#[ or you’ll probably get salome ]

[feretra]

so, i’m just gonna put a little interest gauge out into the open? like this and i’ll come harass you to plot something/submit an ask/etc.

[she-is-juniper]

Reckless Serenade // Austin Butler x Reader

Pairing: Austin Butler x f!Reader

Type: oneshot / standalone (can be read as a prequel to The Devil I Know)

Summary: You and Austin are in a new relationship, and you’ve been teasing him all week, so by the time the weekend hits, Austin decides to try out a few of his kinks on you.

Word Count: 5K

Rating: E (Explicit) ***18+ only. Minors DNI or you will be blocked.

Warnings: smut, exhibitionism, car sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (female- receiving), dominant/submissive relationship, degradation, slight edging, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, folks), Austin being absolutely filthy, dirty talk

A/N:      Happy Sinful Saturday ♡ This can be read as a prequel to my fic "The Devil I Know", but also functions well on its own. Full disclosure: This oneshot is essentially a rewrite of an old fic of mine that I published on a past blog. That being said, I’ve added things, adjusted details, and frankly made it a lot better. The important thing is that it was 100% my fic when it was originally published, and it’s 100% my fic now!

     This is a work of fiction and is not intended to be taken as truth or fact. I do not claim to own Austin Butler or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. PLEASE TAKE NOTE THAT PUBLIC SEX, INCLUDING CAR SEX, IS ILLEGAL; this is FICTION and not intended to be replicated. Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not get yourself arrested.

     Please also note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. The purpose of the moodboard is simply to emulate the essence or mood of the fic's settings/characters/relationships.

Enjoy! ◡̈ -Juni

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Even for a girl who comes from humble beginnings, you certainly have a taste for the finer things in life. And dating Austin Butler is certainly one of those finer things.

Keep reading

“How do I look?”

You smirk and twirl your body to give Austin a full 360 of your body. You’re wearing a new gown, a sleek silver number by Dior you’d snatched on a whim last weekend. It fits you like a glove—or rather, like a second skin—and the expensive quality of the fabric makes you look like you’re dripping with opulent grace. A slit in the skirt accentuates your smooth leg along with the new Louboutin stilettos you’ll probably regret wearing later. And, of course, you're wearing a new fragrance you're starting to believe might become your new signature—Papillon's Salome.

Maybe it’s all a little too much for a Friday night dinner to celebrate your boyfriend’s agent’s birthday. But the restaurant you’re going to is more than nice enough to constitute a valid reason for formal wear.

And the look of hunger in Austin’s eyes is worth it. He says nothing as he watches you, his legs crossed, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the leather of the armchair he sits in at the corner of your bedroom. A mischievous upward lilt is growing at the corners of his mouth. He needs no words to express what he’s thinking.

Still, you continue to subtly show off your figure for him, turning toward your dresser mirror to adjust your earrings.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” you ask, hoping he doesn’t ignore the way you arch your back as you lean to reach for a simple necklace. “I know it’s just a birthday dinner—”

“You look perfect,” Austin says simply.

You turn to smile at him. He looks pretty perfect too, in a dark jacket and trousers combination that pairs nicely with a black button-down shirt. You love it when he wears dark colors. 

“Okay, I’m ready. Shall we go?”

Austin nods and stands. He leads you outside with a delicate hand on the small of your back. It’s odd that he’s restraining himself from touching you more, especially when you know how much he loves you in a dress.

But that look in his eyes… You wonder how long he intends to let the night go by before demanding you to strip it off.

Not a dull day has passed in your budding relationship with Austin Butler. For a man so charming and collected on the outside, he’s full of surprising twists that always leave you guessing what he’ll be doing next. You’ve only been dating him for a few weeks, and his unpredictability has made every moment exhilarating.

The sex has been constant and unbelievably good. You'd never experienced anything even remotely like it. The first time Austin had you, you were blown away by the sheer passion in everything he did. From the precise way he planted kisses along every inch of your skin, to the fire burning in his gaze as he slid into you for the first time and every time after that, you knew he was as addicted to you as you were to him. You trusted him entirely with your body, and he seemed to reciprocate that responsibility with the utmost care of you and your pleasure.

But everything is still very new. And you can’t help but feel like he’s holding something back.

Austin opens the passenger door of his car for you, and then circles to the driver’s side to climb in and start the engine. You check the clock in the dashboard: 7:05 p.m. You and he are going to arrive a little early to the 7:30 reservation. Which is surprising, seeing as you tend to run late to things when Austin is involved.

It feels strangely tense between you and Austin the whole drive. You make small talk about your day, and he about his. But he’s acting…off. You want to look at his face to gleam some kind of clarity about his mood, but his blue eyes are glued on the road.

Watching his fingers stroke the steering wheel twists your core in the best of ways. You cross your thighs and squeeze them together tightly, yearning to feel those fingers of his on your skin. All week, you’d been so busy with your own work, and he with meetings and promotional photoshoots. You hadn’t had quality time with him in ages. And you missed him, missed him in every way. Frankly, your underwear has been soaking wet with anticipation since the weekend had begun.

“Is everything okay?” you ask quietly after a long stretch of silence.

Austin gnaws on the inside of his cheek, looking very much like he’s trying not to say something. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says finally.

Austin has a lot of moods, you’ve found. But you haven’t known him long enough to figure out what mood this one is. “Okay, I just wanted to make sure. You’re just a little quiet is all.” You reach across the cab and place a tentative hand on his thigh.

The gesture is meant to be reassuring, but a little sound emits from Austin’s mouth that sounds oddly like a growl.

“Y/N,” he says.

“What?” you reply.

“You’re such a fucking tease.”

You’re taken aback, primarily because you can’t decipher the tone of his voice. Is he angry with you? You frown, withdrawing your hand from his leg. His eyes break away from the road to follow the movement of your hand.

“You think I’m a tease?” you say.

Maybe it’s your imagination, but you think you see a small shudder runs down his spine. “You’ve been taunting me all night. All week.”

He isn’t wrong. In the brief encounters you’ve had with Austin this week, you’ve been flirty on purpose, giggly and touchy and suggestive. You wanted to give him something to look forward to for this weekend, for the plans you and he had made to catch up. But was it too much? Is he mad now? Is this about to become your first fight?

“I… I didn’t mean…”

Austin presses his lips into a tight line as he pulls the car into the parking lot of the restaurant, which was a high-end steakhouse in West Hollywood with a private room for events such as these. He parks in the shadowed alley around the corner of the building, a good distance away, even though there are ample spots to park closer to the entrance. What little light there is left in the dusk sky is shrouded by the side of the building.

Austin cuts the engine. You and he sit in silence for too long.

“You’re mad,” you ask, but it comes out as more of a confused-sounding statement.

You wait for him to confirm it, but instead, Austin swiftly unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over to take your face in his hands—grabs you, really, more harshly than you’d been expecting. He’s scowling. And then he kisses you.

As his lips find yours, you’re surprised by his roughness. Despite the smoothness of his clean-shaven face, he's rough with his actions, as one of his hands buries in your hair and the other presses firmly against your neck. Desperation seeps from his tongue, which traces your top lip.

“Aus,” you whisper. In response, he lets out a low groan. It’s suddenly clear; he wants you . You realize you’ve mistaken anger with sexual frustration.

“Get in the backseat,” he murmurs as he breaks away.

“Austin,” you say his name in full now.

“Do it.” His voice is stern and husky.

You understand now why Austin wanted to get here so early, and you feel even more wetness pool between your thighs as you comply with his request. You climb over the middle storage compartment and onto the sleek black leather of the backseat. He had removed all of the seats to make room for all his gigging equipment, so without a backseat, you sit on the floor of the van and blink up at him in anticipation. Austin follows suit, crouching on the floor in front of you, right beside your legs. But he doesn’t kiss you again.

“You know how I feel about being teased, baby?” His eyes rake over your body. Two slow, teasing hands grab the floor-length hem of your gown and pull it up your legs, revealing more and more of your legs with each passing second. He situates himself in between them. “You’re playing with fire. I know exactly what I want from you, and when I want it,” he continues in a dangerous voice. “And when I don’t get it…” He tsks.

You gasp at the cool air as Austin hikes your dress up to your thighs, finally revealing your thin panties.

“You’ve been very naughty this week,” he drawls, glaring up at you through lowered eyes. “Teasing me with your touches, those dirty texts, all while you knew I was too busy to do anything about it. And then you put this dress on.” He caresses the expensive material of your dress that’s bunched around your thighs. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

“Austin,” you whisper, looking around outside out the window. You and he were in a parking lot, for fuck’s sake.

He just smirks with a raised eyebrow, the lust in his blue eyes crystal clear. “I think it’s time I get what I want,” he says.

You bite your lip, wanting him to hurry up and start touching you already. “What do you want, Aus?” you whisper, grabbing for one of his hands and dragging it up your bare leg.

But Austin withdraws his hand from your skin. “Naughty girls don’t get touched,” he scolds.

You huff in exasperation. “Please, Aus—”

He cuts you off. “No begging, that’s not gonna work on me today.”

Fuck, he’s gonna drive you crazy. You huff again and slouch against the backrest of the seat, crossing your arms in frustration. If he isn’t going to touch you, what the hell was the point of getting into the backseat?

Austin looks up at you with a self-satisfied sneer. He pulls himself up toward your face, bringing a gentle hand up to brush your cheek with his fingers. “I won’t touch you right now, sweetheart, but I want you to touch yourself,” he whispers hoarsely into your ear. It sends an involuntary chill down your spine and toward your core.

“You…you want…” You flinch as Austin nips your earlobe gently, an unexpected action that makes you keen, despite your best efforts.

Austin traces your parted lips with a gentle thumb. “That’s right,” he says. “But you’re going to need to listen very carefully to everything I say. Understand?”

You nod, gulping. This is new for him. Outside the car, you can hear the sounds of people chatting as they enter or leave the restaurant. God, you’re relieved the car’s windows are so darkly tinted.

Austin pulls away to look into your eyes. His expression softens ever so slightly as he asks you: "Do you remember what we talked about last week, baby...about a safe word?"

Your stomach jolts. He had brought it up in passing one morning, but at the time, you hadn't fully grasped what he would need a safe word for. But the word was simple enough, and was the only word that held only one unmistakable meaning: stop.

"I remember," you whisper.

Austin gazes at you earnestly. "So you know you can say the word, anytime you want or need, and I'll stop, no questions asked. Yes?"

"Yes, baby."

"Good girl." Austin settles back on the floor in front of your seat, sitting on his knees and resting his hands on his lap. Through the darkness, you can still see the clear outline of the bulge in his dress pants. And then he opens his mouth and instructs, very slowly: “I want you to slip your panties off.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you look down at Austin questioningly. He raises an eyebrow in a gesture that needs no words to say: Don’t make me repeat myself.

So you hook your thumbs on either side of your underwear and lift your hips to drag them down. The crotch clings to your wetness, and there’s a noticeable spot of moisture where it had seeped through. You shimmy the fabric down to your feet, and you’re about to kick it away when Austin seizes it for himself. He traces the mark of wetness and brings it to his face. You moan out a breathy sound as you watch the tip of his tongue taste your pleasure on the underwear.

“Sit back,” he tells you.

You do.

“I want you to bring your left hand to your chest. That’s it. Now slip it beneath your neckline. I want you to feel your breast for me… Now, pinch your nipple. Is it nice and hard for me now?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice gravelly. Your back arches a little as the pinch reverberates down your torso. You feel so sensitive and so impatient at the pace he’s making you go.

“I want you to put your other hand on your tummy. Good girl. Don’t you dare bring it lower yet,” he warns. You prickle at the word yet . “Good. Now I want you to pull your neckline back, show me your nipples. Do you think you can show me?”

You do, pulling down the neckline of your dress to show him your breasts. You’re not wearing a bra—you don’t need it for this kind of dress—and you very much enjoy the way Austin’s breath seems to catch in his throat as he sees you exposed like this. Austin’s hand on his lap seems to twitch almost imperceptibly toward his crotch.

“Good girl, Y/N. Fuck, you look so good. Now pinch yourself for me. Imagine it’s my teeth on your sweet tits…good, good girl.”

You want so badly to move the hand on your stomach down between your legs. Instead, you clench your thighs together tightly, as you had done before. The movement is not lost on Austin. He growls and brings his hands to your knees, pulling them apart.

“I see what you’re trying to do there, sweetheart. That’s against my rules for this evening.”

You sigh when he withdraws his hands from your knees, aching for their warmth against your skin again. But when he places his hands back on his lap, one of them rests on his bulge and rubs.

“That’s not fair,” you protest. “Why do you get to touch yourself and I don’t?”

Austin’s eyes narrow. “This is my game,” he growls, low and dangerous. “Remember? I decide what I want and how I want it. You want more later tonight? Then listen to everything I say, and no talking back.”

His words send goosebumps across your skin. You nod in acceptance, shivering at the cool air on your wet pussy.

Austin doesn’t say anything for more than a few seconds, and you get antsy, arching your back and pressing your fingers into the skin of your navel. “Please, Austin…” you whisper, biting your lip. “Please let me touch myself.”

Austin’s eyes seem to gloss over with desire. Finally, he says, “Move your right hand down to rest over your pelvis. No lower.”

Every inch you move your hand closer feels hotter and hotter to the touch. You’re so fucking close to the place you desperately need friction that you have to suppress a moan.

“Yes, good girl, so patient,” Austin says, and you can see the hand on his cock squeezing it tighter as he watches you. “Show me your index finger? Yes, I want you to get that finger nice and wet for me.”

You let out your moan then as you allow your finger to trace a line down your wetness and separate your folds. You’re absolutely dripping.

“Good, yes. Fuck, you’re so good, so gorgeous. I want you to slip that finger inside of you, can you do that for me, Y/N?” Austin says, his voice growing tenser.

You whimper as you allow your finger to push past your folds and into you. It’s unbelievably slick and nearly pulsing with arousal. Austin curses and slips his own hand down the hem of his pants.

“Move your finger now, Y/N. I want you to fuck yourself.”

You pull your finger out before slipping it back in, and you tilt your head back. You groan, bending and flexing the finger inside of you, desperate for more…for another finger, for friction against your clit, for Austin to just fucking touch you anywhere. So you push your finger inside as far as it will go. And then your thumb brushes up against your clit, and the incidental pressure feels so good, too good. You press your thumb in a circle, desperate to feed your desire for more.

But Austin misses nothing, and he firmly pries your thumb off of your clit. “No,” he says simply, “not yet.”

“Austin, please—”

“Do what I say, and only what I say. Don’t make me punish you later.”

Fuck. You keep fingering yourself, allowing your fingertip to drag against every ridge inside of you. Each small wave of pleasure that courses through your body at the sensation bring about small moans from your lips. Austin’s having trouble holding back his own moans, now that his hand is in his pants. The idea that he’s pleasuring himself too makes you feel even wetter.

“You’re doing so good, my little slut. Show me your finger,” Austin says. You pull out your index finger dazedly, and Austin grunts in approval at the glistening slick that coats it. Suddenly, he leans over to you and takes your finger in his hot mouth. Your mouth falls open in a cry of pleasure, rejoicing at the warmth of his tongue around your finger.

“Fuck, Austin,” you whisper. You need him, more than you can express.

He releases your finger from his mouth with a pop. “God, you taste so good. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Please,” you mewl, not bothering to finish your plea. He knows what you want.

And you know he’s not about to give into you that easily. “You can touch your clit now, love.”

Thank fucking god. You don’t hesitate to drag your fingers—two this time—through your wetness again and back up to rest atop that bundle of nerves that so desperately needed movement. You start moving your fingers in quick circles.

“Slower,” Austin grunts.

You slow the movement into lazy, wide circles, biting your bottom lip between your lip. But you can’t hold back the moans for long, as much as you’d like to. You arch your back and keen, each circle bringing a wash of pleasure over your entire groan.

“Moan my name, baby,” you hear Austin say breathily. “I wanna hear you say my name with that pretty little mouth.”

You obey, intoning his name in place of your next outcry. Your fingers move faster now; you can’t help it. The delectable peak of pleasure is fast-approaching, now, and as tangible and foreboding as a tsunami wave on a horizon.

“Y/N. Fuck, yes, baby, you look so fucking good. My good little slut.”

Tendrils of fire scorch your skin from your core outward, and you press your fingers more firmly into yourself, desperate for the flames to overtake you. You cry his name like a broken record; it’s beginning to become one of the few words you can remember.

A swelling feeling begins to overtake your senses. You’re about to come.

“Austin, I—fuck, Austin, I need you—oh my god—”

Suddenly, Austin pulls your hand away in a single pull. You nearly shriek in protest, but he clamps another hand down on your mouth and shushes you. His eyes are wide as he gazes out the car’s window.

“Shit. Get down.”

He doesn’t wait for you to comply; he forces your shoulders down so you’re lying against the backseat bench instead of sitting upright. A voice from outside grows louder. Someone must be coming. Austin’s hand is still pressed against your mouth. You breathe heavily through your nose from how close your orgasm had been, and now your heart thuds even harder from fear of being caught.

