#toile chandelier

[girl-wonderful]

New Orleans Kitchen Example of a large classic limestone floor and multicolored floor enclosed kitchen design with a farmhouse sink, beaded inset cabinets, green cabinets, quartzite countertops, blue backsplash, ceramic backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island and white countertops

[vintagehomecollection]

Southern Interiors, 1988

[batty4u]

Traditional Kitchen

[fauxboy]

Traditional Kitchen - Enclosed

[demonic0angel]

Hotel AU

Jason groaned, holding a military grade field dressing to his wound as he tried his best to walk faster. Gunshots rang behind him and instinct allowed him to dodge, but one bullet still managed to graze him by the shoulder. It only made pain flare up worse, but Jason just sucked in a breath through his teeth and toiled onward to get to safety.

His comms buzzed in his ear, but no one was available at the moment. Jason still muttered a soft, "Requiring backup."

No one answered.

Jason, for an existential crisis-having moment, wondered if he was gonna die again.

Just as he thought this, a hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into another building.

Jason cursed and pulled out his gun with his unfortunately injured hand and pointed it towards his assailant, but then paused.

He had been pulled into a beautiful, first class looking hotel area.

"What the..." he started, before he turned.

An enormously tall woman smiled down at him. She was outrageously beautiful, with long red hair tied into a ponytail and a neat uniform covered by an apron. "Welcome, sir, to the Phantom Hotel! You seem to be in need of some assistance, would you like some help?"

Jason felt eerily calm and level headed, even as he bled all over the floors. "... that'd be nice." He said gruffly.

"Right away, sir." She said with a smile. She waved to someone over to his side and continued to speak. "I'm the co-owner of this hotel, you may call me Jazz. May I get your name for registration?"

Jason still didn't freak out yet. "Registration?" He echoed, as he took in his surroundings.

The hotel was beautiful, with tall ceilings, marble floors, white walls and candle chandeliers that glowed with dim lighting. People that didn't look like Gothamites milled around the lobby and sitting area, all relaxed and chatting amicably. There were a few that were dancing to club music. There was a noticeable bar in the corner of the room that looked unstaffed but was conspicuous in its size and black coloring.

"Yes, sir." Jazz said. "I assume that you're staying the night? We offer breakfast in the morning, and drinks are free all night!"

Jason was silent for a moment. A person wearing a similar uniform to Jazz, with a dark green vest and dark colored apron, approached them and immediately got to bandaging Jason's wounds.

Once again, Jason did not freak. He felt oddly calm, and in the back of his head, he knew that he was safe here. His gut instinct was to collapse on top of Jazz and take a nap, strangely comforted by her presence.

"... why am I so calm?"

Fuck it. He decided to just voice his question.

Jazz giggled. It was a cute noise. "Why wouldn’t you be? There’s nothing to worry about. We're the same, after all!"

Jason blinked. Then he turned to her as the attendant stepped away with the medical box, Jason feeling all healed up, and he said, "Is a night here free?"

"For you? Yep! Everything is free here."

Jason gave a nod. "Then I'll take a room with a single bed, please. Breakfast is free?"

"Yes, sir."

"Great. The name's Jason Todd."

Jazz smiled, a sparkle in her eyes that made Jason feel all fuzzy with warmth. "Very good, sir. Your room number is 312, on the third floor. Here's your room card." She handed over a plastic card that was procured out of thin air but Jason didn't think about it.

He was mentally exhausted and being in her presence made him feel like he was going to drop and fall asleep on the floor and still wake up refreshed. It was so disconcerting that it was almost not disconcerting.

Jason eventually found the elevator, though not without lingering a little around the area. The vigilante in him was telling him to be careful, even though everything else inside of him couldn't give less of a damn and was telling him to kick back and relax. Jazz, after registering him, had gone to the bar to prepare drinks.

She mixed together alcoholic concoctions amidst a small crowd and the more Jason stared, the more it seemed like the dim light was hiding something. People looked like they were wearing ragged clothes and a lot of them had dark stains. There were quite a large amount of old people as well, along with people with seemingly missing appendages.

The last two details wasn't a bad thing, but the amount of them seemed like a hint to something bigger.

When Jazz made eye contact with Jason, she gave a sweet smile and a little wave, and that was Jason's signal to leave.

He got into an elevator, went to his room, and practically sank into the cloud-like bed before he basically knocked himself out. That night, he had never slept so well.

When he woke up, his body felt rejuvenated and he almost felt peppy. It was as if his previous irritations were only bad days and he had finally struck on a good day for once.

He washed up, miraculously found his wounds all healed up, and when he went to take a shower, his clothes were found on the sink, all washed and patched up. Even his helmet had been cleaned and fixed, pristine like the day he had first gotten it.

Jason could've been more suspicious.

But to reiterate, he couldn't.

Everything about this place was like a mother's hug. It was comforting. It made him feel safe. He felt like there was nothing to worry about and although a small part of him found this alarming, he really couldn't explain why he decided to trust it.

When he came down the elevator for breakfast, he was astonished.

Last night, the hotel had looked elegant and high class. Now, in the morning, everything looked warm and homey.

The various large rectangle tables had turned into small round tables that were densely packed together. The floor was a cool blue carpet and the walls had turned a shade of cream. The ceiling had shrank, but now flowers and vines grew from it, dropping from the ceiling with bright blossoms. The bar had been replaced with a little coffee area, with a young man behind the counter, currently taking orders.

The people sitting around and eating their breakfasts looked different in morning light. They glowed with faint shades of blue and green.

