walked down the mast. GOD