“Keep quiet,” Austin hisses in your ear. He’s crouched next to you, and you hope he’s low enough to avoid being spotted if anyone tries to look inside. You can feel your pussy pulsing with pleasure, even though you’re no longer touching yourself. With an involuntary clinch of your walls, you hum out a moan, completely out of control of your body’s demand for release.

Footsteps outside draw nearer. “…Austin’s car,” someone says. You recognize the muffled voice as Austin’s agent’s.

“Wonder why he would park all the way over here?” says another voice, presumably his agent’s significant other.

“Well, if he’s parked, they’re here somewhere. But where?”

“Maybe they’re inside and we missed them.”

The couple finally retreats. Austin heaves out a sigh beside you, finally releasing his clamp on your mouth.

“That was close,” you whisper. Thank god they hadn’t peered in through the tinted windows.

Austin says nothing, but he’s still touching you, his hand clasped around yours from when he’d pulled it away, his chest pressed up against your side. You look over at him and realize his zipper is down, cock sprung out of his trousers in full. You bite your lip, desperate to finish what he’d had you start.

“Austin,” you plea, your voice high and breathy. “P—Please.”

He looks over at you and sweeps his eyes over the flushed skin of your cheeks and chest, and down to your inner thighs, where your dress is hiked up to your waist now, leaving nothing to his imagination. Your hips move up and down in involuntary thrusting movements, still high with impending pleasure.

It must be too much for him to resist the sight of you. Austin leans into you and presses his mouth onto yours in a sloppy, wet kiss. His fingertips dig into your hips before moving to squeeze your inner thigh. You nearly sob at the feeling of him touching you so close to where you need it.

“Austin, fuck, I need you.”

“I know, baby.” And he pulls you up in a sitting position once again, before he repositions himself on the floor beneath you and between your opened legs, seemingly desperate to taste you. “I’ll take care of you.” He nips twice at your inner thighs, one bite to each leg, before moving his mouth to rest against your sex.

Holy fuck. You cry out, arching your back and burying your hands in his blonde hair. Finally. Austin’s tongue delves into your folds, lapping up all the wetness that’s been dripping out of you. He moans loudly at the taste of you on his tongue, and you swear at the sensation of his low voice as it vibrates against you. His skillful tongue envelops your clit, then, and the addictive assault of warmth takes you by surprise, as it always does.

He breaks away, only to wet his finger with his saliva and you watch in awe as he pushes it into you. You see stars at the new sensation; Austin’s fingers are longer, thicker, and unbelievably more dexterous than yours. He doesn’t move them at first, but just watches as you thrust your hips back and forth, fucking yourself against his fingers. Finally, he curves them upward toward your belly, and your back jolts into an arch at the sudden pleasure.

“Baby, I’m gonna—oh my god, fuck, Austin, Austin…” The whirling flames of pleasure approach fast and sure, and your breathing grows erratic. Austin watches you unravel before him, biting his lip, before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. His tongue circles you hard and fast. He inserts his middle finger inside you along with his index, curling the digits up into you over and over.

But what it is that finally pushes you over the edge is the sudden pressure of his other hand against your lower navel, pressing down firmly, almost as if he’s trying to press his fingers inside of you against as much of you as possible. And you come completely undone, the tendrils of fire overtaking your whole body. You arch your back and clench your walls around Austin’s fingers, unable to keep from screaming in pleasure or to keep your arms and legs from spasming.

It takes you several minutes to come down from your high. Aftershocks shake your body like electrocutions. You slump down against Austin’s backseat and moan, over and over; you couldn’t speak if you tried. Meanwhile, Austin kisses up and down your legs.

“So much for not touching me,” you murmur. Austin laughs, the breath tickling your thighs.

“I can’t help myself when it comes to you,” he remarks. “My girl. My sweet girl.”

“So you’re not really mad at me?”

Austin shakes his head and scoots his body so he’s closer to your face. He kisses your forehead. “No, sweetheart. Definitely not. I just… I just wanted to test out a couple of things with you.”

“What do you mean?”

He traces little patterns on the skin of your chest. “I… I wanted to see if you like it when I act more…dominant. I, um… I take it you do?”

You bite your lip and grin. “Yeah, I like it.” You like it more than you’d care to admit.

“And I like watching you get yourself off,” he admits. “I could watch you do it all day.”

“I prefer when it’s you getting me off,” you say.

He chuckles. “I also…” He runs a nervous hand through his hand. “I like the thrill of this. The thrill of almost being caught.”

“You do?”

“Fuck, yes. It’s just that much sexier.”

You smile lazily at him, shuddering as yet another aftershock of pleasure courses through your veins. “Then you can have me anywhere you’d like, Austin Butler.”

He moans in satisfaction. Then, you realize something. You glance down at his crotch. His cock is still out, exposed, and hard as ever. “Shit. Austin, you never…”

Austin shakes his head and smiles. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to fucking devour you later, you know. It can wait.”

You reach a lazy hand down to his pulsing, pink member. He’s as hard as a metal rod; he grunts in response. “Sure doesn’t look like this can wait.”

He groans and gulps heavily.

“Oh, no. There’s no way we’re going to this steakhouse in the state you’re in right now.”

“Fuck, Y/N…”

“We can definitely do that,” you grin, spreading your legs for him tauntingly. The backseat bench is narrowish, but certainly wide enough for him on top of you…

Austin curses as you move your thumb over his head, spreading the precum all over. “You’re positive?”

“Fuck me, Austin.”

That’s all Austin needed to pull his trousers down to his ankles and clamber on top of you, planting demanding kisses to your lips. He positions his cock at your entrance, coating himself in your slickness, which has since pooled in dripping amounts between your thighs from your orgasm.

“Holy shit,” Austin says. He’s hesitant, as always, your comfort his first priority. You claw at his back and trail your hands down his spine to rest against his ass, pulling his hips up toward your entrance encouragingly. It’s all the urging he needs. He tips his head back as he slides his cock past your folds, and pushes as deep into you as you’re able to take him. It’s unbelievably slick and yet, as always, a delightfully tight fit for Austin. A steady stream of curses escapes both your lips and his as he bottoms out.

“You’re so fucking tight, baby. Fuck. You’re so beautiful. You’re so mine.”

Austin slowly pulls out of you, withdrawing a gasp from your throat. The need to be filled by him manifests as an aching urge deep inside of your core. He fulfills that need with another thrust, this one harder and surer.

And then he’s moving, in and out, his hips crashing against yours with an alluring smack each time. You moan, high and feminine, knowing he loves it while at the same time unable to help yourself at all.

“Yeah, Y/N, fuck ,” Austin says into the shell of your ear, low and husky. “You’re taking me so well. You like it when I fill you up, huh? You’re such a good girl. My filthy slut. Your pussy’s so wet for me.”

It’s as if you’re practically witnessing his dominant side coming out again, and you whimper, letting him take control completely. Austin seizes your wrists and pins them down on the seat above your head. Each thrust rocks the car and ripples out through the curves of your body.

“Fuck me harder, Austin,” you demand, and he complies, slamming into you with a new vigor. You see stars.

“I’m gonna come,” he moans, his voice thick.

“Come inside me,” you command.

“Fuck, I’m so close. I’m gonna fill you up with my come, baby girl.” The hands on your wrists tighten, and his thrusts become more and more erratic. “Fuck, oh fuck.”

“Come for me, Austin, don’t stop” you coax. And it’s all he needs before orgasming with three final thrusts. You can feel his member pulse as he releases inside of you. The strained gasps and moans that emit from his pink lips are heavenly sounds.

He collapses on top of you, panting. Hot wetness—yours and his—drips out of you. The tickling sensation of it running down your legs brings you closer and closer to another torrent of pleasure. You slip your hand from Austin’s grasp—easily now that he’s weakened—and bring your fingers to your clit. You hadn’t expected yourself to be so close to orgasming again, but you are. You rub yourself for just a few moments before you’re reaching the edge again. Austin’s so dazed that he can’t say anything, just presses his forehead against yours. Suddenly you’re twisting and moaning and tensing all over again, this time around Austin’s member, still deep inside of you.

“I could feel that,” Austin remarks as you collapse in a heap beneath him.

All you can manage is his name in a breathy, exhausted sigh. And he loves the sound of it, squeezing you even tighter in his arms.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re so perfect. Oh my god. I'm so fucking happy I met you. I'm so glad you're in my life.”

You stroke his back gently as you whisper in his ear, "Me too, baby." 

He shudders atop of you, and you revel in the vulnerability he expresses with you, both in his words and in his position, being held so closely by you. You lie there in silence, Austin still on top of you and inside of you, for a few minutes. You look at the fogged-up car windows and start laughing.

“What is it?” he asks.

"Do you still want to go to this dinner party?" you giggle.

He smirks. "No one will know."

"I don't look like I just got fucked in the backseat of your car?"

He bites back a satisfied grin and brushes your hair from your face. "All I see is a lovely blush,” he says sweetly.

“But what about…?”

You look down at where he’s still deep inside you. He can’t hold back his grin at the sight, which is rather nefarious, and he slowly withdraws from you. You feel a stream of warm wetness seeping from deep inside you. With a start, you watch, mouth agape, as he crawls down your body to draw his tongue through the mess of your and his pleasure, licking all of it into his mouth and swallowing.

Oh my god. You moan his name, partly in disbelief at his ministrations, partly due to the sensitivity between your legs. When he’s done, he kisses both of your thighs and pulls your underwear back up your legs.

“Let’s go,” he says, zipping his trousers and smoothing down his shirt. “No one will be able to tell.”

❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

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[devilscreekballad]

Another ch7 sneakpeek, this time Lynwood’s Pov. There’s a lot of copy-paste in this chapter, I really dunno why it’s taking me so long.

You are not entirely certain that you've slept last night.

Not 'if', not 'whether or not', just 'that' you've slept. You do remember laying down for a moment, but you also realize you did not lay down where you just woke up. You yawn and stagger over to the small dressing table, splashing cold water into your face and gazing blearily at your reflection. Your siblings at home would probably not hesitate to force you into bed if they'd knew you are handling yourself like this.

With a long and exhausted sigh, you splash more water into your face, shaking off the fog that is crawling through your brain. There is still so much to do. At least, you find, everything you wanted to pack to send back home has been packed, leaving you with light luggage to travel, and a bottle of morphine to be refilled.

Once again you muse that Therese would never forgive you if she'd knew about it, and Vincent might go as far as to kick you out of his house for good.

But they'd have to understand: With all these things on your mind, all these unsolved mysteries and undiscovered secrets it's a necessity to get [i]some[/i] rest. It and opium. But latter requires you to interrupt your investigations, which rarely is a feasible option to begin with, and it's certainly not one right now.

You dry your face and push yourself away from the table, sitting down on the bed for a moment to sort your thoughts.

It'll be a long day again.

@{(salomesveil_hint) At least yesterday's talk with Mulligan and ${name} had been fruitful, even though you feel you revealed a little too much without getting an equal amount in return| You wonder if you should have told Mulligan and ${name} a bit more about the Salome's Veil case, even though you are not entirely certain if you could trust them with some information}. @{(tell_lynbright) Then again, they have not been as antagonistic towards you as they could have been, and they've given you quite an unexpected puzzle piece in the form of Mr. Brightwell's presence at the manor the night his son died. Something you'll have to look into as soon as this case allows it| While you must admit that they have not been as antagonistic towards you as they could have been, they are still a bunch of wanted criminals}. And still there's the mystery of what exactly Blayne tasked them with.

It is quite an array of questions left open, and you are glad you already arranged to speak to ${name} again, and maybe Mulligan by extension. Which is something you ought to be fully awake for. You rise, stretch and head back to the bowl of water, filling it to nearly the rim. And after a deep breath you submerge your face in the cool liquid, coming up gasping and sputtering the moment this got your body wide awake.

You cough and dry your face, cleaning up the table before you move on to get dressed. *page_break The disadvantage of the nightly fog leaving your brain is that it is now racing with even more questions. Especially everything concerning this Miss Beauchêne. She might be a very pleasant person, at least that's the impression you got, but some things just don't add up. Robert Brightwell never got engaged, to your knowledge. Now, you don't know yet what Miss Beauchêne's social status is, but be it what it may be, she's Black. That alone would have been enough for the press to dig its teeth into that story most viciously.

And then the whole sordid affair about Merryborne. Someone in this whole mess is lying, but, much to your dismay, you can't say who that might @{(tell_lynbright) be. You refrain from saying it's Mr. Brightwell. His lie about his whereabouts might easily have its own reasons| be}.

You crack your neck and joints and adjust your clothes. While you doubt Mulligan and ${name} will already be up on their own, it probably won't be a bad idea to check, in case you are wrong about their sleeping habits. If they are awake, you can talk to ${name}, if not... You check your watch... if not you can come back here, go through your notes, then head downstairs for breakfast and then to the post office, sending off another wire. *page_break Upstairs... Much to your dismay you find no one answering as you knock on Mulligan and ${name}'s door.

Anger dwells up in you at the notion that these two have made a run for it, and you are all too ready to curse yourself for not arresting them at the first chance, when you're reminded, painfully, of something Therese keeps telling you: That you are a good, clever man with amazing instincts, but that you let your bias get in your way time and time again.

You take a deep breath, pushing your assumptions aside.

"Keep calm, and listen to your logic, Giles," you tell yourself, take another deep breath and lean against the wall, trying to approach this without any assumptions.

Mulligan and ${name} are cunning, and they are certainly not careless. If the case in Baltimore is anything to go by they will not simply run away unless the coast is clear, no matter how much things are heating up for them.

And even if they were, understandably, suspicious of you, they ought to know that they are not the focus of your investigation. So, unless they got seriously concerned about your presence, where could and would they have gone?

You look down the corridor, realizing that Mrs. Meadows' room might be a good place to start asking. As it is past sunrise, she's ought to be awake. You doubt she has changed that habit in the last few years.

You gather your wits and head for her room... *page_break ... ... only to nearly get run over by Mulligan.

"Mr. Mulligan," you greet, dryly, but much to your dismay with more surprise than you would have liked. There's also an undeniable relief at the fact that Mulligan actually [i]is[/i] already awake. After all, for all your research into him and $!{title} ${name} you hadn't pegged either down as an early bird.

"I was just looking for you," you continue. "Did not expect you to be up so early." Something seems amiss, though. While, true, neither is an early bird as such, you reckon that they'd be up outside of their usual routine if the situation calls for it. A con, or fleeing from the outcome of one, or in general something to rattle one quite a bit. And looking Mulligan over he does look quite... nervous, and fraying at the seams right now. "You look rather... exasperated."

You crane your neck a little, despite standing taller than Mulligan, to get a better look into Mrs. Meadows room. There's O'Brian and Burke, Mrs. Meadows, naturally, Miss Beauchêne, and the O'Connor boy. $!{title} ${name}, however, is nowhere to be seen.

"I'm getting the impression something is quite amiss," you thus note.

Mulligan furrows his brow at you, very likely weighing the consequence of his answer.

*if ((lyn <=30) and (worriedforlyn =false))   "$!{title} ${name} has been abducted," Mrs. Meadows speaks up, nonchalantly. *if ((lyn >=35) or (worriedforlyn))   "$!{nick} has been kidnapped, Agent Lynwood," Mulligan then informs you, lowering his voice.

You can't help but stare, quite baffled you reckon.

"Come again?" you manage.

"Kidnapped," Mrs. Meadows repeats the information. "We are on our way to rescue ${them}."

That's... It would be an understatement to say 'concerning'. It's puzzlinh who would do such a thing. Of course, someone like $!{title} ${name} made a lot of enemies. You ought to know, you are one of @{((lyn >=35) or (worriedforlyn)) them, regardless how agreeable ${they} might have been towards you| them, by all means}.

It still is thoroughly astonishing that such a thing has happened. But Mulligan looks genuinely concerned, and there's no reason why he should lie in this regard. Now, if he were on his own, maybe this might be a ruse, but with the other three of Blayne's little posse with him... You recognize this might be an additional problem.

"Just the four of you?" you ask, part concerned, part curious. For all you know about $!{title} ${name}, ${they} @{plur are| is} *if ((job =3) or (strong =3))   a capable     *if ((job =5) or (strong =5))       fighter and skilled gunslinger, so   *if ((job !=5) and (strong !=5))      fighter, though not much use with a gun, so *if ((job !=3) and (strong !=3))   not an outstanding   *if ((job =5) or (strong =5))       fighter but a skilled gunslinger, so   *if ((job !=5) and (strong !=5))       fighter, nor any use with a gun, still ${they} would have put up a fight. Something anyone setting out to kidnap ${them} ought to have been aware of. And then there's the tall tales of the number of pursuers whose certain grasp $!{title} ${name} and Mulligan have managed to escape.

You almost were amongst their number, if not for a lucky sighting at the Clementsburg station.