Jason paused to take in the sight, considering this information before he shook it off and approached the counter.

The man, after noticing him, immediately went to the cash register with a large smile on his face. "Hello!" He said cheerfully.

Jason immediately noted the similarities between him and Jazz. They had the same heart shaped face, the same ethereal beauty to them, the same nose and smile. This man, however, had bright blue eyes and dark black hair that swept over his eyes.

"What are you drugging me with? I'm way too comfortable here." Jason blurted out.

The man paused. And then he burst out laughing. Jason couldn't help the few snickers that fell out of his throat too, but they both quickly calmed down and the man explained softly, "We're not drugging you. You're just comfortable here because it's where you belong. Don't stress too much."

He continued to smile reassuringly. "Call me Danny. I'm the owner. What would you like to order?"

Jason's eyes flicked to the menu and then he said, "A California club croissant and a caramel latte, please."

"Coming right up, big guy!"

Jason moved a little bit away to the side so that other people could order.

He couldn't help but contemplate what was going on, but it was a little hard to think being this close to Danny's presence. The urge to fight against his soothed mind and the urge to just relax were warring, but unfortunately, his latter side was winning.

If Jazz had seemed comforting and like a hug, then Danny was the blanket, fireplace, hot chocolate cup and book on a cool rainy evening. It was like Danny was his missing piece that just sucked out all of the fear, misery, and rage inside of him.

It was almost crazy how Jason didn't want to retaliate against them at all.

"Here you go, Jason." A voice interrupted him and Jason looked up into crystalline eyes before something was pushed into his hands.

Jason looked down at his order and then up again. "Thanks."

Danny smiled. "No problem! You're pretty freaked out, huh?"

Jason shrugged. Then he thought about it and he asked, "Can I leave?"

"Of course you can." Danny said. "Come back anytime. For someone like you, you have the opportunity to come by anytime you want."

Jason nodded wordlessly and then, with his order in hand, he started walking to the door.

For one last time, he turned and met Danny's eyes. Danny smiled cheerfully, his eyes squinted in happiness. He gave a big wave and Jason returned it before he put on his helmet and pushed past the doors into the open air of Gotham's polluted and smoky world.

The rose glasses fell off and the pink sparkles faded away with each blink.

Jason stared dumbfounded at his own state of body and mind, as his siblings and family all screamed into his ear frantically, begging to know where he went and how he was.

Jason could only stare at the gray, listless world around him and wonder if he had imagined everything.

"What the fuck?"

[beneaththefloorboards]

A wee warm-up sketch of our good friend Jonny being 'in the toils' as he calls it, to fill the void of not having heard from him for several days

[Id: Inked sketch of Jonathan Harker, a young victorian gentleman who is making his way up a stairway with a small candle in his hand. He looks worried. Behind him is a chandelier and other small details hinting of him being in a castle, drawn very loosely, also in ink. ]

[mandsleanan]

Like I stole this poll from @cryoverkiltmilk

No tagging, steal this poll too if you want to.

[ikeprinces-stuff]

Event: Leon Dompteur sequel route release

Host: @aquagirl1978

Characters: Leon x reader

Words: 1925

A/N: CONCLUDING MY PARTICIPATION BY MIXING 3 PROMPTS LEZGOOOO!!! Thank you mama Aqua for hosting this event, I never expected that all these ideas would come out of my empty brain within one week!! BUT ALL FOR DEAR DARLING LEON DOMPTEUR!!!✨😭🖤❤️🖤❤️

Previous prompts: Love, Dreams, Royalty, Brothers

Day 5 (Identity) + Day 6 (Dance) + Day 7 (Adventure)

When Leon was just a boy, he knew nothing but the stinging lash of despair. Bought and sold like a mere commodity, he toiled under the merciless sun, his small hands grasping rocks and bricks, while the dirt of the quarry clung to him like a second skin. Each misstep was punished harshly; the crack of the whip echoed in his ears, a brutal reminder that mercy was a luxury he could never afford. In a world where errors could lead to brutality, he learned an agonizing truth: a slave's mistakes were met with violence, not understanding, his spirit crushed beneath the weight of relentless labor and cruelty.

Yet from the ashes of his suffering emerged a flame of hope. As Leon ascended to royalty, he grasped the dreams of countless souls who had endured the same torment he had once faced. He envisioned a brighter fate, not just for himself, but for all who had been shackled by their pasts. He felt that a profound transformation lay ahead, but it came with a heavy price — he believed he must cast away the frail identity of the child he once was, bury his memories, and don the mantle of a king devoid of personal connection. In seeking to uplift others, he feared the cost would be his heart, locked away in isolation and sorrow. Then, as if fate itself intervened, he met you.

With a coronation came responsibility, and the dreams that had once seemed far-fetched began to solidify into reality. Leon’s vision for a world where others could break free from the chains of their past was no longer just wishful thinking; it was a movement gaining momentum. Yet, as he achieved so much, one hope flickered on the horizon, one that he had reluctantly thought impossible — to share his journey with another. The walls around his heart began to crumble, and he found, much to his astonishment, that he was not alone. Your presence infused his life with a richness he had never dared to imagine.

Just the mere recollection of those moments fills Leon's handsome face with a radiant smile. He harbors no regrets about stepping into the shoes of the true prince; in fact, he embraces his new life as royalty with open arms. The journey from who he once was to the man he has become has only strengthened his resolve and pride. The laughter, the challenges, and the triumphs of his transformation are memories that he cherishes deeply.

“Now it’s time for the next dance,” the earl’s voice cuts through Leon’s reverie, and he turns to the rhythm of the music that shifts in the grand hall. Guests begin rising from their seats, deftly pairing off to join the elegant spectacle underneath the opulent chandelier. “Will His Majesty grace the dance floor?” The earl’s tone is playful, yet respectful, as he glances from Leon back to you. You stand beside him, overwhelmed by the spectacle unfolding before your eyes, unable to hide your awe as couples twirl in graceful harmony.

"I’ll see what my fiancée says,” Leon replies, awakening you from your captivated state. His words catch you off guard, yet a spark ignites as he extends his hand toward you, a gesture reminiscent of a pivotal moment from your past, when he first sought your permission to alter the course of your lives forever. “Will you let me have this dance?” His voice, smooth as velvet, brings a light gasp to your lips as memories rush forward, a testament to the bond you share.

This is the culmination of your recent dance lessons, where each step has been meticulously practiced, each movement perfectly orchestrated in preparation for this moment. As the future queen, you feel a surge of determination; without a second thought, you take Leon's hand and stride toward the center of the hall. The moment you do, a hushed awe falls over the guests—curiosity ignites, and all eyes are trained on the king and his bride-to-be, poised to take their rightful place.

You and Leon position your hands just so, memories of your lessons flooding back as the music swells. In that instant, as you begin to move in synchronized rhythm, the air crackles with anticipation. All eyes are upon you; you are the center of attention in this grand celebration. This is your moment, and you are acutely aware that every step must reflect your dignity and confidence as future ruler of Rhodolite. There is no room for error; you dance not just for yourselves, but as a symbol of hope for a bright future ahead.