So, there's reason to doubt ${name}'s kidnapper would not have made sure ${they}'d be outnumbered no matter what. So these four might not stand much of a chance...

"I reckon you should come with us," Mrs. Meadows then rips you from your thoughts, stepping past Mulligan. "You are a man of the law, Giles, as questionable as the methods of your agency may be."

"Hold it," O'Brian interrupts. "Didn't [i]you[/i] just point out gettin' the law involved will get ${name} killed?"

"The recognizable law, yes," Mrs. Meadows counters. "But Agent Lynwood's presence as a Pinkerton agent compared to a sheriff or marshal might be in our favor. He's far less recognizable as a man of the law." *page_break She's Charming As Ever. You sigh, frustrated, as several doors along the corridor are opened, indicating both growing anger and growing curiosity of the other guests on this floor.

While, as Mrs. Meadows just pointed out so helpfully, you are no sheriff or marshal, and certainly not a police officer, you contemplate pulling rank regardless and ushering these guests back into their room, when Mulligan grabs you by the arm and heads for the stairs.

You protest, naturally, but Mulligan just glares at you.

"Listen, Agent," he begins as he navigates towards your room. "For all we can tell these kidnappers are the kind o' hired muscle the rich and powerful of this fine nation love to hire when yer bloody agency is too mild-mannered for their taste and needs."

You pull yourself free just as you reach your room, staring at Mulligan in growing alarm. As condescending and harsh as his assessment may have been, you know what type of men he's referring to. But... how in Hell would he even know that for certain?

"How do you even know that?" you wonder out loud, before a stray thought, if not realization hits you. "Your ghosts, correct?"

"My brother, in fact."

You narrow your eyes at Mulligan, as you search your memory.

"Matthew, wasn't it?" you ask to clarify. You hadn't looked too closely into Mulligan's family as a whole, but the story had made quite the circles back in the day. Five men rob a bank, get away with nearly five thousand dollars. Then one of them rats out the other four, the Mulligan brothers amongst them. Matthew Mulligan was found having bled to death from several gun wounds a few days later, while Charlie Mulligan returned to his hometown in a catatonic state a month after that. Two weeks later the remains of their former companions were found in at least four different places in several states. "Read the story."

"Listen," Mulligan begins darkly as you begin thinking after that. "If ya don't believe me, then say so. Now." *page_break ... You furrow your brow. Shouldn't he know better, given his reputation? Then again, you can wager how stressed he must be right now

"It might surprise you, but I do believe you. Wouldn't have sought your help if I wouldn't do so at least a little. So, these men... Your brother's certain about their nature?"

"Not just that," Mulligan answer, just as the rest of his group reaches you. "One of'em has been part of yer old unit, Bellegarde."

You are not a man easily rattled. Confused, maybe. Surprised? Sure. But you take a bit of pride in not letting things shake you easily. But these words out of Mulligan's mouth make your blood run cold. Dozens of images, not one pleasant, replay in your mind, before anger dwells up at Mulligan speaking that dreadful name, before the implications of what he said, what he knows, and the idea of where he knows it from sink in. A different kind of anger, a different kind of memories, and a different kind of knowledge worm their way into your conscious thoughts, and you feel sick to your stomach.

There are people you owe helping $!{title} ${name} to. Some alive, some dead, and all of them part of a life you had hoped to have left behind.

You shake your head to clear it, nod curtly at Mulligan and head into your room. *page_break As you check your weapons you begin feeling the eyes of the dead on your back in a way you haven't felt them in decades. This isn't how you had expected this investigation to go. Just for a moment you entertain the thought to leave that entire posse to rot, but you reckon there's more people alive than dead that would never forgive you such a decision. Therese, Vincent, Sara, Isaac, old Elam, Benjamin, Lian, and, of course, you yourself.

You've vowed to do the right things in live, and you are not going to stop honoring that vow now.

Once more you check your gun, holster it and head back to the others.

"Let's make haste then," you say, and lead them out to get the horses. *page_break "Where's $!{title} ${name} being kept?" you ask as the group reaches the edge of the city. You should maybe have asked before, but you reckon you hadn't had the mind for it before.

"A farmstead a bit out of town," Mulligan answesr. "Middle o' the woods."

"Take it your ghosts told you?"

You feel like slapping yourself for that question. How else would Mulligan know, and he has already told you that he's got the information from none other than his dead brother.

"Not just any," Mulligan says, and you try to make out whether or not he's bitter about it. "Told ya it's me brother Matthew."

You turns to look at him, nodding curtly and apologetic.

"Sorry for your loss, by the by. Couldn't tell you earlier."

"That's kind of ya," Mulligan says, nodding back, and then he pauses for y moment "Agent Lynwood, do ya know anyone by the name of 'Robiquet'?"

You search your memory. You know the name, and a bit about their reputation. And that is enough to make your skin crawl.

"Not personally," you answer thus. "Only by name. Rich family from Virginia or Alabama. Made their money in sugar and cotton, lost nearly everything after the war when they found themselves having to pay the people doing the work for them. Went into shipbuilding and mining now, I believe."

"How screwed is ${name} in such company?" O'Brian muses out loud.

"$!{they} @{((nat =9) or (nat =10)) could certainly be off much, much| couldn't be off} worse," Burke answers, and you glare at both of them.

"Do you two ever think before you speak?" Mrs. Meadows scolds, and both Burke and O'Brian sit up straight.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Pull yourself together, you two," Mrs. Meadows continues, and the two utter a 'Yes, ma'am'.

And the group rides one.

It's not long till you can see the edge of the forest ahead, when something by some rocks and boulders nearby gets Mulligan's attention. *page_break A Horse! It's a lonely horse build like a brick house, a chestnut Clydesdale, saddled and trotting about nervously amongst the grass and rocks.

There's no need to signal the others to stop at the sight, as they all know better than to ride on carelessly, and Mrs. Meadows retrieves her rifle.

"There's someone there," Burke alerts you at a movement, readying his gun, as Mulligan speaks up hastily.

"That's Matt's... fault," he says. "He says he spooked the horses of the kidnappers when they came through here. Overdid it a bit with the Clydesdale and she threw her rider off. Matt says the guy hit his head on one of the rocks and didn't get back up."

Mulligan gulps at that, and you get the sense he's feeling more worried for the kidnapper than he's feeling relieved at having to deal with one opponent less.

"The other's rode on," he continues. "But seems they nearly shot another guy who was insisting on checking if the other guy mighta been still alive."

"Guy sure seems to be alive still," Burke notes.

"What now?" O'Brian asks, and before Mulligan can answer, Mrs. Meadows marches over to the rock, rifle at the ready nevertheless.

What follows is her muttering in Cantonese, and you bite back a smile at hearing her curse like this. Then she waves you all over, calling for Mulligan to get her her bag. *page_break Which He Does. The sight you find around the rock is a man the size of a grizzly laying slumped together against the stone. He's dizzy and disoriented, and the rock behind him is smeared with blood, but he's certainly alive.

"Didn't know angels can be Chinese," he mutters, seeing Mrs. Meadows, blinking blearily.

"I'm no angel, nor a demon, mainly on account that you are not dead," Mrs. Meadows retorts and crouches down before the man.

"My Holly got spooked, ma'am," the man continues. "She never does that. She's a good horse." Then he blinks. "Is it because we took that ${name}? I said to Amos we shouldn't. But Amos said we need the money."

"What's yer name?" Mulligan asks, stepping closer.

"Earl, sir," the man answers. "Earl Oakley."

"Like Annie Oakley?" Mulligan ventures.

"I wish, sir. She's a fine woman, that Miss Oakley. Even if her name wasn't Oakley all the time. She's still a fine lass." Then the man looks closer at Mulligan. "Oh. Yer the other one Mr. Favor told us to take if we can't take $!{title} ${name}."

You stand back, searching your memory for the names. You know of Amos and Earl Oakley. Two petty thieves from Arizona Territory, often working as hired muscles, even though Amos seems much more brains than brawns. Then again, Earl has enough muscle for four grown men. And both of them have a reputation to be thoroughly inept, however.

The name 'Mr. Favor' however doesn't ring any bell. It might well be an alias.

Earl tries to sit up, only to get pushed back down by Mrs. Meadows.

"Hold still," she orders. "You got quite a nasty wound on your head, and I need to see to that."

"From the rock, ma'am, when Holly threw me off," Earl says, and you note Mulligan getting nervous. As do you. While this certainly isn't a ruse, you know how Lian can be when people are in need of help. But time is of essence right now.

"Do we really have time for this?" you speak up.

Mrs. Meadows turns around, glares, but her face quickly softens with a trace of guilt.

"I can't just leave him laying here," she says.

"Gotta give it to the Pink here," Burke speaks up. "If we wanna save ${name} we oughta hurry."

At this Earl does pull himself up into a more upright position.

"$!{title} ${name} will be fine, Mr. Favor said," he says. "Can't make a bargain with a broken chip, he said."

You don't like the sound of this. By the sound of it ${name} has been kidnapped to be exchanged for something, and you wonder what. You already figured ${name} and Mulligan made a lot of enemies, but something tells you the reason for this abduction is more recent.

And the only event that comes to mind is the botched attempt on Miss Beauchêne's freedom. *page_break Curious.

"Hold up," Mulligan interrupts. "This 'Mr. Favor'. What does he want $!{title} ${name} for?"

"The sheriff's got his sister because o' $!{title} ${name} an' ya, an' Mr. Favor told us to go an' get ya [i]or[/i] $!{title} ${name}, he said that very clearly. Get only one, not both. An' he said that will make the other get him his sister back. Amos said we could just go an' break her outta that cell, no big deal. Amos always says things are no big deal when they are, and Mr. Favor wouldn't hear any of it. Told us to do as he says. And to listen to this Wilkie. I like this Wilkie none, sir. Not even a bit."

Well, there's your answer to that then. You were right. Naturally.

The name 'Wilkie' however rings a couple of alarm bells, but no reason comes to mind immediately.

"Guess we were spot on with our guess," O'Brian mutters, kicking at the ground as Mrs. Meadows finishes patching Earl up. She then rises back to her feet, nodding Burke and O'Brian to help Earl back to his feet.

"Earl, where did they bring $!{title} ${name} to?" she asks.

Earl points, guilt and thankfulness written equally on his face.

"That way, ma'am. In the woods. It's a farmstead, ma'am, with a big barn. Wilkie wanted to do away with the farmers, but I just knocked them out. Can you make sure they are alright?" He shuffles a little uncertain, sitting down again. "An'... an' can ya make sure Amos is alright as well? Amos isn't bad, ma'am. Not much at least. He tries, but he's no good at bein' bad. That's what he always tells me I am, but he is just the same."

Mrs. Meadows nods, and so does Mulligan, before Mrs. Meadows turns to O'Brian and Burke.

"You two are the best riders. You get this man back to..." before she can finish Earl grabs her wrist, startling her, his hand covering almost her entire lower arm.

"No, ma'am. Ya go an' get $!{title} ${name}. I'll wait here. An'... can you tell ${them} I'm sorry? $!{title} ${name} seemed nice, and Mr. Favor is nothin' but a bad man."

Mrs. Meadows looks at Earl for a moment, quickly checks him over again, before she nods and heads back to her horse, mounting up.

You follow, your mind still racing with the search for the names of 'Wilkie' and possibly 'Mr. Favor'. *page_break A Short Ride Through The Woods Later. A winding and well-used path leads through the woods, fresh tracks indicating recent use. The farmhouse at its end lies in the middle of a shallow valley, the trees along the edge of the little hollow provide plenty of cover. You leave the horses nearby, just out of view from the farm, and edge closer to the ledge, surveying the area below.

There's a large barn, a paddock and a small orchard ready to be harvested to the left, and the farmhouse to the right. And a lot of open space between it. All of it occupied by grim looking men with more muscles than anyone should have, and as many morals as braincells.

"I'm countin' five... no six outside," O'Brian hushes, lowering his spyglass. "An' at least two in the farmhouse."

"So prob'ly more," Burke adds, "An' then some in the barn. At least them being in the farmhouse means the farmers are still alive. No need stationin' anyone there if that weren't the case."

You nod, as does the rest of the group.

"That makes at least eleven," Mulligan notes sourly and suddenly stiffens as if something startled him. You watch the blood drain from his face, and his eye grow quite glassy, before he suddenly slumps back, shivering, eye wide with fear.

"No..." he manages in a choked whisper, slumping back, holding a hand to his mouth. "Please, God, no..."

Something is very wrong, and you have an unsettling idea what it might be.

"What's wrong?" Burke nudges Mulligan, as your group stares at the older man in worry.

"It's $!{nick}...$!{they}", he stammers, trying desperately to calm himself. "Matt checked what's goin' on and... these guys beat $!{nick} up pretty thoroughly. $!{they}@{plur 're|'s} alive, but... we gotta hurry."

You spot the tears dwelling up in the corner of Mulligan's eye as he looks at your group pleadingly. This is certainly not the news you had hoped for, but unfortunately those you had expected.

"So we better make haste," Mrs. Meadows says, and turns back to the farm. *page_break You Can Guess What She's Thinking. "Thinking about the best approach, aren't you?" you ask, brow furrowed darkly.

"Of course. Aren't you?" Mrs. Meadows retorts.

You snorts a humorless laugh.

"Not much to strategize here, is there?" you grunt. "We're outnumbered on either end of the farm, with the major part of our opponents right between the barn and the farmhouse. If we try to pick them off in either location their companions will rush in from the others and make short notice of us and their hostages."

"${name} and the farmers," Mrs. Meadows notes matter-of-factly.

You nod.

"Exactly. You know," you begin wondering. "It's strange. Nearly a dozen men, maybe more, for three people? Sounds excessive."

"What do you think?" Mrs. Meadows inquires.

"I can't tell," you answer, scanning the farm again. "But this is the kind of manpower you bring if there's something else to pro-... Bloody Hell! You got to be kidding me!"

You lower your binoculars and blink, looking after a man leaving the farmhouse with two men in tow right now. Small, stocky, well-dressed, sporting a sculpted mustache. Someone you had not expected to see here.

"What?" Mulligan asks, and you points towards Favreau.

"You know who that is?" you ask, almost casually, doing your best to not let your confusion show.

Jean-Baptiste Favreau. Highly trusted, renown banker, and cunning businessman. Someone the rich of this nation turn to when financial trouble arises. He has employed your agency a few times in the past, and while you only know him from hearsay and photographs, you've come under the impression that he is as ruthless as he's pompous and arrogant. A man you neither cross nor disappoint if you know what's good for you.

You search your memory, vaguely remembering that his sister did marry into the Robiquet family. That's two families then one would be wise not to cross. *page_break Bugger... "He looks familiar, but I dunno," Mulligan answers your question, dragging your from your thoughts.

"Jean-Baptiste Favreau," you say, gloomily. "Guess that's the ominous 'Mr. Favor'. If you ever researched the finances of anyone rich in this nation, you very likely stumbled upon the name." You pause, maybe the others know something about Favreau. There's certainly a lot to tell, and especially people like Mulligan or O'Brian — who take such delight in conning this kind of people —  ought to know something.

Unfortunately, they don't.

You sigh inwardly. "I'll tell you the details once ${name} is safe and sound," you say, "But for now... He's quite bad news. The kind of man you don't want to cross, disappoint or insult. By having his family face consequence for, let's say, an attempted kidnapping. For example.

"He's also leavin'," Burke calls out in a stage whisper, drawing everyone's attention back to the farm.

Favreau is indeed climbing into a waiting coach, while a total of four men mount up, two of them on the coach, two on horses, all heavily armed. Favreau barks some orders and the carriage sets into motion into the opposite direction of where you are. Well, that leaves you with a more reasonable number of opponents to handle.

"In the hope I won't jinx it, but damn, that's lucky for us," Burke mutters, and you're inclined to agree.

"Still got more than enough on our hands," Mulligan says, and you notice the faint, curt nod he's giving someone. "Give Matt a moment to check what we're up against now." *page_break So You Wait. After a moment you spot another such small nod from Mulligan, before he tells the group that there's now four hired guns in the barn, and three in the house. Then he pauses.

A mixture of bafflement, worry, and a trace off anger ghost over his face before he frowns darkly.

"Got another problem, it seems," he tells you. "They beat up this Amos pretty good. Matt says he needs help better sooner than later. An' the farmers are close to doin' something stupid."

Oh, isn't that just great? You sigh inwardly, wondering if this can even end well. There's no question that your group will have to split up, and everything then will have to be timed well. Which is easier said than done.

"Bugger," Burke mutters. "So, what now?"

"We have to split up," you suggest. "Even with the numbers more even, it won't do if we clear one side of the farm, only to have the buggers on the other catch on. Especially if the farmers are about to try something."

Burke nods, but then furrows his brows.

"How long ya think we got?" he asks, looking at you. What kind of question is that even? How should you know what the farmers are up to precisely?