As the final notes of the music faded into the dance floor, a wave of applause washed over you, enveloping your senses in a blend of exhilaration and relief. The evening had unfolded splendidly, and the evidence of your accomplishment was encapsulated in the deep sigh that escaped your lips—one that didn’t go unnoticed by Leon. He had been observing you closely, perceiving the tumult of emotions swirling in your heart. In that moment, an idea sparked in his mind, a flicker of intent amidst the celebration.

~~~

The carriage jostled gently on its way back to the palace, the rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves intertwining with echoing wheels, creating a serene ambiance that contrasted sharply to the vibrant chaos of the earl’s soirée. “You did great,” Leon said, his warm smile illuminating the dim cabin. The weight of your earlier anxiety dissipated under his affirming words, and a soft blush crept to your cheeks. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” you replied, exhaling lightly as he shifted closer, his arm wrapping around your waist, anchoring you in comfort. “I hope I met the earl's expectations and those of the other guests. I was a bundle of nerves out there.” Your voice trembled slightly, recalling the anxious anticipation that had gripped you before stepping into the spotlight. “Why would you be nervous? I always knew you could dance beautifully. Or were you remembering Sariel’s brutal rehearsals?” His light-hearted laugh broke the tension, prompting you to feign annoyance as you playfully shot him a glance. “You have no idea the lengths I went through during that training. It was easy for you to jest from the sidelines.”

Leon’s expression shifted, seriousness lacing his tone as he countered, “I’m not mocking you. I understand the dedication you put into this—at times, it felt as though you were leading the dance and not me…” His voice trailed off, and an unsettling flutter took residence in your chest at the ominous “but.” You turned toward him, eyes wide and hopeful, bracing yourself for the conclusion you sensed imminent. “But…” he continued, “I didn’t really enjoy it.” The words struck a discordant note within you, your heart momentarily halting in disbelief.

“You didn’t?” Your voice quivered with disappointment, each syllable tinged with betrayal. A heavy silence filled the space as Leon withdrew his arm from you, the warmth of his embrace evaporating in an instant.

“Stop here, please,” he instructed the coachman, his tone abrupt and commanding, causing your heart to lurch. You stared at him, puzzled by his sudden shift. Leon’s eyes bore into yours with a gravity that was both serious and tender, the depth of emotion within them beckoning you to understand. “Are you coming with me?” he asked, extending his hand in a gesture reminiscent of the evening’s grandeur. Without hesitation, you grasped his hand, drawn by an insatiable curiosity about what thoughts stirred so powerfully in his mind. Something monumental was brewing beneath the surface, and you were desperate to unearth the truth hidden within the silence between you.

~~

You landed in an undisclosed spot in the town square, a world away from the gilded confines of the party you had just left. As you glanced around, your gaze fell upon Leon, who was in the process of shedding the majestic trappings of royalty for the simplicity of a commoner's attire. “Leon, why are we here?” you asked, confusion lacing your words. His response was almost wistful as he replied, “That party was enjoyable, but... I know we didn’t really savor it, did we?” With a gentle tug, he took your hand and began to walk, drawing you into a shared journey where the weight of expectation fell away.

You opened your mouth to respond, but words eluded you, a silence thick with unspoken realizations hanging between you. Memories of the evening flooded your mind: how Leon had praised your efforts while you had remained preoccupied with impressing the earl and the social elite. You realized then how you had lost yourself in the pursuit of approval, neglecting the simple joy of just being you in that glittering arena. The party was meant to be a celebration, yet you had deemed it necessary to wear a mask, forgetting the thrill of genuine enjoyment.

Just then, the alluring strains of music danced through the air, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to find Leon gazing at you with an expression that spoke of understanding, of an unspoken invitation to step into the moment. Together, you moved toward the center of the town, where the lively notes crescendoed, guiding your steps. The music, filled with warmth and spirit, emanated from a gathering near a silver fountain, where onlookers formed a joyous circle, their faces lit with delight.

Although this street performance could never rival the orchestrated melodies of high society, it held an undeniable charm that enveloped you with familiarity. As the final chord of one song faded and applause erupted, a new tune burst forth, playful and spirited, compelling even the musicians to sway along with their rhythms. You found yourself clapping, the tension of the evening finally peeling away like layers of an unwelcome garment. Leon, ever the mischief-maker, whistled at the musicians, who acknowledged his call by playing with even greater fervor, igniting a spark in the crowd that made the atmosphere electric.

As you watched, the street transformed into a canvas of exuberance, where men beckoned women to join them in spirited dances. Here, in this open space, the oppression of royal decorum faded into the background. Leon’s amber eyes searched yours, inviting yet again, as he extended his hand with a playful smirk. “Will you allow me… this dance?” he asked, his voice laced with a teasing challenge. In that moment, his invitation felt distinctly different from the formal requests of the evening prior. Here, beneath the clear sky, he wanted to dance with you—not for appearances, but for the sheer joy of it.

In this vibrant atmosphere, you were unencumbered by titles and expectations. Instead, you were free to be simply you and Leon, stripped of the confines of your royal identities. As you took his hand and stepped onto the cobblestones, the world around you vanished, leaving only the rhythm of your hearts aligning with the jubilant music. You danced with abandon, delight coursing through your veins as the laughter of those nearby mingled with the melodies that enveloped you.

Leon had traversed a myriad of identities—once a slave, later a prince, now a king—but he never allowed those labels to define him completely. Here and now, he bared his true self before you, revealing the essence of who he was beneath the many masks he wore. And as he looked to you, curious about the identity you would share, you both embarked on a newfound adventure, exploring the liberating realms of authenticity and joy, exhilarated by the journey ahead.

Fin ❤️✨

Taglist: @violettduchess @lorei-writes @the-bird-and-the-flute @leonscape @fang-and-feather @drachonia @scummy-writes @wistfulwanderingone @judesmoonbeauty @candied-boys @chirp-a-chirp @reborn-elven @rjthirsty @solacedeer

[PLS LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT/ DON'T WANT TO BE ADDED]

[doriana-gray-games]

Halloween thingy

So... the discord gave me quite the special halloween prompt

"Sexy Ghost MC seduction of tempted priest/nun W". Uh... yeah. Here is my attempt on that lol (it became more of a thriller tbh...):

(There's is one word that is for John and one for Jane and they are separated with a / )

To Whom It May Concern,

Upon this paper, I enclose the remarkable sight I saw and scarcely believed one hour past. If my scribblings are found without their owner—J. H. Watson—please deliver this, my last belonging, to a Mrs Hudson of 221B Baker Street. She should know what transpired. If nothing else.

I shall begin again, at the very start.

On the 21st of October, I received a letter. It was a torn-up thing, with edges more charred than ripped and decolouration of years—not months as the date suggests.

And as I have only recently taken orders/the veil and entered the church as I always hoped and said I would, I felt compelled to return this stray. God is found in small matters. So I have been told. 

Admittedly, I was drawn to the thing. To this strange curiosity. I believed, perhaps, that the journey of such a letter must likely end on a crescendo. 

I say to you now. I was far too correct in my suspicions.

May god have mercy upon my soul.

—————————————————————————————————

It was there no sooner than I closed the door. 

The gate, as well as the entryway, had been ajar, and I had stepped in; I had not meant to act the wrongdoer—it was as if it called to me, this broken door on the edge of broken steps of the broken, decrepit facade. I could sooner turn my heel than abandon my breath. 

And as the door closed, there it was.

It—such word sound not enough. For it was more than enough to blind me with only its glitter of starlight. But I do not have the words for it. No, whatever it was, it was not human. A being out of this world or long past it. And I found it the most beautiful sight.

It appeared lighter than the dark room, but not like the shine of fire, but of stars. Cold white and blue. An Aegean glow. 

I could not believe it true.

It smiled, then. 

A tremble wrecked my body, from fear, from—words I dare not speak nor think. I had my vows.

It smiled wider, then. And wider still.

‘What are you?’ I had to know, you see. I had to.

It moved; It swam above ground without water. But not in haste. It approached me, and its hand went through my shoulder. Incorporeal. But its breath was cold on my ear, and it whispered, ‘Yours.’

Before I could grasp the siren words, it was gone.

—————————————————————————————————

I searched the house. Delving further into the abandoned estate with nothing but a kerosene lamp and my trusted RIC revolver. First, I came upon a sitting room, but it held nothing. Not any answers. And, to my growing desperation, no sign of the being I found myself hunting for. 

I went further and further. And the air grew thick.

The glass of the old chandeliers would clank without wind. Twice, a drawer fell. Soon a cabinet shut with biting force, and I held my voice from escaping. The sounds and heavy clatter lead me up the old house towards where I find myself now. The bedroom. Untouched, compared to the rest. Beyond the heavy layer of time, the room would be a fine stately room of fine furniture and finer company. A large four-post bed stood by the window, and next to it, on the drawer, where the moonlight shone—was a journal.

Leather, yellowed paper, and a red bookmark placed upon the first page.

Here is the journal of Sherlock Holmes. I seek the truth, no matter the cost.

If you should find me, return me. 

If you should seek me, you need only to present me a puzzle worthy. 

The last written page wrote.

I lack the final piece. And now my bones are aching and mouth a desert, and I will be dead by the poison in the hour. The letters I have hidden beneath the floorboards of the dresser. They are the work of months of careful study. I toiled, yet, I will never know the truth. 

I find myself praying to a god that the truth will appear from heaven and I will be set free. 

It will be soon. More than in my breath, I know it not by logic but by feeling. My time has come. And I have pen, ink, and paper to be my confidant and friend. Why am I so lonesome in this dying hour? I never—

The ink runs across the page, and the writing ends.

Digging through the floorboards, I did find it. A letter stack detailing and unravelling things I have only read of in the papers. A mystery that was yet unsolved… 

But the papers did clear one thing. And it fit neatly with the rest, and I scribbled it onto the notes with charcoal from the fire, hoping for a sign. But nothing came. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ I whispered, ‘I have your truth.’ But it did not appear. I thought of the ethereal shape, the words whispered, and the breath and the tongue which made such sounds. ‘I wish to see you again…’

Frost appeared at the window, and a chill came upon my bones. And there it was. By my side, by the dresser, by the dust on the ground. On its knees as I was.

As beautiful as the first moment. As tempting as fire to my convictions. Its fingers, now made form, were ice upon my ever-aching leg. I felt skin upon mine. Nails racked beyond my layers and sent shivers through my spine. 

‘Mine.’ It crawled further towards me.

I did not turn away.

I could not.

And its kiss was the sweetest death. Even now that it has gone, where it went as it took my soul, I feel it on my lips. Chill turned to burning, craving drove me forward, and I felt its weight heavy upon mine.

It is hard to write now. My hands are turning cold and blue. The lamp does nothing for my warmth. I am dying. I know this. More than in my breath, I know it not by logic but by feeling. My time has come. But I am not lonesome in my dying hour. With every further gasp, it returns to me. Appearing all the more in colour. Soon, we shall be joined in this afterlife. 

I do not regret. I only hope I will be forgiven. 

For, god, I am not your strongest servant. 

And I would not win this battle—

The charcoal runs across the page of the journal, and the writing ends.

[noxalynnthestarprincess]

Dance of Swans

A piece of mech prose

I know you. I’ve never met you, but I know you because we are the same. We are both imperfect angels made by man. Made to pilot these mechanised chassis made for nothing but perfect violence. I look at you through the glass eyes of my robotic second skin. We are the same, imperfect angels for perfect violence.

And as I reach forward, there is sensation! Sensation as I swing down upon your own metallic form a sword made to cleave apart empire’s, and you weave out of the way, your metal legs, made to bound across infinity.

Our bodies aren’t bodies. Gears and servos, turning in perfect harmony, to symphony of our cold fusion reactor hearts, roaring, screaming, singing, all at the same time as we boost forward. Skin made from the hearts of planets, and internal workings, churning, toiling. Sensors and cameras instead of eyes, letting us see far beyond what our forever marred by alteration flesh could ever let us. Instead of shot nerves and veins we have power lines, veins of electricity, liquid firing powering us now. Steel bones and titanium skin, electric blood and instead of gnashing teeth and claws, we have been given weapons of fire and blade. If these are not our bodies, what are these? Are these simply just our coffin?

Together we move yet opposed we act. The law of blood and steel is pushing us forward. We could not pay for our steel so we paid with our body and blood. Our arms actuate, like tendons and muscles pulling, aiming our guns at each other’s heads.