"You mean until the farmers do some-..." you begin, confused, when things click into place. Burke isn't asking about the farmers. He figured Favreau is likely on his way to seek out Mulligan, and when he'll find the hotel room empty.... "You mean until Favreau will return, right?"

Burke nods again. *page_break "There's no way in Hell that guy ain't headin' to town to force Mulligan here to free his sister. An' when he finds Mulligan gone..."

"He'll come back here an' all Hell will break loose," Mulligan finishes the thought, shuddering. He knits his brows, face strained as if he's listening to something with great attention, before he sighs softly and relieved.

"Matt says some other ghosts are keepin' an eye on Favreau. They'll make sure he won't come back here any time soon."

You quirk a brow, a shiver running down your spine. Something about the way Mulligan said that has your hairs stand on end, and you feel as if things you buried deep have just found a handy spade.

"Hey!" O'Brian suddenly calls out, nodding towards the farmhouse. One of the hired guns is making his way over to the barn, looking indisputable upset. You know the expression. Something has come up that he needs to talk to their leader to.

"Eleven in the barn then, two in the house," Mulligan mutters. "Is that better or worse?"

"It doesn't make much of a difference," Mrs. Meadows answers, and casually checks her rifle. "I suggest two of us head to the house and take out the two men there. The others get into position in the barn and await the others attacking from the other side."

"Best choice we have," you agree.

"Only choice we got, innit?" Burke grunts, checking his weapons as well. "So, how we gonna do that?"

"Giles is an excellent sharpshooter," Mrs. Meadows declares in a tone so matter-of-fact that it's almost comical, and you blink astonished. She's usually not someone to give out compliments, especially not to someone like you. But you refrain from asking aloud if she's mocking you. "One of us has to head to the farmhouse, the other heads to the barn."

"Tommy should take the barn," O'Brian speaks up. "He's the better shot an' fighter outta the two o' us, makes more sense to have him where more people are."

Burke nods curtly.

And then everyone looks at you expectantly.

[highsviolets]

please tell me analyst does up the buttons of javi’s shirt in the morning while he watches her fondly 🥺

pairing: javier peña x f!reader (waterfall inquiry-verse) 

word count: 808

warnings: this is so domestic. ye have been warned. no beta. 

a/n: part of my hc + drabble ask event! send me an ask or request about any of my fics and i’ll write a little something. masterlist I UPDATED taglist form 

“which one do you think, baby?” javier’s voice comes muffled and still slightly sleepy from the bedroom, and it makes your lips twitch up fondly as you finish applying lipstick. it’s a soft shade, barely noticeable in your view, but javi’s told you before that he likes the way it compliments your eyes. so you keep a tube of the stuff on his vanity beside the chipped cup that holds his toothbrush. it’s almost — almost — a fragment of domesticity. something to say it all (you & him) exists.

he meets you halfway down the corridor, you bumping into his still-bare chest with a barely discernible thud.

despite himself, he smiles. it glosses over his features, pulling at his cheeks and lifting the heavy weight from his sodden brow (heavy and laden even now, in the morning, before the day has really begun).

“which one?” javier repeats again, clasping his hand around yours and dragging you into the bedroom in a mirror of last night.

this time, though, he doesn’t make for the bed. instead he deposits you beside the small closet, where he extracts two shirts for consideration: a freshly pressed white button-down, or a white button-down with the faintest of grey stripes.

“cariño,” you say, eyes glancing back and forth between the nearly-identical items, “these are…the same one you always wear.” a laugh bubbles up and you clasp a hand over your freshly-painted lips. “did you buy white ones just because they match each of your suits?”

javi’s jaw shifts slightly and his sleep-worn eyes dart to the side, the same way he looks when he’s put on the spot at a meeting. you would feel bad if it wasn’t so funny.

shaking your head, you deftly start unbuttoning the striped number and swish it away from the hanger, circling to his back to ease him into the starched fabric. shoulder muscles pull with the movement. their definition is easy to spot through the thin fabric, the divots and ridges softened by a layer of fat, a protective cloak to shroud him from the bullets both proverbial and real.

he shrugs them once, twice, trying to get it settle on his sturdy body. it’s like he’s trying shake off what it symbolizes, the reason he’s swapped white shirts and suits and ties for the rainbow shades and tight fitting jeans tucked away in the back of his closet. you’re partial to the teal one, he knows, often ‘borrowing’ it for a few days at a time. if he ever gets around to taking you on a proper date, javi thinks, one that’s not in his kitchen, he’ll probably wear the pale blue one with a few buttons undone. you’ll like that, he considers absentmindedly, relishing the warm press of your palm against his lower back as you move to face him once more.

biting your lip in tender concentration, you start to button the shirt slowly. fingers thread each button through the next, pushing the plastic through each slot before pulling slightly to make sure it’s secure.

something in you is at once sad and hopeful as you work your way through the routine action. bronze swathes of skin are slowly closed to you with each button, closing up your access to him, turning him into mr. peña and not javi, or baby, or cariño.

and yet you know, somehow, that he’s never had someone do this to him before, not since he was a child. you doubt that he would have let anyone but you do it anyway, and that familiar swell of affection interspersed with humility trickles outward from its centrifuge in your heart.

javi is quiet, only marking time with easy, even breaths as he looks down on your lowered gaze and ever-moving fingers. a thumb comes to rest on your cheek, rubbing back and forth in a delicate, comfortable thoughtfulness. a smile blossoms once more; his brooding gaze (already thinking of the files, the phone calls, the longing for you waiting for him at work) softens into rays of chocolate-covered light.

he swallows your soft murmur upon finishing the task with a kiss, the hand on your cheek falling to tilt your chin up so he can meet your lips with his own. it’s sweet, soft, sure, steady, a sibilant stream of mutually effused affection passing between the two of you.

“sorry i can’t do your tie,” you mumble, pulling away. he had taught you to unknot a tie but not the reverse skill. you’d never wanted to learn before, never thought you’d need to learn. but now you do; now you want to have any excuse to care for him, to let your hands linger in his vicinity a little while longer.

javi kisses your cheek. “don’t worry about it,” he says with a wink, as if reading your thoughts. “i can teach you tonight.”

***

tags for mi marido de DEA: @frannyzooey @clan-djarin  @catsnkooks @teaofpeach @goldafterglow @softdin @dindja @the-purity-pen @justrunamok @mitchi-c @huliabitch @yespolkadotkitty @justanotherblonde23 @wille-zarr  @blancatobarxoxo @chogisss @keeper0fthestars @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @artsymaddie @princessxkenobi @beskar-tano @thirstworldproblemss @lv7867 @thewayofthemandalorian  @cri-me-a-river @javier-pena @jedi-mando @agirllovespancakes @meshlamando @linkpk88  @alexmarie29   @toomanystoriessolittletime @javisjeanjacket @lunarthoughts @wyofabdoms @mufflerfluffler @over300books @djarinsruni @littlemissthistle @mistermiraclee @pedrosgirlx @flyingovertheandes @leonieb @astroboots @aasimarr @forever-rogue @freeshavocadoooo @darthadeline @nobie @ennuiandthebourgeoisie @cannedsoupsucks @spvce-cowboy​ @phoenixhalliwell @salome-c @sleep-tight1 @lazybeeches

[trvelyans-archive]

There’s two ways this can end: you’ll either fall flat on your face and embarrass yourself in front of everyone, or you just won’t end up doing it at all.

“Come on, Mari,” Nick says, pulling his hat down over his ears. “The rink should be empty this time of night, so there probably won’t be anyone there.”

You purse your lips, thinking, the blanket you fell asleep with earlier wrapped over your shoulders and head. You’re not even sure you have a pair of skates anymore – if you do, your parents probably have them, stored in a wrinkly cardboard box that’s been shoved to the back of the attic in a dark corner where they can be forgotten.

O-kay, let’s move on from that depressing thought…

“Did you invite Gray?” you ask.

“Yeah.” Nick stares at himself in the hallway mirror and pushes a lock of blonde hair under his hat. He looks like how Dad used to when he’d take you sledding, you realize, and you glance away. “He’s the one who suggested it, actually. And you can invite Sally if you want, too.”

“I dunno,” you say, plucking at a stray thread on your blanket. “I’ll probably just stay home.”

Nick doesn’t reply – after about five seconds, you finally glance up to see him looking worriedly at you, his eyebrows furrowed and a frown on his lips.

“I think you should come with us, Mari,” he says softly. “It’ll be fun. And I’ll skate with you the whole time – no falling necessary.”

He’s only worried because you haven’t left the house for a couple weeks. Your gap year is shaping up to be a lot less thrilling and somehow a lot more lonely than you expected, and not even you – the homebody that you are – can deny that it might be good to go out… plus, you’d get to see Gray, and it’s been a while since you felt up to seeing him whenever he comes around the house for dinner with Nick.

You sigh, pulling your blanket down from your shoulders and standing. “Fine,” you say. You can see Nick grin at you before you turn around and start trudging up the stairs. “But if I fall and crack my skull on the ice, you’re paying for the funeral bill.”

“Mari,” Nick scolds behind you, “that’s not funny!”

-

Well, at least Nick was right – there’s not very many people here.

There’s some, of course – a few families, a couple pairs of teens, but besides that, there’s thankfully few people at the rink tonight. It doesn’t take very long for you and Nick to spot your friends, especially since they seem to have spotted you first - Sally rushes up as you and Nick approach the rink, the tip of her nose and her cheeks bright red. “You’re here!” she exclaims, wrapping you up in a hug that nearly punctures a lung. It’s been a couple weeks since you’ve seen her, too, and she’s certainly acting like it. “I’ve been freezing my ass off waiting. I assume it’s Nicholas’s fault that you ran late?”

Nick rolls his eyes, smiling. “Good to see you too, Salome.”

Gray, who had been sitting with Sally on a bench near the concessions stand, finally catches up. “Nick,” he says. “Mari.”

He hits you with a mega-watt smile that you’re certain could melt all the ice on the rink within seconds and you feel yourself start to smile back before he glances away, gesturing towards the skate rental booth.

“I don’t have a pair myself, so I’ll have to rent them,” he says.

“Yeah, me and Mari, too,” Nick replies. “Do you have skates, Salome?”

“You bet I do!” She holds up a pair of orange skates. “Cute, huh?”

“Not as cute as you are,” you say.

She elbows you in the side as the boys start heading towards the rental booth, already animatedly talking about something. “I think you’re saying that to the wrong person, Mari,” she teases under her breath, looking rapidly back and forth between you and Gray. She might as well be saying wink-wink-nudge-nudge out loud.

You glance at him for a second before reaching over and elbowing her in the side, too.

-

You shouldn’t have let Nick drag you into this.

You nearly snap an ankle when you take your first step onto the foam walkway that leads to the rink. The only reason you don’t is because Sally is standing behind you and reaches out to grab you with one hand while she holds onto what looks like a walker with her other. Gray’s already on the rink, skating around with slightly forced confidence and a shy smile whenever a group of young girls skate by and point, and Nick’s leaning against the wall, watching you and Sally carefully as you waddle towards the rink.

(He’s probably still thinking about that cracked-skull thing. Dork.)

“We can skate together the whole time, I promise,” Sally says. Her walker bumps up against your ass as she moves behind you. “Besides, we should probably give the boys some much needed boy time.”

“You know what, Salome?” Nick leans onto his elbows. “I think you’re just scared I’ll out-skate you.”

“What was that, Nicholas?” Sally says. “I can’t hear you over the fact that I own my own pair of skates and you don’t.”

You clear your throat. “Guys –“

“You’re using a walker, and even then, I bet I can still beat you. Remember that time we played Monopoly on New Year’s, and you promised you would beat me?” He tilts his head at her. “And then you nearly flipped the board over after going to jail for the fifth time?”

“You were just lucky!” Sally protests. “Besides, you’re leaving out the part where I beat you at Go-Fish afterwards, and then, when I started throwing peanuts at you, you couldn’t even catch them in your mouth!”

“Hey, guys –“

“Go-Fish and Monopoly are not the same,” Nick says. “And I caught most of those peanuts –“

“Guys!”

Nick and Sally stop arguing and look at you, neither of them noticing that you made it onto the ice a while ago and are now waiting for one of them to help you start skating.

“Can we get this over with now?” you ask.

Sally smiles, skating to your side and readjusting her grip on her walker. “Anything for you, Mari.”

You can’t even see him, but you know very well that Nick’s rolling his eyes behind you.

For the first time since you’ve arrived, it’s quiet enough that you can hear the Christmas music playing over the speakers. It’s starting snowing, too, fat fluffy flakes that get caught on Sally’s hair and on the bobble of Nick’s hat. Gray skates around in front of you, nearly sliding into the wall before he stops, rights himself and gives you all a smile.

“Care for a race, Nick?”

“You’re on.” He glances at Sally. “I have to practice for later, after all.”

The two of them skate away, occasionally veering into the other person’s path to throw them off. Sally laughs as she watches them, her eyes sparkling under the lights.

“Oh, I’m so going to kick Nick’s ass,” she says.

You don’t know how she knows that, but you hope she does. It’ll be pretty funny.

-

After about an hour of skating with Sally, talking about your Aeon applications and what you want for Christmas and what movie you’re going to watch on New Year’s Eve this year, you call it a night.

Sally, however, takes this as a perfect opportunity to challenge Nick to that race they were talking about earlier, which he accepts wholeheartedly. Once you’ve returned your skates and the walker, you sit down on a bench beside the rink and settle in to watch them. Sure, Sally has her own walker to help her, but she needs it to stand upright on the ice at all – and besides that, it stills seems to be a pretty fair fight. You smile to yourself as they skate to the other end of the rink, listening to them counting down in the distance before the race begins.

You realize, after a couple rounds, that you’ve lost Gray somewhere in the crowd just as he comes walking up carrying two hot chocolates.

“Here,” he says, handing it to you. You swallow before taking it from him. “I thought that you looked a little lonely over here by yourself.”

“I wouldn’t want to take away Sally’s chance at a landslide victory,” you say, gesturing towards her and Nick and avoiding Gray’s eyes.

“I don’t know, Mari… I have faith in Nick.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to see.” You take a sip of your hot chocolate and don’t say anything when it nearly burns your tongue. “So, do you like skating?”

“Yes, it’s a lot of fun.” He glances up at the sky, the snow falling around him. “And it’s a beautiful night.”

He’s the beautiful one, you think. You sip your hot chocolate again until it burns your tongue just to distract yourself.

“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” Gray says as he turns to look at you. “I’m really glad I met you all when I moved here. I can’t think of a better group of people to be friends with.”

You know he’s mostly talking about Nick – at least more than you and Sally - but you can feel a little spark of hope in your chest anyway. “Well,” you reply, clearing your throat, “I wish I had more friends my age, but…”

He laughs. “No, no, that’s fair.” He sips his hot chocolate, nose wrinkling when he feels how hot it is. “This is scalding!”

“You’re just sad they don’t have your iced tea.”

“You know me too well, Mari.” He smiles. “But yes, you’re right. Thankfully I have some at home that I can drink later.”

You can barely believe that you were so ready for this night to end a couple minutes ago – now, you don’t want it to. Now you don’t want to ruin the peaceful, comfortable silence that falls between you and Gray as you both direct your attention to where Sally and Nick skate across the ice, laughing and occasionally shrieking when one of them nearly falls over or runs into another group of skaters.

You don’t say anything for a while, even as the snow starts to fall thicker and faster and the air starts to get colder. Sitting here, everything feels like it might be okay.

-

The house is dark when you return a little after midnight. Nick, nursing a lightly banged-up elbow from when he skated right into the wall as he was leaving the rink, reaches over to turn on the light in the entryway.

“I can’t believe she beat me,” he grumbles, kicking off his boots. “I mean, she was using a walker, so that counts as cheating, right?”

“You’re making me want to hide all the board games before New Year’s,” you say as you take off your jacket. It’d probably be a good idea, actually, now that you think about it – it might make the night a little more peaceful, anyway. “And no, it doesn’t count as cheating, because you’re only saying that retroactively.”

Nick pouts. “Okay, I guess you’re right.” He watches as you tuck your mittens into the pockets of your jacket. “I’m glad you came out tonight,” he says. “You have fun?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling back at him. It’s not that easy – Nick probably knows that by now – but for all intents and purposes, it was fun. “I’m wiped, though, so I’m probably heading to bed now.”

“Aw, okay,” he says, smiling at you. “Goodnight, Mari.”

“Goodnight, Nick.”

When you get into your room, you sink down onto the covers of your bed and quickly fall asleep, the taste of hot chocolate stale in your mouth.

[rigmarolling]

Top 5 Things That Will Kill You In the Victorian Era

If you’ve ever spent more than two seconds with me, you know that I live and breathe the fog-choked air of Victorian London. All day. Every day of my life. 

See, in many ways, the Victorians were the first version of us--overwhelmed by rapidly-changing technology (and its awful effect on the climate); dealing with incredible wealth gaps; grappling with rising crime and faster travel and out-of-control media and the whole, “God is dead, oh no” thing. 

Also, everything was trying to kill you.