Our new bodies let us move meteoric like the messengers of the gods, searing blind those who are not worthy to gaze upon us as we leave death and civlity’s end in our wake. Homes and cathederals turned to rubble and ash from our waltz. Lives reduced to mere numbers as the result of our deadly dance, a ballroom gala of violence, with a chandelier of bullets, bodies and buildings. Our forms locked in an eternal clash but for a moment. Blades and guns clashing and locking together

In an immaculate dance of swans we are one but yet separate, imperfect creatures of a perfect blasphemous violence, that only our heretical bodies would allow, made from steel and lightning and man’s own god complex hubris, we are angels made by god to fight and be forgotten about when our task is done, and yet none of us has yet to become lucifer, lucent and reticent and all the ready to fight for their ideals, instead of fighting for their masters who call us dogs. Until the morning star rises, we shall be trapped under the eternal night skies, with a field of stars littered above, locked in our eternal dance of swans

[wide-ride]

Fae Court (1.2k words, rapid weight gain, lactation, a hint of breeding, a hint of horror)

The banquet is spread out before her like a rich profusion of jewels, like a wet gutting at a charnel, and she thinks: well, it would simply be rude to refuse. One dainty silver fork is already pressed into a dumpling bundle of duck coated in a lush red sauce, as glossy as a cherry. It tastes, however, of the meat. Heavy, gamey, hearty with fat within thick, soft dough. It fills her mouth and then escapes down her throat, leaving a faint fading of flavor, a craving. She aims the fork and spears another. She bites, chews, swallows. She daubs sticky red from her lips with white linen.

Fae court is raucous, and all attendants are wrapped up in their own jests, their own lurid conversations, but she still has the presence of mind to notice furtive glances, to notice outright stares. She had not needed any cajoling to make her eat.

There is a queen at the head of the court, or a king. An androgyne with a narrow face and bright eyes. It is from that seat that the sharpest attention comes; when the monarch smiles, she glimpses a fang. “Dear thing,” the despot says, “are you hungry?”

She nods, once, and then, as if it is her duty, she spreads pale butter over bread, and she bites through the crust.

(“Poor girl must be starved,” one goblin says, in jeering pity.

“Not the brightest,” one faerie quips, and it sips sugared dew.)

Thin arms angle elegantly; the monarch gazes upon the feast without taking a bite. “Darling thing,” they say. “Are you often hungry?”

“A bit of madness in the king,” she answers around a mouthful. “And all down the line. Bad crops, no food. No prospects. And the daft man keeps inviting wars. I thought—” she says, and for the first time she wavers. A glint of fear shines in her eyes. There are sharp little teeth in all the mouths around her. Their bodies move with a hummingbird’s quick and still grace. Her own is slow, and far too real; her pulse flutters in her neck. “I thought,” she says, and she swallows. “We’ll get pillaged. I’d like to not get pillaged. I’d rather come here.”

“You believe, then, that I am not mad?” the monarch asks. The crowd titters.

“Maybe,” she admits. “But you’ve got rules.”

“That we do.” A slender hand strokes the tablecloth. “Do you know what they are?”

“I eat, and I’m in,” she says, as flat as a blade. “I’m a citizen of fairyland, and a peasant of his no more. Listen, I know that it’s— a questionable decision. But you lot grant wishes, and give quests, and those sorts of things. I don’t quite believe that I’ll die here. Not like out there.”

Their laugh is like the rustling of crystal, like the precarious swaying of a chandelier. “A citizen! You would make yourself my subject?”

“I’ll pay taxes and all,” she says, and she gulps down a glass of nectar. “Toil in the fields much the same. I don’t mind that.”

“Poor little beast of burden.” The monarch’s gaze drops down the slope of her chest to the swallowing heave of her breasts. Direct and dark, animal. “Yes,” they say. “You have successfully invited yourself here. You will be, I believe, a very productive member of our society.”

She reaches for another roll, and that gives her pause; she had only really needed a nibble to cheat her way in, but she has been gorging herself without thought, without even her own notice. But now that she has realized what she has been doing, she only desires it more; rich meat, thick butter, sweet fruits, all the things she cannot afford. A bead of sweat trails down her temple, and she feels a tautness at her midriff.

She glimpses, then, a bulging stripe of pale above her skirt, an astounding and thick spilling-over of fat. She finds that she cannot breathe. Her face reddens. She shifts in her seat, and she sees the drooping swell of her gut splay yet further over her thighs.

“This—” She stammers. “This— what is—”

Growth comes, and she blooms; a dire warmth seeps out from her core, spreading, swelling. She clutches at her chest. It is softer now, more pendulous, tipping her posture in a way she is not accustomed to. She cannot help herself; she cries out. “Help the poor girl,” the monarch commands, and needling fingers weave through the laces of her supportive corset. It loosens, and she finds that she can breathe again; she is breathless, however, at the plump mass spilling out before her. Clawed hands pluck away her blouse and rend her undergarments, but she does not recognize the body below her. It is doughy, heavy. Rolls rise around her sides and then drape down, piling upon the spread of her stomach. When she spreads her corpulent thighs, her gut sags low between them. She lifts her arms, and she feels a wobble.

“Worry not,” the monarch says. “Our honored guest. Or— not a guest, no? But we shall honor you the same.”

Some new morsel is lifted to her lips, breading and duckfat and thickly dripping sauce, and— she eats it, a little helplessly. And she sees that bite sink into her belly and swell out a heavy bloat. The cool spring air wafts over her freed breasts, and as she perks, she thinks— it is only the cool air. But the next bite brings the sight of each teat puffed up as if teased, and they feel heavy, sore, latent. Another few bites rounds her, and she feels each breast lift and roll atop the stuffed, heaving mass. She feels distended, distorted. Everything wobbles. Her stomach churns as if each crumb was a feast in itself.

The vulnerable underside of her gut begins to drape beyond her parted knees.

“Productive little heifer,” the monarch purrs. “Animal strolling so proudly into my larder.”

A carafe is held to her lips: sweet cream. She can feel it as a coolness within her. Her gut grows, and her breasts sway, sagging to the sides of her rising stomach. She looks bloated and bred. She feels it. The last swallow disturbs her ailing belly like a kick, and a warm, liquid weight engorges her teats. Her nipples nearly level with her navel. She groans.

“Quiet, now.” There are clawed fingers scraping the plump layering of rolls upon her side. “Complain, and I’ll give you an udder.”

The aching heat relents with a dribble; a trickle of white travels down the round swell of her belly. “Oh,” she moans, overwhelmed. “This is—”

“Watch your words, dear.” Elegant hands pinch the leak to press and pull; milk gushes. With it comes a pure and blinding instinct, a throb in the woman’s cunt. She would like to eat, and grow fat, and be milked, and be fucked— to have her belly swell, to be put to good use, for this indulgent body is a blessing. She would quite like this new life without worry. (She would not even mind the udder.)