Like, literally almost everything.

From your clothes to your doctor to your canned food, here are the top five things that will kill you in the Victorian era.

5. Other Victorians

If the rise of penny dreadfuls (cheap magazines stuffed with horror stories for us morbidly-inclined goth types) was any indication, Victorians loved them some true crime. 

And there was no shortage of subject matter to choose from: depending on where you ventured in London, at least, you could be subject to anything from pickpocketing to mugging to violent assault and, of course, murder. 

There were a few reasons for this:

For one thing, the population in London alone increased by millions in the 19th century, and approximately no one was prepared for that. So, to accommodate the rapidly-booming population, the wealthy folks in charge reached out and lovingly ensured the masses of the disenfranchised poor were taken care of by redistributing resources and education and access to opportunities that improved lives on a both a personal and social level.

Lol, no, I’m totally kidding; they shoved them into slums and tenement buildings and pretended they didn’t exist.

So of course, there was a rise in crime, because if you have five kids and you can’t find gainful employment and your family will starve if you don’t steal that basket of food over there, or that purse that lady left sitting over THERE, what are you going to do? You’re going to steal the food and the purse to survive, Jean Valjean, I understand, I do.

Except the powers that be did NOT understand, and instead routinely espoused the idea that if people were poor, it was because they were morally bankrupt, or inherently bad, somehow, and the “criminal classes,” as they came to be known by the growing Victorian middle and upper-middle classes, were simply considered genetically bad to the bone and therefore undeserving of assistance.

Basically:

So ANYWAY.

Crime was on the rise and there were multiple efforts to stop it with varying degrees of success, but big city usually = big crime, especially when there’s a massive gap between the one percent-ers and THE REST OF US, WASHINGTON.

Ahem.

All that crime? The booming news industry loved it. The press ate it up and then spit it back out in salacious headlines that never even bothered with journalistic objectivity, like this gem:

I mean. Full disclosure: I, too, agree that cutting off a woman’s head, arms, and legs and then burning them is “awful, inhuman, & barbarous” but just...maybe...maybe tone it down? Just a bit?

No? Okay.

See, here’s the thing: crime sells. It always has. And papers went nuts with full illustrated spreads about the latest brutal murders so you could sit in your parlor and get anxiety poops thinking about how the butcher down the street looked at you funny the other day and oh, God, you’re probably next, oh God.

The most famous murderer of the era, was, of course, Jack the Ripper, which was just the orchestral climax of a hideously corrupted society that had bubbled into naught but a festering carbuncle, an ulcer upon the very soul of man, trussed up as a city of industry, but which is merely Salome, dancing with the Lamb’s head upon a platter and sending us all tumbling into a fiery pit.

....Ahem, again.

Some popular ways your fellow Victorians could kill you included: dueling (with swords but usually with revolvers), stabbing, garroting, and, probably the most popular method of the era, poisoning.

Speaking of which...

4. Anything dyed that hip shade of green

In 1775, a guy named Carl Wilhelm Scheele invented a new shade of green, cleverly called Scheele’s green, and it instantly became a hit. Pretty soon, manufacturers and tailors were dyeing everything this color. 

Look at it. Bright, airy. Calls to mind a fresh, spring meadow. (What’s that, you ask? Well, before the Industrial Revolution belched out black smoke onto absolutely everything, there were these things called plants and grass and they were all over the place and you could frolic through them and it was very nice for your serotonin levels.)

I mean, listen, this isn’t really my color because anything vaguely yellow-ish makes my already yellow-ish skin look especially jaundiced, but it’s a lovely shade:

Besides using it to create beautiful dresses and tasteful waistcoats, they used it inside book covers:

And it was a super popular wallpaper color:

They had green candles and green cups and green kitchenwares and green paint.

But while Carl Wilhelm Scheele didn’t exactly murder anyone (even though he has three names like every serial killer ever), he sort of, accidentally, indirectly, kinda...did.

Because that springy dye contained every Victorian black widow’s favorite method to dispose of a troublesome husband: arsenic.

Scheele, of course, had no idea--no one did--so I’m fully exonerating him here, but the poison nonetheless started to take its toll.

Reports began to surface of kids getting sicker and sicker and then dying in their green wallpapered rooms; of fashionable ladies rocking those green dresses at balls and then ALSO getting sicker and sicker and breaking out in horrible sores before dying. 

They even used this stuff to dye food green, so of course, anybody who tucked into Victorian green eggs and ham also, you know. Died.

And if they DIDN’T die, they got cancer, because if arsenic doesn’t kill you, it will give you cancer. And then kill you.

Eventually, as science advanced and went, “HEYO, there’s literal poison in this stuff,” consumers were like, “Well, shoot, this summer’s hottest beach shade just killed an entire boarding school,” and Scheele’s green finally fell out of favor.

It was, however, used as a pesticide up through the 1930s, so...way to use the...leftovers? I guess?

3. Your canned food

Hey, now that we’re on the topic of deadly chemicals being where they absolutely should not be, let’s talk about canned food. 

In the Victorian era, it was the new Hot Thing (next to arsenic green). You mean I can can my food now? Like? Forever? Oh, only for a few months. Okay, cool. Still cool. 

Above: Road trip snax.

Food preservation methods had existed long before canned meats and veggies and soups, but canned everything really started to gain traction around the middle of the 19th century, and people were stoked. Remember, the population exploded; people needed new methods of obtaining cheap food that didn’t spoil immediately. So: cans to the rescue! 

Recycling hadn’t really been invented, though, so today, archaeologists constantly find giant Victorian trash pits filled with empty cans.

You know what also hadn’t been invented? Consumer health and safety boards.

So guess what was in the tin cans themselves? 

No, no, don’t worry, it wasn’t arsenic.

It was lead.

Which, in case you weren’t aware, is also very, very bad for you.

So bad, in fact, that today, scientists are pretty sure lead-lined tins of canned food were partially responsible for the deaths on the disastrous Franklin Expedition, an ultimately futile trip to discover the Northwest Passage lead by Sir John Franklin in 1845. Every single man on board the two ships stranded in the Arctic died, and in the 1980s, when scientists discovered perfectly mummified bodies (GRAPHIC, if you don’t like that sort of thing, but awesome if you do) of some of the sailors, one of the mummies contained insane amounts of lead. They later tested the cans found scattered across the wreck site and whoops, they also contained insane amounts of lead.

Above: Some of the tin cans from the Franklin Expedition, which contained items like salted beef, vegetables, tea, lethal amounts of lead, and Chicken of the Sea.

Granted, other factors contributed to the Franklin deaths, like, you know, being stranded in the Arctic and starving to death, and also tuberculosis, but lead-lined canned food certainly didn’t help things along.

2. Your doctor

Here’s my advice if you’re in the Victorian era and you’re starting to feel sick: do not get sick. Just don’t. Because then that means you’ll have to go to the doctor. Which probably means you will die.

Hospitals in the 19th century were deadly. Often even more deadly than just staying at home, according to Dr. Lindsey Fitzharris, author of The Butchering Art. Nobody knew how to treat anything, really, because medical understanding of biology was in its infancy and antibiotics didn’t exist yet, so you were absolutely, definitely going to get some kind of infection the second you stepped foot in a Victorian hospital.

Above: The surgery, where nobody has any idea what they are doing, ever.

Doctors weren’t trying to kill you on purpose--they just didn’t know any better. And it super duper didn’t help that common treatments for everything from the common cold to tuberculosis included taking mercury (which kills you) and blood-letting, (which can also kill you) the tools for which are shown below:

Those might look like fun doodads for your astronomy class at Hogwarts, but they’re actually vials and a really, really sharp needle that pricks you until you bleed out a critically dangerous amount of blood into those vials. 

The (ancient) school of thought behind blood-letting was that draining patients of “bad” blood would rebalance their “humours” and get rid of the icky thing that was making them sick. We might laugh at it now, but if you don’t know any better, logically, it makes sense.

Medically, oh my God, it’s the worst.

So if Doc didn’t bleed you to death, he might try surgery--done without anesthesia or antibiotics (until good old Dr. Lister came along--read The Butchering Art!), and then ship you and your amputated stump leg off to the hospital ward where, instead of healing, you’d get wheeled through hallways stained with every bodily fluid imaginable into rooms filled with people coughing up every bodily fluid imaginable, some of which would get into your leg stump, infect it, and then kill you dead.

“But what about medicine?” you ask. “Can’t I just take medicine?”

Sure! Just be aware that it definitely contains morphine and probably contains cocaine, or mercury, or arsenic, or sulfur, or pulverized bits of ancient Egyptian mummies (I am not kidding. True, the latter had started to fall out of favor in the 19th century, but, like. Stop).

Above: Hard drugs, but just for you.

You think I’m joking?

Above: PARTY TIME.

Sometimes, a doctor would just advise that you move to a “more temperate climate” like Rome or Spain if you were feeling chronically ill, which might help you get a tan and COULD help if you had sucky lungs, but eventually, you’d just die anyway, because what you really needed was a strong antibiotic or antiviral medication and the closest you were gonna get was Mrs. Hopplebopple’s Temperance Tonic, which was probably filled with ground up baby bones and just so much heroin.

And don’t even get me started on Victorian surgical tools:

Open wide.

1. Water

There are three rules in this life: don’t watch any Adam Sandler movies except for maybe Anger Management, don’t eat the yellow snow, and do not, ever, for any reason, ever drink water in Victorian England.

That’s because it was about as clean as a Victorian hospital. 

Meaning it wasn’t. At all.

Victorian water--of the Thames variety--contained:

Cholera, one of the deadliest killers of the era and bad water’s favorite roommate.

Poop, human and otherwise, because a functioning sewer system? I don’t know her. (At least, not until the 1860s.)

Pee, human and otherwise, because nothing says, “Jolly Old England” like an open trench of piss rolling through the city.

Dead things, like animals, fish (which are animals, so why am I listing them as a separate thing?), and, occasionally, humans.

Chemicals, which spewed forth from the great factories in billowing, bubbling, belching rivers of sludge. (Ha! Omg, yes, I was an English major!)

The Thames was so filthy that Londoners called it “Monster Soup.”

Above: Same.

In 1855, scientist Michael Faraday (who was also kind of hot; tell me I’m wrong), wrote a letter to the Times about the disgusting state of the river:

"Near the bridges the feculence rolled up in clouds so dense that they were visible at the surface, even in water of this kind. ... The smell was very bad, and common to the whole of the water; it was the same as that which now comes up from the gully-holes in the streets; the whole river was for the time a real sewer."

Tl;dr: “It smelled like ass.”

In fact, it got so bad, so putrid, so horrifically clogged with every disgusting thing your mind and your butthole can possibly conjure up, that it lead to one of my favorite things to read about in the world: The Great Stink of 1858.

Yes, that’s the real name. I did not make that up. History is incredible.

Above: Summer vacation, 1858.

The summer of 1858 was miserably hot in London. And the Thames was miserably clogged with poop, and pee, and chemicals, and dead things, and, uh oh, cholera. During July and August that year, the smell wafting from the river was so offensive that Parliament was actually adjourned because everybody kept throwing up. Cholera devastated the city. The water was killing London.

Faced with either the prospect of living with a city-wide vomit-and-diarrhea smell for the rest of forever OR finally cleaning things up, the government actually did something right and chose the latter. They contracted civil engineer Joseph Bazalgette to overhaul the city’s sewer, to which Bazalgette, pinching his nose, responded, “FINALLY.” 

Above: Joesph Bazalgette, savior of the London sewers and purveyor of a truly beautiful mustache.

Bazalgette proceeded to build the London sewer system still in use today. His efforts greatly reduced the number of cholera deaths, cleared the Thames of its Cronenberg-esque muck, and ensured that poop goes where it’s supposed to: way the hell out of HERE and way the hell under THERE.

Water sanitation still had a long way to go, though, which meant you either had to boil your water to kill the bacteria in it, or you could just drink alcohol instead, which was the safer option but which would also leave you very dehydrated and also, if imbibed excessively, would leave you very dead.

So really, you were doomed in some way no matter what you did, and if that isn’t the moral of the entire Victorian story, then I don’t know what is.

[bellesque]

Sweet Dreams (Loki x Reader)

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3.1K Warnings/Tags: Incubus Loki, Smut (or at least it’s leading up to it) Summary: It’s your first free weekend in what feels like forever and you plan on snoozing through it without any interruptions. Someone has other plans.

A/N: I really just wanted an excuse to write some smut, huh? It’s okay. This was a little smut-writing exercise. You can also read this on my AO3.

YOU AREN’T SURE of three things.

The first one being that you don’t know when exactly it starts.

Things are a whirlwind, a blur of deadlines and details that don’t seem to fit together. You’re busy, that’s for sure, just barely surviving; your concept of time is distorted with how much you have to get done and stay on top of that once you’re home you have just enough energy to take a quick shower and knock right out. Work, survive, sleep, repeat. Your favorite part of the routine? Definitely the sleep.

You aren’t sure when your nights start becoming more restful. It’s strange, you think, since you barely get even a good five hours yet you wake up refreshed every morning. Or at least ready to face the day.

You tell yourself it’s your circadian rhythm getting used to your messed up workaholic schedule.

The second thing you aren’t sure of is why you start having dreams.

It shouldn’t be a surprise to you—you’ve had dreams before. Only with how much time you spend awake versus how much time you spend resting, dreams don’t come easy. At least, they shouldn’t. You read somewhere that the more active your brain is, the more likely you are to have dreams. Or is it the opposite? You press a hand to your eyes, rolling your neck before you continue with the document you’re currently typing.

They aren’t weird dreams by any means. Sometimes you remember them, sometimes you don’t. You remember one where you screamed at an ex-friend until your lungs gave out, throat hoarse, and that day you woke up feeling closure you never actually got. Another time, you dreamed that you missed a deadline, and woke up so paranoid that you showed up two hours early for work. And more recently, you admit with a tinge of embarrassment, a wet dream.

You’re sure it’s from the novel you had to proofread the other day. Page after page was filth after filth and it left your heart racing, your mind wandering, and a certain part of you wanting.

Goodness, how long has it been since you last…

You shake your head and will yourself to focus.

The sooner you can get this done, the sooner you can go home.

It’s been a pretty shitty day.

You’re practically ready to call it a day; today your boss yelled at you for being incompetent (you aren’t) and your coworker Salome took credit for your work in today’s meeting (she’s a little bitch). You just need a break, damn it.

Thankfully this is your first weekend off after what feels like years. You love your job, but you also don’t want to live-eat-breathe it. Any more time in that office and you’d probably reach your breaking point, exploding into an angry string of expletives and fired notices.

Your night of unwinding and de-stressing goes exactly how you plan it, and you think you can finally get a good nine hours of sleep in. You’re definitely sleeping in tonight. If anyone even tries to wake you up before seven you swear you’ll kill them on sight come Monday morning.

A friend of yours recommends this audio thing for you to listen to. Supposed to help you relax, so she says. So you decide why the hell not, you’re already pretty drowsy, why not conk out two minutes quicker?

You settle in under the covers, getting into the position you’re most comfortable in, and hit play. It’s an audiobook, you realize, narrated by a man with a gorgeously full voice. You allow yourself to get lost in the timbre of his voice. It’s almost hypnotic, entrancing, how musical it sounds. You notice the way his words sound together, how he pronounces his the and said, not paying attention to the story itself, until he becomes background noise.

In less than five minutes, you’re fast asleep.

The last thing you aren’t sure of is what you’re dreaming of before you see it.

It, or him?

The shift in emotion you feel is so quick, so drastic, that you almost wake up. You do. Or you don’t? You’re not sure, and it’s freaking you out. Well, your eyes are open—does that mean you’re awake? You try to regain your bearings—what does that even mean, you are—were?—sleeping in your own bed for fuck’s sake—

“Relax.”

There it is, a silhouette, just by the foot of your bed. Or is it just a shadow? Your heart beats loudly in your ears, and you want to be sleeping peacefully—aren’t you sleeping peacefully?—or just wake up from whatever this is—

“Still your thoughts, pet, I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you want me to. But first, please—rest… relax.”

You feel a gentle pressure around your body as your blanket comes up around you, almost like you’re being tucked in like a child who’s just woken up from a nightmare. Is this a nightmare? Are you awake or dreaming? You aren’t sure.

The voice laughs, silky and altogether mysterious, and for some reason it automatically makes you think of dark chocolate. Sinful, rich, and decadent. He hasn’t stepped out of the shadows, but no matter how lovely his voice is you’re not sure you want to see him. It’s instinct. So you shut your eyes tight.

“I’m scared,” you blurt out without thinking.

“I can see that,” the voice answers swiftly. You can feel your hair being brushed away from your forehead. A gentle, comforting gesture. “Although I hope in a few nights you won’t be.”

“What does that mean?” Your question comes out soft and weak, the kind that signals your consciousness is slipping away. What, are you being lulled back into sleep already? So easily?

The voice hums thoughtfully. “Names are power. Shall I give you the power of mine so that you’ll be well-acquainted with me?”

“Who are you?”

“I may have misled you a little, pet.” He chuckles, and it surprises you how warm it sounds. Inviting. “What am I would be a better start now, wouldn’t it?”

You’re jolted back to alertness. Not a person, but… something else? He sounds human. He probably feels human as well. “What are you?” you all but demand.

“Oh, there’s fire in this one,” he remarks. “I quite like that. Well then, sweet, I’ll tell you, since you asked so nicely. I am what your kind know as an incubus—you can look it up when you awaken, but, I’ll give you the short version: I feed on passion. Desire. Lust. Sex.” The way he says the last word makes your skin shiver, and you unconsciously suck in a breath. “But only in dreams. Only in your dreams. Your deepest, darkest fantasies come to life. Everything you want, I can give. Now tell me, isn’t that exhilarating?”

Damn, your head is spinning. The world is spinning. This handsome voice only wants to have sex?

How long has it been again since you last…

“How do I know if I can trust you?” you ask.

His motions pause, and then he resumes with a touch that mesmerizes you into a state of pliancy. And gentle, oh so gentle—your eyelids are heavy, a stark contrast to your body that is on high alert.

“I’ve told you what I am. I wouldn’t want to deceive you to get what I want. It’s always more delightful when an incubus has a willing partner.” A wanton shiver slides down your spine, slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of the strokes of his hands. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to. But oh, sweet pet, the things I want to do.” You feel his voice at your ear, his breath coming in light puffs, and hell, it makes you want him with each passing second. “You’d enjoy it all, I’m sure. I only want to see you come undone. To bring you high into your personal precipice of ecstasy. And I want to watch it all unfold.” You gasp when you feel his teeth nip at your earlobe, your clit pulsing once, in time with the pang of pain and pleasure.

“Will you let me show you what I can offer, sweet?”

The fact that you can feel the gush of heat pooling into your center makes you slightly embarrassed, but it only affirms how much you want this. It’s been too long, and if the both of you can get off then the better.

His nose is running across the side of your face, and you crane your neck as he trails downward, towards the vein in your neck, where he ultimately will know just how affected you are. He skims the tip of his nose along your pulse point, inhaling deeply, before climbing up so his face is level with yours.

“Just say yes,” he murmurs, low and seductive and lulling you into a deeper place of desire, “if you want this as bad as I want you.”

“Yes,” you breathe, a sigh riding on the last sound of the word. “Please, yes.”

The pressure around you lifts, and you briefly wonder if the dream is over. Only it isn’t. This is real, and this is happening.

“Open your eyes first,” he says. “I want you to see me.”

Battling some degree of difficulty (your eyes have been pretty heavy up to this point), you comply. Standing before you is a gorgeous man, lithe and lean, clad in black (is that a suit?) and immediately you know his voice of velvet seduction matches his appearance perfectly. Your eyes rake over this mystery man, his black hair falling in decadent curls and grazing the tops of his shoulders, his features sharp and masculine, and your gaze travels downwards and lingers for a second too long on his…

“I’m glad I could elicit such a positive reaction when I haven’t done anything to pleasure you yet.” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice as he appraises you with a look of equal desire. Has he been looking at you like that all this time? The idea that he has floods your veins with delicious fire, your excitement boiling in the pits of your deepest parts.

“Now close your eyes again, sweet,” he says, gently placing his fingers on your eyelids and guiding them shut. “I want you to focus on what I’m doing.”

The heat pooling between your legs is undeniable now, and you wait with bated breath for anything, literally anything. All you can hear is the sound of your own breathing, shallow and rapid, as you wait in anticipation. There is no contact between you, and yet the electrifying tension in the air winds you up like a string that’s pulled taut.

And then finally, he touches you. It’s not what you expect, a gentle cupping of your cheek, but the tenderness is not lost on you. He drags a single finger over your nose, running it along your jawline, then down to your neck. Your breathing picks up as the lightest pressure of his finger brushes against your collarbone, going over the hollow where neck meets shoulder once, twice, and then he slowly, excruciatingly slowly, travels down and boldly trails his finger around your breast.

“Gorgeous,” he comments, and it amazes you how you want more. He’s only using a single finger and already you are putty in his hands. “And I would love to see how exquisite your skin is underneath. May I, sweet?”

You sigh, and it sounds more shameless than you want to admit. “Yes. Please.”

“Alright.”

You’re aware of your sudden lack of clothing. At least it feels that way, what with the cool air caressing your curves and the goosebumps that rise on the surface of your skin. You’re topless in front of him. Your first instinct is to cover up, although your hands seem to be pinned to your sides as you lay flat on your back.

He’s silent, the only sounds now both your breathing, yours light as air and his even and level. The air is thick and hot and heavy and you want to do something. Anything, to relieve the delicious ache between your legs.

“May I touch you, sweet?” His pure seduction of a voice cuts through the night air, a few tones lower and ten times more sensual.

Your throat is closed up from the anticipation you’re feeling, and you nod dumbly. Yes, please touch me, you want to say, but the words never come out. The nod, for now, will suffice.

He continues to use a single finger to trace across the mounds of your breast, circling the right from base to areola and then moving to the left until his finger rests on the nipple. You vaguely register the breathy sound you make when he brushes against it—the firm pad of his finger against your nipple causes a delicious friction that makes you think Yes please and something warm settles in the pit of your belly. Your mind is going into overdrive, probably from the sex drought you’ve been experiencing for the past few months.

“So responsive.” His voice is husky, and his praise makes your folds even wetter that you press your thighs together to relieve some of the ache.

And then he’s repeating the motion with more vigor this time, one hand on each breast as he inflicts intoxicating little flicks against your nipples, and you feel like you’re about to see stars. Your mouth hangs open in awe because fuck, never has something this simple turned you on this much.

You let out a full on moan when he squeezes your breasts in his hands, briefly, and then he’s sliding his cool fingers up to cup your jaw and then tracing down the curves of your waist and then settling his hands on your hips.

“You’re so soft,” he whispers, his fingers a feather-light touch against your skin, leaving sparks of fire in their wake. It can’t be humanly possible to feel this much, can it?

They’re just hands, you tell yourself in the midst of your hazy, lust-ridden thoughts. How the hell are you feeling this way?

“May I taste your skin, sweet?” His voice is practically a purr. You nod, frantic to receive whatever he has to give.

You don’t think it can get any better but then fuck, you feel something warm and wet close around your nipple and your legs snap open by their own accord. Your underwear feels soaked through and part of you thinks this is obscene but hell you don’t want it to end.

His mouth is doing wicked things now, nipping and sucking and then gently biting at your nipple. It’s mind-numbing, the way he deftly swirls his tongue around your nipple before sucking and biting while his other hand caresses the other. He showers the rest of the skin around your breast with the same treatment until you’re whimpering beneath him, writhing for release—any kind of release at this point—that you know he can give and senses that you need.

“Legs up, sweet,” he purrs, his voice is thick with desire. Hearing it only makes your libido kick up three notches higher, and you eagerly lift up your legs in a V position. He catches you by the ankles, rubbing his thumbs in circles on the insides of each, every action traveling up the nerves that connect to your pussy, electrifyingly delicious and making your walls clench in anticipation. Hell, you want him to touch you. In all the places. You’re just about ready to beg.

He takes you by surprise as he hooks one leg over his shoulder, using his body to shift you until you’re lying on your side. It’s a little unexpected, but you aren’t uncomfortable. Your legs are spread wide, one on his shoulder and the other on the bed seemingly between his knees. It’s probably enough for him to see just exactly how turned on you are.

“My, my, sweet.” If it’s possible, his voice takes on a fuller, darker, ultimately more seductive tone and fuck if you don’t orgasm even once tonight—

“I would like to touch you. Right here, if you’ll let me.” He brushes a finger against your (apparently naked!) mound. “May I, sweet?”

“Fuck, yes please.” You don’t care how needy your voice is; if anything, it’s a reflection of how much you’re craving this. How you want this.

He places his palm flat on your pussy and both of you hiss. Your back arches as you try to grind on his hand, desperate for friction, and he chuckles.

“So eager,” he says, his fingers now rubbing steady circles around your clit. “Would you prefer it if I gave you my cock already?”

You let out a strangled noise because how could he ask such a stupid question of course you want it. You buck against his hand, whining when he withdraws it. It almost hurts how aroused you are, your cunt thrumming with the promise of an orgasm.

“I would love to give it to you already, sweet, but I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait a while.” You can feel your clothes coming back on. “But, since you’ve been so good, allow me to give you a parting gift…”

You’re almost face-down on the mattress, but you’re still mostly on your side. The bed shifts with weight as you feel—you can only guess—him kneeling behind you.

And your world comes to a complete standstill, a wave of pleasure overcoming you and washing over you like a tidal wave, as you feel him just griiiiind his erection into your wanting core.

“Oh, yes, just like that,” you say breathlessly. He has complete control, a gentle yet firm grip on your hips as he presses hard into your clothed wetness, his erection strong and unyielding. He alternates between lowering himself slooowly on you, pressing you down into the mattress with long, even, fluid motions, and then grinding in slow circles in that intensity, before relieving the pressure and humping you in that slow and steady manner again and again until he’s bringing you to the brink of orgasm.

And then he gives one hard long push, grinding into you, his cock as close to your cunt as you can possibly have it, as he whispers in your ear, “Until the next night of ours, sweet.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone. It’s over.

You wake with your clit throbbing and your pajamas sticking to your skin. You’re lying on your back. Not on your side.

You sit up, dizzy and distracted because what the hell was that?

So you sit there, a little dazed from the ordeal (did you orgasm? You’re not sure), and it hits you that you don’t even know his name.

[ifishouldvanish]

Guidelines for Pairing Typefaces

A while ago I made a post about how to choose the right font. But what if you wanna use more than one font? How do you pick two that go nicely together? How do you keep things from getting too chaotic?

Let’s find out!

1. First of All: Moderation in All Things

If you’re going to use more than one typeface, it’s usually best to stick with just two. Maybe three. It’s certainly possible to pull off more than that, but it’s the sort of thing you probably ought to reserve for typography-centric designs, and not so much graphic edits where the typography is only a small portion of the design.

But, you know. Don’t let me tell you what to do.

2. Create Hierarchy

Good design is all about contrast, y’all. You need to have a focal point, you need to lead the eyes through the composition. I like to have 2-3 ‘tiers’ to a design: What to I want the viewer to look at first? What do I want them to look at second? What do I want them to notice last?

When you’re pairing typefaces, the intent should be to establish some kind of visual hierarchy, and not just... to create variety for the hell of it. That being said, of the two or more typefaces you’re using, take a minute to decide which is at the top of the hierarchy, and which is at the bottom. The higher in the hierarchy, the larger the font size should be, and/or the heavier the weight should be.

Didone serifs and ‘display’ (script, brush, blackletter, etc) typefaces tend to necessitate larger font sizes-- they become hard to read otherwise. So if you’re going to use these kinds of fonts, odds are they’re going to be your ~leading typeface, sitting at the top of your hierarchy. You’ll want to accompany these typefaces with more conservative ones that will be easy on the eyes at smaller sizes. Combining two or more Didone, script, and/or display typefaces will rarely produce a nice result because they’ll compete with each other-- the hierarchy won’t be clear.

Here’s a basic example of how to create hierarchy:

When the word “Pairing” is large and bold, there’s no clear hierarchy. Your eyes aren’t quite sure where to go first. The two ‘masses’ just kinda get interpreted as one giant mass.

But make “Pairing” smaller and use a lighter weight of the same font, and now we have two separate masses that balance each other out. The composition can breathe a little. Our eyes can now recognize one mass as more important than the other on focus on that one first: “Typefaces”

It might seem a little counter-intuitive to not emphasize the first word-- after all, that’s the one people should technically be reading first. But the word “pairing” on its own isn’t very... interesting. At least, not without context. What about “pairing?” What are we pairing? The topic of this post is typography, so in this case it makes more sense to draw the viewer’s attention to “Typefaces” first. Viewer’s brains will still read it as “Pairing Typefaces”.

3. Understand Makes a ‘Good’ Font Pairing

So... you don’t want to grab just any two typefaces. You want contrast, but the right kind of contrast.

Differences to look for include weight, stroke width contrast, and type classifications. A Serif and a Sans Serif will (usually) compliment each other nicely, whereas pairing two Serifs or two Sans Serifs can be very tricky. Similarly, if you’re using a funky display typeface, you’ll want to balance it out by pairing it with something more conservative.

Similarities to look for include x-height and character width/proportions. If these metrics are too different from one typeface to the next, they’ll probably clash rather than compliment each other.

Once again, I’ll shamelessly plug FontBase Premium’s Super Search feature because I can literally just search all of my fonts by these metrics:

4. Look for Robust Type Families

One of the reasons I lean toward tried-and-true classic typefaces, is that they tend to have the most robust families.

When in doubt, look for a type family that has a wide range of weights and widths. You can pair the light/hairline weights of a typeface with its bold/black weights to create contrast-- without having to scour your font library for things that may or may not work. 

In addition to different weights, some typefaces even have different sub-families. For example, Thesis TheSans has a ~sibling in Thesis TheSerif. Likewise, Roboto, a sans serif, also has a slab serif version. 

These different fonts, being from the same family, will have the same x-heights and proportions, and will therefore be effortlessly beautiful together!

5. Two Examples

The above image cycles through a few possible font combinations for Futura Heavy. The pink overlay represents Futura Book.

The simplest option is of course, to just use another weight of the same font: Futura Book.

Corporate and Roboto have much taller x-heights than Futura, so they’re the least desirable of the options shown. (For Corporate, the x-height doesn’t actually move, but the cap height drops considerably)

Akzidenz Grotesk and Baskerville have very similar x-heights compared to Futura, and would probably be the best of the options shown.

Univers, Minion, and Lato are all ‘passable’ options though. You don’t need to find an exact match for it to be a good pairing, and sometimes a typeface that isn’t an exact match will look better than one that is!

And here we have some possible pairings for the Didone Serif, Salome. Again, the pink overlay represents Salome Regular

Didones and display typefaces lose their details at small font sizes and become hard to read. So we really can’t pair this typeface with another version of itself.

Bodoni is another Didone, and while it’s certainly more legible than Salome at smaller sizes, they’re too similar and clash with each other. It also has a much smaller x-height.

Baskerville has about the same x-height proportionately, but its cap height overall is noticeably higher than Salome. It’s a passable match, but the larger height makes it compete with the heading a bit, so we can definitely do better.

Georgia is a near perfect match for Salome’s cap and x-heights. Of the above serif options, this is the most desirable.

Optima and Avenir are perfect matches for Salome’s cap and x-heights. Avenir’s consistent stroke widths provide more of a counterbalance to Salome’s intense contrasts than Optima does- but both pair nicely, and which of the two you might use depends on the aesthetic you’re looking for.

Neutra Text and Helvetica are less ideal options. Neutra Text has a much smaller x-height that would actually make it a better match for Bodoni, while Helvetica’s x-height is too high.

At the end of the day though, it’s an art, not a science. I wouldn’t expect you to sift through dozens of fonts, looking for one with the exact same x-height every time you make a graphic (I sure as hell don’t). But when you’re looking for a second (or third) font to use, take a minute to try a few different options and really consider whether or not your first go-to is really the best fit. If you don’t like how something looks, try to figure out why. Odds are, the font just has the wrong proportions.

6. When In Doubt, Look for Help

A quick search for ‘font pairings’ will return all kinds of lists of favorite combinations and advice, but more specifically:

While looking at a font specimen on Google Fonts, it will list the 5 other Google fonts it’s most frequently paired with.

FontJoy will randomly (but intelligently!) give you three Google Font choices that should work nicely together, based on their metrics. If you like one of the fonts, but not the others, click the little lock icon next to it and hit the ‘generate’ button again for more options.

If you already have your heart set on one font in particular, a search for “[typeface name] font pairings” will often yield some results as well-- provided the font in question isn’t too niche.

[yakumtsaki]

Welcome, dear readers, to Part 2 out of 3 of the Union Comeback Season Premiere Episode (title under construction, part 1 here). Right off the bat, let me just admit what everyone is thinking, yes, mass-deleting default replacements was clearly a huge mistake. Looking good in the heart boxers, boys, especially Jojo! Very on brand and not at all ridiculous. On a lesser but equally annoying note, our windows have suddenly turned red while the exterior AND interior of the house are purple. Dark days ahead..

..but not for Goro, who has returned home since running away and is immediately being kicked out again. Good to see you Goro, now pack up your shit, D’vorah won the cat heir position so it’s time for you to move to Melody and Daniel’s farm.

-Well I’m a cat so I don’t have any possessions to pack.

Thank you for providing an example of why you lost the cat heirship via this painfully boring reaction to the news of your defeat.

-No, he’s right, we cats don’t have any possessions to pack.

Omg D’vorah shut up. How on earth you boring flops are Alegra/Ronroneo’s grandchildren AND Sophie’s children I’ll never understand. I’m this close to making Maxx the cat heir and he’s not even a cat.