“One more,” the monarch says, and a candied cherry is put to her lips, dripping with syrup. “One more, and you shall never leave here under your own power.”

She parts her lips, and she laps at the fae’s fingers, and she tastes fruit, sweet sugar, and the subtle iron underthrum of blood.

[simtleman]

By the time everyone arrived to the grand dining room, Edna was already sitting there, all dolled up in a stunning two-pieced white silk gown and waiting for them.

— What an odd thing... your mother likes to make an entrance—Vivienne whispered to Cooper's ear.

— Shh... mother darling! Don't you look radiant!

— Save it, Cooper. Please, take a seat and join me for dinner.

They all obeyed without hesitation. Everything was beautifully set, with white and blue toile de jouy china, gold silverwear and a big Louis XVI chandelier right in the middle, chairing the table.

Edna Claythorpe waited for everyone to take their seats, stared at them for a minute and calmly said:

— Thank you all for coming all this way to join me.

— Did we have a choice? You were pretty clear in the letter you sent us. This dinner was not to be missed— Vivienne replied, without even looking up from her plate. She was brave enough to dare Edna, but not while looking at her in the eyes.

— I see you still got your white trash charm intact, Vivienne.

— Ladies, please— Cooper interrumpted— Could we have a pleasant evening, for a change?

— She's right, though. It was crucial for each one of you to be here tonight... as I've got some news to deliver— she sentenced. Edna made a dramatic pause, and then continued saying— I've taken some decissions regarding you all.

— Including me, Mrs. Claythorpe?— Reverend Da Gioia asked timidly.

— Oh, yes. Including you, Reverend.

— Well, don't keep us waiting mother. What decissions are those?

— First of all, I've decided to put Deadgrass Isle on the market.

— You're selling the manor? Why?— Cooper asked, in shock.

— Why wouldn't I? I had it built to my vision and desires and so I shall decide what happens to it.

— I was raised in between these walls too, mother. Don't you think I should also have a say in the matter? And what will happen with Tackett and his daughter? Are you gonna throw them out like dogs?

— Look at my son, worrying about the help. In all the years he lived here he treated them with the coldest of shoulders, and suddenly he wonders about their wellbeing. In regards to the manor, not only are you not going to have a say in the matter, Cooper... you're not going to see a dime of whatever amount comes from it, either.

— Wait, what?— Vivienne asked.

— Yes, I am terribly sorry dear Vivienne, but you're gonna have to find some other family to provide for your goldigging expectations.

Vivienne put her hands on her forehead and shook her head.

— Mother...

— I'm also cutting you off, completely. From now on, you're on your own.

— Mrs. Claythorpe— Reverend Da Gioia interrumpted— Don't you think you might...?

— Oh, and that takes me to my next big announcement— Edna said, without letting Lorenzo finish— Or should I say yours, Reverend? You will be packing your bags, leaving Brindleton Bay and moving to Copperdale. Next week.

— I beg you pardon? Now why would I do that?

— Because if you don't, I will make sure everyone in this town knows about your disgusting little habits myself... and you won't be able to exercise in any catholic church. Not here, not anywhere.

— I don't even know what you're talking about, Edna. For God's sake, why on earth...?

— She knows— Cooper said in a whisper.

— What?

— She knows, Lorenzo— Cooper repeated, staring at the wall right in front of him— It's over.

Suddenly, Reverend Da Gioia understood. There was no need for them to continue with that charade. He swallowed and struggled to find the courage to say something back.

— Is she talking about what I think she's talking, Cooper?— Vivienne asked aggressively, breaking the silence that had taken over the table.

— We'll talk about it later, Vivienne. It's complicated.

Vivienne rolled her eyes and banged on the table.

— So, is it true? Are you screwing a goddamn Reverend?

— Vivienne, if you could please...— Reverend Da Gioia said, trying to calm the waters.

— Shut the fuck up, this is unbelievable! I knew it, I simply knew it! Believe me when I say if your mother doesn't report you to the authorities, I will do it myself!

— Now hush hush, darling Vivienne— Edna interrumpted, with a tone close to sarcasm— You can stop the act, too. You never cared about my son, neither his loyalty or fidelity. All you cared about was his money, and now you know he's not worth a dime. That's what you're really upset about, isn't it?

— I, I, I...— Vivienne mumbled.

— Truth is— Edna continued— you're all nothing but vultures, with your dark ambitions, lies and secret agendas. And now that it's all over and I've discovered each and every one of you, I'm just gonna sit back, relax and enjoy watching all this madness unravel.

As everyone started to talk over each other trying to justify themselves in a joint turmoil, Edna kept quiet and smiled. Little did she know, she had just dug her own grave. Within a few hours, Edna Claythorpe would be dead.

PREVIOUS POST

[johnsendeavor]

Drabble?

I’ve never done this before but just couldn’t stop writing this narrative of Aaron Peel from Killing Eve fixating on a male for the first time instead of a woman in my head. He is a bit ooc, I apologize. I wanted the male to represent maybe a version of Vilanelle that lacks all of her best qualities.

Warnings: MDNI, Adult themes, rich people sh!t, slight smut, blowjob (I guess)

A man working on Operation Mandalay. A man from an urban area used to the decay of the city the thirst for luxury, a man who bathes himself in exorbitantly expensive luxury goods with his measly salary as a financial analyst. Brought in by Carolyn once the investigation into the Twelve and their killers led to Pharaday and the Peel empire. A man who prides himself in knowing how it all works, how much it should cost and why especially when it comes to information, on people, places, governments.

They meet when Eve goes to meet Aaron, the man coming along hoping to gauge the true value of what the company may hold. Somehow Aaron finds himself entranced, infatuated with this first glance of this male seemingly soft, bored, thirsty for money and luxury. Whether the strong musk of a floral Chanel perfume or the bright Coach leather bag with its perfectly edged curves and subtle insignia. Aaron can see all of it the same way the man does, money, luxury and yet Aaron gets a strange sense of pleasure.

Aaron finds himself confused, unable to comprehend his initial and strong attraction. He wants to understand, he yearns to control it and so miraculously he contacts the male. Aaron reaches out through the male’s private phone provided by M16, yet lacking any concern the male finds himself intrigued. They meet, somewhere drenched in the smell of luxury, people who have never had to work a day in their lives and the male basks in it before Aaron calls his attention, beckoning him to sit.

Aaron just gawks at the male in silence, both unmoving. The male unsure of what to do in an odd sense of calm. Aaron views them, the small twitch in their eye as the sun reflects off a chandelier, as their pinky finger slightly twitches towards the bright sterling cutlery, as the man views him as well peeking through his bangs and eyelashes. Aaron finds himself in awe, stating “I have a trip coming up, come with me.”