-Correct, I’m a dog.

Worst group of pets e v e r. 

Oh look who autonomously woohooed for the first time in a century, I guess those base game heart boxers were simply too hot to resist. If one of you gets knocked up a week away from elderhood I’m gonna have a meltdown the likes of which the world has never seen.

-For the love of God, can we get some privacy here?

I’d love nothing more than to give you two bozos eternal privacy by never looking at either of you again, but the headmaster is here for Wulf so put some clothes on-

-WHAT THE FUCK. Why do we keep getting new headmasters instead of the ones we’ve already terrorized into submission?? Now we have to ‘show BJ a good time’ and ‘maybe we could give BJ a tour’, I’d honestly rather give BJ a bj and get this shit over with, I’m tired of threatening headmasters with murder. Hopefully it doesn’t come to sexual favors but if it does, Wyatt, you’re up. 

-Pourquoi moi???

Pourquoi toi still haven’t gotten promoted and toi sleep 22 hours a day, it’s high time toi pulled your weight around here. 

Good, that’s the spirit.

-Bonjour, monsieur Headmastér! I wòuld introdûce yoù to Wûlf but hé is très busý with unpàid çhild labόr.

-Haha, what a hilarious joke, Mr. Union!

-Alright Cinderello, after you’re done cleaning the flooding shower you’re going to need to jump out the second floor window and go study in the crypt, so the headmaster doesn’t see you and ask you any uncomfortable questions about whether I acknowledge you as my son. I have to go help your father charm our guest by giving my trademarked speech on how I never got impregnated by aliens and what a blow it was to humanity’s future. 

-Ok Mr. Jojo!

-For the last time Wulf, it’s not ‘Mr. Jojo’, it’s ‘Mr. Union’. God.

-Ah hello there Headmaster BJ, apologies for my lateness, I was tucking little Wulf in bed because I definitely acknowledge him as my son. As I do all 3 of my children and not just Cyneswith. Ask anyone! But not Wulf or whatshername.. I want to say Shenar? Anyway, now that that’s been cleared up, what are we talking about here? The fact I never got impregnated by aliens and what a terrible blow it was to humanity’s future? I assumed as much.

-Haha aliens?! Well you are just a family of crack ups, does your son share this amazing sense of humor?

-Oh yes yes he definitely does, and he is definitely OUR son, that’s exactly how I view him as well, not solely as Wyatt’s offspring just because he appears to not have a drop of my DNA. I mean who even cares about that? Not me, that’s for certain. Yes, Wulf was just telling me the funniest joke while I was reading Cinderella to him before I put him to bed-

-Man, it’s so hard to concentrate on math with a broken leg from jumping out the window and Grandpa’s disembodied head floating around.

Grandpa’s disembodied head?? 

OH FUCK KOMEI

-What?

Nothing! Looking good! The decision to delete default replacements didn’t affect you in any way!

-Thank god, have you seen Vic with that base game hair? Talk about scary. 

Yes, talk about scary indeed. Do you happen to know if the matchmaker performs the occasional exorcism?

-No idea.

Well she hates me anyway so that was solution was dead in the water. I have to go back to the headmaster fuckery now, but I want you to know I’m really sorry for what Salome did to you. 

-Sό, monsieur Headmastér, the όnly tràck reçord which est bettér than the όne we havé with bébés wόrking, est the oné we havé with our animàls rûnning awaý!

-Oh my.

-He’s joking, he’s joking Headmaster BJ, we’re both excellent pet owners and excellent parents, if you’ll excuse me the phone is ringing-

-Cyneswith darling! An adult bartender is calling for you and he has the Komei face! You might be 14 but he’s clearly future husband material!

-Be right there, daddy!

-Alright, I think I’ve seen enough here.

No you haven’t! Wyatt, take off your robe!

-No need, I’ve made up my mind..

-..you’re obviously a perfect match for our school! 

What the hell? How? Even by our standards we legit didn’t do shit.

-Headmaster Jitmakusol left a very distraught letter regarding your family before he was institutionalized, the gist of it being it is pointless to try and keep you people out of the school, and his successor should simply ‘roll with it’. 

Well ok then! Pleasure doing business with you, BJ.

-The pleasure was all mine, please don’t ever contact me again.

We’ll make sure to be in touch.

In the meantime, Komei has recovered his body!

-Why me? WHY ALWAYS ME? CYNESWITH IS RIGHT THERE

-Sorry honey, we play poker for it every night and Victor won dibs on Cyneswith.

-That’s right, the first one to scare everyone gets ghost-bingo!

Are you fuckers playing ghost-poker or ghost-bingo?

-It’s a hybrid, we have a lot of time on our hands, being dead and all, so we developed an overcomplicated gambling system for our scares. 

Yea ok congrats Victor, now can you fuck off before you actually do kill one of the kids?? They have 10/10/9 energy, they literally never sleep.

-No can do, if you actually kill someone you get Yahtzee!

How many fucking games are involved in this bullshit?

-We told you, we have a lot of time on our hands. SUCK IT VICTOR, I WIN FOR THE NIGHT

Win for the night? Who cares about that, you have Wyatt cornered, go for the Yahtzee!

-Oh, but you said our games were bullshit!

That’s before I realized Wyatt was awake for his allotted 2 hours per day non-sleeping time. Wyatt istfg bro, are you half French-Arab and half panda?

-Pandàs eàt for 14 hourès idiόt, ne pas slèèp.

Well look who knows a suspicious amount about pandas now! Almost like he’s descended from them.

Oh good, everyone’s favorite couple simultaneously has the day off. How about I take you two out for a nice date at Londoste since you’re about 55 years old?

-How about hard pass on that architectural monstrosity of a restaurant and we hang out for 6 hours in our front yard instead?

-Oui, oui! Très blanc garbagè of us!

Well at least we’re not forgetting our roots. 

Alright then, we’ve crossed into white trash territory unironically with the yard pda and we’re also freezing to death, how about we take this inside?

-Non!

-Yes, non indeed! I love how frozen your hands are, dear, it’s like you’re a real corpse!

Oh my G-

-Catch me, Creature!

-Je t'aime, dr. Frankènstèin! 

Ok, new suggestion, how about instead of going inside we visit a nice church?

-How abοùt you lôôk awày, pervertir!

Bold words from someone doing Frankenstein roleplay, and I’D LOVE TO, but the kids are at school and the animals are sleeping, so there’s no looking away from whatever the fuck this is. 

Oh thank god, Cyneswith is back from school and ready to cockblock her parents as always. First time I’m genuinely happy to see you, Cyn.

-Straight A’s again! Ah, we may only have one child but she is THE BEST. Wyatt dear, come here to congratulate Cyneswith and further inflate her ego. Wyatt?

-Why is he ignoring my straight A’s, daddy?! 

-Ugh, he’s probably jealous since everyone is jealous of you, darling. Pay him no mind, let’s go inside so I can give you the diamond tiara I got you for your birthday.

-But my birthday is in four months, what will you get me then?

-A throne to go with it and anything you want from Sihara’s and the other one’s rooms?

-They have no rooms, remember? They both sleep in the crypt.

-Right, well how about I act like I got them presents, give them to you and make them watch as you unwrap them?

-Aw daddy💗

-Je ne pas fèèl bien..

Yes, you’re dying, so it’d be some real Frankenstein shit if you did feel bien.

Is this Komei-clone bartender serious, first he calls while the headmaster is over, now he calls while we’re dying, FEEL THE FUCKING ROOM PAL

..and there we go. RIP Wyatt, it’s been sorta ok having you in the fami-

-WTF HOW ARE YOU ALIVE

-HA. I lièd, I AM hàlf pandà and mon beàr gènes protéct moi! 

GODDAMMIT I KNEW IT. Is that why the one child you gave birth to is your exact clone?

-Oui! Wulf est 1/4 pandà, et toi wènt et namèd him WULF. 

Well, to be fair, not a lot of famous pandas I could have named him after even if I knew. 

-Toi çould hàve namèd him Pandà!

Oh man, Panda Union does have a nice ring to it, especially next to the other names.. ~Shajar~, ~Cyneswith~ and PANDA. Thanks a lot for depriving me of the opportunity by withholding your genetic info.

-Je think Wulf est ontό it.. 

Onto the fact he’s 1/4 panda? I highly doubt that.

Yea nevermind, he knows. 

Oh great, Shajar has brought yet another uggo with a culturally appropriative hairstyle home from school. 

-That’s what you get for letting her out of the crypt.

Give it a rest, Jojo, we’ve had enough of your incredible parenting to last us 10 lifetimes at this point. 

-And then it goes: I send the thunder from the sky, I send the fire raining down, I send a hail of burning ice, on every field, on every town! I send the locusts on a wind, such as the world has never seen, on every leaf, on every stalk, until there's nothing left of green! I send my scourge, I send my sword, THUS SAITH THE LORD🎵

-Great, thank you, Shajar, for singing the entirety of the ‘10 Plagues’ song from The Prince of Egypt 27 times. I’m really sorry but I have to go home now-

-It-was-nice-to-meet-you noogie!

..Shajar, please, PLEASE see a doctor. 

-My sister Shajar may be super popular, spoiled and beloved-

WHAT LMAO

-but I have the friendship of animals and that’s all that matters!

Yea, Cyn, no offense, but it feels like you’re trying to cultivate an underdog Disney princess persona for yourself that is the exact opposite of actual family dynamics around here.

-What makes you say that?

Your tiara and throne vs Shajar sleeping in the crypt come to mind.

-So to be an underdog you need to be a loser?

I mean narrative-wise kinda, yea. 

-Message received. 

No, no that wasn’t a message-

-Yes it was and I got you, loud and clear.

Oh god.

-WHAT? YOU’RE REJECTING ME BECAUSE I’M TOO PRETTY? MY HEART IS BROKEN! I DON’T THINK I’LL EVER GET OVER THIS

-Uh, who are you again? Shajar invited me over, ordered a pizza and has been hiding in the bushes for 1 hour waiting to noogie the delivery guy. 

-I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT I’M HEARING! I HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO SING ABOUT THIS IN AN ENCHANTED FOREST FOR ABOUT 3 AND A HALF MINUTES

Jfc, where are the ghosts when you need them. 

-Mommy has dibs on you tonight, Jojo! 

-Mom please no! Your hair is so damn hideous! Just stay in your urn until the default replacement has been put back!

-Ah excellent, I have upgraded my robotic abilities up to cleanbot level! 

That actually is excellent, I really want us to fire Kaylynn. 

-Cleanbots don’t change cat litter. 

..UGH then why even bother, Jojo? The cat shit is 90% of our problems, make something that fixes that or stop wasting airtime with your nonsense. Istg some people. 

-Alright sis, how about we go out again tonight and ~play the field~? If I get rejected by a couple more mean boys I can earn my underdog princess badge!

-You are so stupid, Cyneswith, if you want to earn your underdog badge all you need to do is board a doomed ship, Titanic style, and then give the floating door to someone you’ve known for a couple of days while you selflessly and pointlessly drown in the freezing ocean despite the fact you could take turns sharing the door.

-But then I would be dead.

-I know right? Everybody wins. Let’s go get you some tickets.

Yea, let’s not, but let’s get out of here because the ghosts are out of fucking control and you two aren’t sleeping anytime soon.

-Shaj-and-Cyn-in-da-club noogie!

Shajar FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, ENOUGH. 

OMG IT’S SOPHIE MIGUEL. SOPHIE MIGUEL IN THE HOUSE

-Whaddup dildos, ‘tis I, Sophie fucking Miguel, the meanest townie teen there is. I’ve only taken 4 steps into this place and I can already tell I’m surrounded by a bunch of beta turbocucks. 

SHAJAR GO TALK TO HER!!!!!

-HEY BITCH, I’M NOT A BETA TURBOCUCK, I’M ALPHA AS FUCK. I’M NAMED AFTER SHAJAR AL-DURR! DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO THAT IS?

SHAJ WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, WHAT IS THIS APPROACH

-Of course I do, the first Mamluk Sultana of Egypt. Nice. 

OMG THAT SHIT WORKED. LAND THE PLANE SHAJ

-Ohhhhhhhh😍 Do you want to talk some more?? Do you like the 10 Plagues song from the Prince of Egypt???

-Nop, as suddenly as I came into your life, I’m dramatically getting the fuck out for no discernible reason, cause that’s just how I roll. Gone with the wind, baby! I’m like an outdoor cat. You’ll never see me again.

-Oh but I will..

YES YOU WILL SHAJ. I’m so on board this particular Titanicesque crackship that it’s un.real. I mean Sophie Miguel literally came into this place, talked to Shajar for less than one minute and then left the bar entirely, in turn leaving us dick in hand. What.an.icon.

In the meantime Cyneswith.. did this. Game-changing night for everyone!

[classicfilmfan64]

FROM THE WEB:

'Rita Hayworth was born Margarita Carmen Cansino on October 17, 1918, in Brooklyn, New York, into a family of dancers.

Her father, Eduardo Cansino Reina, was a dancer as was his father before him. He emigrated from Spain in 1913.

Rita's American mother, Volga Margaret (Hayworth), who was of mostly Irish descent, met Eduardo in 1916 and were married the following year.

Rita, herself, studied as a dancer in order to follow in her family's footsteps. She joined her family on stage when she was eight years old when her family was filmed in a movie called La Fiesta (1926).

It was her first film appearance, albeit an uncredited one. Sotted by Fox studio head Winfield R. Sheehan, she signed her first studio contract, and make her film debut at age sixteen, in Dante's Inferno (1935), followed by Cruz Diablo (1934).

She continued to play small bit parts in several films under the name of "Rita Cansino". She was Fox dropped her after five small roles, but expert, exploitative promotion by her first husband Edward Judson soon brought Rita a new contract at Columbia Pictures, where studio head Harry Cohn changed her surname to Hayworth and approved raising her hairline by electrolysis.

She played the second female lead, Judy McPherson, in Only Angels Have Wings (1939). After thirteen minor roles, Columbia lent her to Warner Bros. for her first big success, The Strawberry Blonde (1941); her splendid dancing with Fred Astaire in You'll Never Get Rich (1941) made her a star. This was the film that exuded the warmth and seductive vitality that was to make her famous. Her natural, raw beauty was showcased later that year in Blood and Sand (1941), filmed in Technicolor.

Rita was probably the second most popular actress after Betty Grable. In You'll Never Get Rich (1941) with Fred Astaire, was probably the film that moviegoers felt close to Rita.

Her dancing, for which she had studied all her life, was astounding. After the hit Gilda (1946) (her dancing had made the film and it had made her), her career was on the skids. Although she was still making movies, they never approached her earlier success.

The drought began between The Lady from Shanghai (1947) and Champagne Safari (1954). Then after Salome (1953), she was not seen again until Pal Joey (1957). Part of the reasons for the downward spiral was television, but also Rita had been replaced by a new star at Columbia, Kim Novak.

Rita, herself, said, "Men fell in love with Gilda, but they wake up with me". In person, Rita was shy, quiet and unassuming; only when the cameras rolled did she turn on the explosive sexual charisma that in Gilda (1946) made her a superstar. To Rita, though, domestic bliss was a more important, if elusive, goal, and in 1949 she interrupted her career for marriage - unfortunately an unhappy one almost from the start - to the playboy Prince Aly Khan.

Her films after her divorce from Khan include perhaps her best straight acting performances, Miss Sadie Thompson (1953) and They Came to Cordura (1959).

After a few, rather forgettable films in the 1960s, her career was essentially over. Her final film was The Wrath of God (1972). Her career was really never the same after Gilda (1946). Perhaps Gene Ringgold said it best when he remarked, "Rita Hayworth is not an actress of great depth. She was a dancer, a glamorous personality, and a sex symbol. These qualities are such that they can carry her no further professionally." Perhaps he was right but Hayworth fans would vehemently disagree with him.

Beginning in 1960 (age 42), early onset of Alzheimer's disease (undiagnosed until 1980) limited Rita's ability. The last few roles in her 60-film career were increasingly small. With 20 years of symptoms, Rita was cared for by her daughter, Yasmin Khan, until Rita's death at age 68 on May 14, 1987, in New York City.'

[thezfc]

OK- I decided to combine all the anons I have about Fiona/Zhora/Stalkers because it’s ALOT.

Anonymous said: Ok, I must vent. It chuffs my ass to no end to see these bitches brag about how this is their 3rd time meeting Tom at stage door! They're taking up space in line when someone who has never had the chance to meet him but wants to yet doesn't get that chance. Meanwhile they think the more he sees them he's going to magically fall in love with them. They're so fucking selfish. You've met him. Get over yourselves and let others have the same chance. 😠 Btw, before you say anything, I live in (pt1) (pt2) states and have no chance of seeing the play or meeting him. And I'm fine with that. It just really pisses me off to see these immature bitches act so selfishly. News flash: He's NOT going to fall for you so get on with your lives! Thanks for letting me vent. Anonymous said: To anon saying you should have Fiona on your podcast. No, don't be dumb. The problem with you guys is you're so fixated on your hatred of Zhora that you'll ally with anyone she argues with... But those people are just as bad as her. It's not a win to have a creep on your podcast just because she hates Zhora. That's hypocritical.