The man simply asks “Where?” Aaron confidently answers “Rome.” “How long?” Asks the man which of course give Aaron a slight bit of satisfaction from the man continuously surprising him. “As long as I would like.” The man remains calm almost stoic as a small grin starts to show, “Let’s go then.”

Aaron finds himself for the first time in a long time lacking total control, unable to decide how he wants the man to fit his vision, his ideal of perfection. How does he dress the man, how does he want the man to act, how does he need the man to be.

Aaron finds himself conflicted when he dresses the man in a soft silhouette adorned heavily with silk and fine toile, gold adorning his neck, hair, and hands and yet, Aaron finds himself frustrated forcing the male to disrobe the top piece of his extravagant ensemble. The man slides it off delicately, slowly, almost teasingly in front of Aaron as he shouts “Stop, take it all of.” The man continues to disrobe, taking of the top, the sliding the bottoms off to his knees before stepping out of them and folding them nicely. When he moves to remove his undergarments, a pair of laced adorned briefs Aaron shockingly stutters “St- slower please…” The man continues to slide off his undergarments, stripping fully before stepping towards Aaron.

Aaron Peel a man not of physical affection suddenly holds the man’s shoulder, grazing it while finding himself in blissful pleasure. The man then asks “What else do you want me to do Aaron?” “Head to the bed room, lay down and wait, be still until I arrive.” Taking the task at hand the male saunters to the room provided by Aaron after circling him. He slips pasts the grand doors leaving them slightly propped open, littering the floor to the bed with the gold jewelry and accessories Aaron dressed him in. As he lays down he see Aaron peeking in, unwilling or rather begrudgingly beginning to enter the room. Aaron stands there awkwardly, the man laying in the bed, still and unmoving yet gorgeous to Aaron with the sun glistening on the man’s skin, resembling a porcelain doll.

Aaron stands there a wet spot appearing on his thick slacks as the hand previously out of view comes out a sharp object, not a knife, not a machete, but a sickle. Aaron previously figured for a new adventure he should employ a new tool and toy. The man however remains unwavering. Aaron could not even make it past the edge of the bed before faltering, stumbling in his step laying on the bed with the man’s thighs dangerously close to Aaron as the man looks at ease, intrigued almost adorned with the same small smile as for when they first met one on one. Aaron stills, unable to move, losing control and so the man guides Aaron’s hand holding the sickle to his neck before liking the blade and asking “What do you want Aaron?” Aaron responds uncomfortably for the first time with “I don’t know… I think I want you, truly want you.”

“Then have me.” The man slides the sickle out of Aaron’s hand into his own and cuts Aaron’s clothing off slightly nicking his chest. Aaron never pursuing this type of physical intimacy slowly subdued to this carnal lust allowing the man to continue. The man slowly guided Aaron to lay down. Once Aaron took his place the man slowly adorned Aaron’s neck with small kisses leading down his chest, flicking the cut with his tongue feeling Aaron’s breathe quiver more and more as he lead down to his somewhat already wet member seemingly already having experienced an orgasm earlier.

As the man got lower to Aaron’s erection he continued to maintain strong eye contact multitasking as he started to firmly and slowly stroke Aaron’s cock and fondle his balls. The man slowly moved his mouth closer almost teasing Aaron as he lowly wrapped his tongue around the head of Aaron’s penis starting to provide suction and he slowly hollowed out his mouth to fully engulf Aaron’s length until the man’s mouth was full of Aaron’s girth rather than air. It was not long until Aaron fully came seeming overstimulated and exhausted. The man was not done but Aaron seemingly was. So the man then went to Aaron and laid beside him and before Aaron left consciousness all he could see was his infatuation this man who he had now spoilt, on who was previously hungry for this excess this luxury, he found pride, content. He found himself satiated, he had power over this individual, full control.

- Love John

(I know it’s shitty and it’s not proofread but I had to get it written. Probably only thing I’ll ever write so if you did enjoy I apologize.)

(Was worried about the real ending I wanted to write not being okay on tumblr so it may be lost forever.)

[brooklynislandgirl]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories. The Nurse Shark || Beth Riley

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence. isolation. golden age Hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody hand-prints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD : a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war. brightly coloured socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches. ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes. needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda. tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abuses of power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR : never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches. small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. pallid chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations. enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI : severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumors. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK : burying a body. warm cider. narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home. taken prisoner. shipwrecks. assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all. smoke rising from a crash. sea foam. seaports. rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense. waiting for escape. wounded men. laying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships. commended a hero. cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays. a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands. shell-shocked. the explosions of shells on shores. the sound of destruction. rising tides. head injuries. target practice. compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames. lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise. primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

GET OUT : deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behaviour. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance. uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors. apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses. secondhand dresses. strong personalities. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary. battling depression. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks. not being bound by any era. rejection. sparklers. thrift stores. high school. identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory. going behind backs. disappointed parents. catholicism. poverty. busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names. coming-of-age. a broken arm. excessive drinking. first kisses. cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships. screaming in the middle of the street. thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

TAGGED BY. @void-foxy {by technicality and thank you}

TAGGING. Be fae, steal memes