Anonymous said: Lmao someone asked Fiona if Tom knew she rented Airbnbs near his house and so on and she didn't answer, just got all sanctimonious again 🙄🙄🙄 What's your opinion on Fiona then, Zero? You seem to have a very wishy washy opinion on the issue. Half the time you scream stalker at anyone you hate, then you downplay it or suggest others do the same when you like them? Anonymous said: Actually the legal definition of stalking in the UK includes "loitering (in any public or private place" as one of the potential factors. There's a lot of wording about how many factors have to be present to bring a case of stalking to the police, but these fans tick one or two behaviours that *can* go hand in hand with stalking. Loitering in a public place... Near his house... If Tom really wanted to I bet he could bring a case against one or two fans, and threaten a few others.

Anonymous said: Also lmao at FR coming on here to whine about Zhora. Honey, Zhora DID talk to you about this, more than once. And you and your pack of dogs hounded her off Tumblr last time she called out your hypocrisy. Zero, I know you hate Zhora but she was right on the money about Fiona. Fiona's a hypocritical creep. She grandstanded about Grace when she's exactly the same, maybe even worse. Plus, hon, not everyone who talks about you is Zhora. You brag about this shit all over your various SM handles.

Anonymous said: I don't think Tom's "bothered" by the stalker fans, but I think he's not aware that FR also stays in his area on "holiday" and so on. That might change his outlook somewhat? But still, even if he doesn't feel threatened by it, he knows what they're doing and why. It's not like he thinks they're really cool and should be his BFF (or sex partner like they dream of). Plus him not being outwardly bothered doesn't mean its okay!!!! It's still fucked up. Anonymous said: Talking about stalkers, two french girls keep "bumping" on Tom. One even left france for months to live there and the other met him multiples times same for cumberbatch and a few others actors. Anonymous said: Diff perspective on 'stalker' fans-I have a few degree separation w/intl famous band & spouse & friends involved w/fan fundraisers/events worked w/mngmt etc. Had issues w/some stalker fans & I got irritated cuz seemed like they got 'special' treatment from band but had VERY revealing convo w/mngmt & security once on how they were all VERY aware & it was more a case of "keeping them close to keep an eye on them". So just cuz TH is smiling doesn't mean he's cool with everything (+ he's an ACTOR!) rllca submitted: “as long as the frequent flyers stay reasonable”…..but middle-aged women spending that much money and seeing his play so many times is totally UNreasonable. He must think they’re nuts! tomhiddlestonangel said: Keep holding up the mirror to these crazy stalkers. There is nothing more terrifying than having a reflection you don’t recognise. Denial is one of human natures worst enemies. Their just a bunch of Buzz Lightyears waiting for their epiphany 💡 Keep going Z, if nothing else their reactions are hilarious 🤣 Anonymous said: Here’s some piping hot tea for you: Zhora Salome is old enough to know better than to behave like a goddamn child. Why do the rules she set up not apply to her? I hope someone makes her take a long walk off a short cliff.

Anonymous said: “Photographic evidence” First of all, he’s an actor. He’s spent years acting excited to see the same people over and over again. Second ... have you looked at the body language in those pictures? He’s entirely angled away from them, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he looks like he wants to sprint into the night.

Anonymous said:

If instead of paying ten grand to see him now why not invest it in something worthwhile, wait five years when his career isn't what it is now, then take it out and have a few more dollars to see him at a convention or in his latest theater project?

rllca said:

$10 000 for a few minutes of small talk, then you go on your way. He doesn't give a shit about you.

Anonymous said:

Tom is probably really flattered that these fans spend so much money going to see his play multiple times, who wouldn't be. He seems to enjoy interacting with fans at work e.g. stage door etc. I think if he realised she was staying so close to his house that she can see in to his courtyard he would probably not be so happy.

Anonymous said:

Congrats Fiona, when's the wedding?

Anonymous said:

www.instagram.com/p/ByJU1b_F1jb/?igshid=1xkp9nn1bqujk Ugh. She keeps conveniently skirting over the fact that he probably doesn't know she lurks around by his house every time she's in London. I remember her and Saney being bitches about Grace, when isn't Fiona exactly the same? It doesn't matter if Tom looks happy to see her, the FACT is, she shouldn't be lurking around his neighborhood like a creep. Stick to stage door, ffs.

------------------------------------------------

To the third anon down asking me about my opinion- I feel like you are probably the same person who called her out on her blog.  I don’t know Fiona- she messaged me just this last week to tell me about the Omaze thing- probably to get ahead of it and I have been honest with her that I have been very vocal about my thoughts around this obsessive fan girl behavior and her reply was actually pretty reasonable- she wasn’t a bitch about it and didn’t try to change my mind.  But I have received more information from other blogs and anons with receipts that she is lying that she’s never stayed near his house and she in fact has very recently. I don’t like the lying- admit it or else you KNOW it’s wrong. 

EIther way- I don’t have to shit talk every single one of these frequent fliers, I don’t want my blog to become just a place to bitch about them- there are SO MANY that it’s too much to keep track of, and I’m sure there are plenty more who don’t post on open social media accounts who have been there a zillion times- I know of plenty that I’ve said nothing about. I said my peace on my blog and podcast and this Omaze raffle was it’s own whole drama.

In conclusion- I will be very happy when this play is over and this issue stops being drama and everyone can stop treating him like a zoo attraction. I”m sure the anon is right that the frequent fliers will be all of over the place this week getting their last fix. 

[bottlecaprabbitgames]

Games and Stuff

Hey guys, Capri/Cierra here! I know those of you not in the Discord server are probably at a loss as to what Rissa's Nelroche and my Script #2 are about! So here's some info about them specifically:

Nelroche

This is a fantasy and romance story set first in a modern world but soon changes to a medieval one.

One main trope would be the "Modern MC in a Medieval World". ;)

There are five romantic options, plus poly route (NOT a triangle, but an actual three person poly route): Aidan/Ayleth Rosenridge (A), a human noble and lord; Ira/Ione Ravenfall (I), a human knight; Ciaran/Chiara (C), a faerie mage; Minra/Maelys (M), The Asura (a type of demon); and Senan/Salome (S), The Elf. The poly route will be between M and C!

Currently, Chapter 1 is nearly done, so it will be entering Beta testing soon! We don't want to reveal too much info on it yet, but I am very much looking forward to typing up the forum post and seeing your guys' reactions ;) (Rissa's prolly gonna have me answer Qs so she can scream in from her lurking cave).

Script #2

So a real deal name hasn't been worked out for this one yet, but my Glowing Brain(tm) is working on it! The lizard part keeps trying to take over, though...

The main idea is: the main character was raised with two supernatural/monster hunters for parents. While MC could research in their parents library about the beasts and was taught self-defence, they were never allowed to hunt. Yet, this changes when MC's father is murdered on a hunt, and the MC becomes a hunter in their mid-teens. Over the next few years, the MC hunts any supernatural or monster they come across (I may allow you to pick if you only hunted evil or harmful ones or any and all!) as they search for their father's murderer.

Things don't go as planned when MC finally locates the killer... in fact, it's to be their last hunt, as the beast knew they were coming, and it was ready. With sudden and quick precision, the creature strikes a killing blow... but as the MC lies there, bleeding out, someone approaches. This stranger says only this:

"I am going to save you, human. You'll rise with abilities and powers you could only *dream* of having... but you'll help and save the very things you've hunted for so long, whilst also protecting mortalkind from being erased from this damned world. I hope you put your party boots on, because things are about to get *wild*."

Hope you enjoy the blurb!!! :D

This story will take place in the same universe as Rewind, but in a modern era! (One of the ROs totally doesn't use Tumblr all the time)

This will be a fantasy, sci-fi-y, action-y, adventure-y thing where you will have some detective work to do too!! And of course, romance :)

There will be 6 ROs, and possibly one or two poly routes, as well as a friendship route AND the ability to befriend ros you aren't romancing! You will come to a point after knowing the ROs that'll allow you to pick which route you want!

This is going to be a series! I'm not sure on how many books yet; I may just write till I feel the story is done, haha!

The romances will go at different paces, some taking longer than others, as each RO is different!

And, just maybe, we'll see the arrival of some very familiar characters... muahahaha!!!!

I hope I peaked your interest ;) if you want more deets on either story or see what stuff gets revealed on Rewind, please join us in the Discord server! (You can message me for a link or scroll down!! Tumblr keeps breaking my links for some reason... :/)

[thefloorisbalaclava]

My car started dying every so often and making a weird noise so I’m at the shop rn and the guy opened my door and sat on the ground next to me to explain how the part that’s broken works and what need to be done and then because it wasn’t something he could fix he changed my oil and filled my tires “secretly”.

So yeah mechanic!frankie is on my mind so hard right now

Okay so this is PERFECT for a new mechanic!frankie fic! I changed up a few things. I apologize for taking forever to respond! I hope this makes up for it!

Summary: You go to see Frankie again and learn a few things.

[mechanic!frankie masterlist]

---

Frankie checked his hair in the little mirror by the door once more before answering. The smile on his face grew exponentially as soon as he laid eyes on you then he pouted when he noticed the silver tray in your hands.

“I told you not to bring anything,” he scolded, taking the tray from you as you stepped inside.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” you said and he rolled his eyes.

“You do know we’re in the twenty-first century, right?” he teased as he walked to the kitchen. “Besides...my heart is yours with or without food.” He walked back over to you and pulled you into his arms. After a moment of hesitation, he kissed you and you both sighed into it.

“Hmm...you say you don’t know how to do this whole boyfriend thing, but I must say that you are very good at it,” you said, putting your hands on his chest.

“Just learning as I go.” He kissed you again then pulled away reluctantly. “So...” He looked down at your clothes and made a face.

“What?” You looked down.

“If we’re going into the shop, those clothes are gonna get messy,” he warned. “I might have something there you can wear. Come on, we’ll take my truck.”

“Into the shop? I thought you were gonna show me here,” you said nervously.

“All of my cooler tools are there.” He held the door open for you then followed you out. You reached for the truck door but he quickly stepped in front and pulled it open for you. “See? Learning as I go.”

“Thank you, Frankie.”

---

At the shop, he brought you to his office and told you to give him a minute. A few moments later, he walked back in wearing his coveralls with another one draped over his arm.

“What is that?” you asked.

“Coveralls.” He held them up and you noticed his name embroidered on it.

“Yours?” You took the stained coveralls from him happily.

“Used to be. I, uh, outgrew them.” He rubbed his soft stomach and you smiled, hoping that one day you would be able to rub it too. “You can put ‘em right over your clothes.”

“Got it.” You stepped out of your shoes before stepping into the coveralls. Even pulled up, they were long on you and the sleeves came down over your hands.

“Let me.” Frankie stood in front of you and you held your arms up so he could roll the sleeves up for you. “That’s better.” He stood back as you put your shoes back on. “Follow me.” He led you to the back of the shop where there were two cars. “Get in and try to start it.”

“Okay.” You climbed into the car he nodded at. When you tried to start it, you heard a grinding sound that made you wince. Frankie walked over to the open window and leaned in.

“Know what that sound means?” he asked.

“Bad starter,” you answered confidently and Frankie grinned.

“You got it. Think we can fix it or is it better off being replaced?”

“They’re probably better of replacing it.”

“Correct. Come on.” He opened the door for you and you followed him to the hood of the car. You stuck your head under the hood with him and he chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing, I’m just...I’m really enjoying this,” he admitted.

“Me too.” You both looked at each other and leaned in for a quick kiss, pulling away with shy laughs.

“How well do you know your tools?” he asked.

“Pretty well,” you said proudly.

He tested you by having you pass him the tools he asked for. You got every single one right. Then he pulled out a mechanic’s creeper and you smiled.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be right here.” He sat on the ground and rolled the creeper back and forth with a smile.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” You got on your knees and turned around. Frankie helped you onto your back and slowly rolled it.

“Ready?” he asked and you nodded. He rolled you under the car and began ask if you could see certain parts and describing them. When he rolled you back out, you had a big smile on your face. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you confessed. He stood then helped you to your feet.

“Well, ma’am, I think you’re a natural-born mechanic,” he teased. “Don’t think you’ll need me anymore.”

You frowned. “Huh?”

“I’m joking,” he chuckled. “You can always bring your car in and get your complimentary oil change and tire pressure check.” He moved closer to you.

“Do any of your other customers get these complimentary things?” you asked, wrapping your arms around him.

He shook his head. “It’s one of the perks of dating the owner.”

“Oh really? Well, I know another perk.”

“And what’s that?” he asked.

“I get to kiss you whenever I want.” You kissed his lips and he kissed back happily.

---

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[weekendwarriorblog]

Review: DEATH ON THE NILE Does Better Justice to Agatha Christie than ORIENT EXPRESS

I’ve been a Kenneth Branagh stan for quite some time, but I wasn’t really a fan of his Murder on the Orient Express. I couldn’t even tell you why since I saw it so long ago, I barely remember it. A period murder mystery should definitely be my kind of thing, and that definitely wasn’t, though I love the genre that has brought us Clue, and The Last of Sheila, and of course, most recently, Knives Out. They’re all great in their own respect, but it all leads back to author Agatha Christie and her character, Hercule Poirot

Branagh is back as Poirot for his second movie as the private detective, but first, we get a prologue, a flashback to Poirot’s time fighting in the French trenches during World War I, which essentially acts as an origin for the inspector’s famed moustache. (I wondered if Branagh was able to use Matthew Vaughn’s WWI trenches from The King’s Man when that movie was done.)

Decades later, Poirot is in a London nightclub listening to the dulcet tones of blues singer Salome Otterbourne (Sophie Okonedo) when he witnesses a meeting between besties Jacqueline de Bellefort (Emma Mackey) and billionaire heiress Linnet Ridgeway (Gal Gadot), the latter who graciously accepts an offer to dance by Jackie’s fiancé Simon Doyle (Armie Hammer), which ends up being a lot more risqué than Jackie expected. A few weeks later, Simon and Linnet are engaged to be married and having their wedding in Egypt, though the spurned Jackie still holds a grudge. Poirot himself is in Egypt, where he reconnects with his friend Bouc (Tom Bateman, the only other returnee from Orient Express), who is there with his mother (Annette Bening) for the big wedding.

All the aforementioned end up on the riverboat Karnac, which Linnet has rented out for her lavish party for friends and other wedding guests, which not only brings together the key players but also a wide cadre of hanger-ons from Linet’s business manager cousin Katchadourian (Ali Fazal) and her doctor (Russell Brand), but all sorts of others who have every reason to want the money inherited by Doyle through his marriage to Linnet.

It’s a good hour before the first “death” as promised in the title, and after that, bodies start piling up, as Poirot tries to find the killer or killers. For some reason, the investigation portion of the film works better than it did in Orient Express, so that the languid pacing of the first hour starts to pay off. Granted, much of those pacing issues are due to the number of characters being introduced, but Branagh seems to have a better handle on Christie and her beloved character than he did first time around.

Although the cast for Orient Express was impressive, Branagh has the benefits of a skilled casting director to get great actors into all the key roles, including Gadot, who has already been attached to play Egyptian Queen Cleopatra. When you see her in Death on the Nile you’ll immediately know why. She’s quite good, but this, once again, is very much an ensemble piece with each of the actors getting enough screen time for you to determine whether you like them or not. I thought Sophie Okonedo was quite good, playing a bit more of a character than we’ve seen from her, and she’s well-paired with Letitia Wright as her niece/manager, Rosalie. I wasn’t familiar with Emma Mackey’s work, but she has a great role as the fly in the ointment of the Doyle wedding going off without a hitch. We even get to see Annete Bening in a rare ensemble role, playing Bouc’s clinging mother, and I actually liked Bateman quite a bit both in his scenes with her and with Branagh.

To address the Armie Hammer in the room, the disgraced actor’s role as the sleazy snake Simon Doyle seems to suit him, amongst a cast where all of them have some sort of issue or imperfection. In fact, even Gadot’s Linnet acts like a bit of a bitch at times. Probably the best bit of casting is reuniting comedy legends Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders (best known simply as French and Saunders), but they’re playing very different non-comedic roles here. Still, it’s wonderful to see them in a major movie together.

More than anything else, Death on the Nile looks amazing, whether it’s the recreation of many Egyptian landmarks, the way Haris Zambarloukos’s camera bobs and weaves through the halls and stairwells of the Karnak, or just the many shots of the riverboat travelling down the Nile. It all just looks so beautiful thanks to a combination of production design, visual effects, and cinematography, although the latter’s camera calisthenics settle down for the movie’s second half, as Poirot goes into his interrogations, probably the enjoyable aspect of the film. After the big reveal of the killer, Branagh throws on an epilogue that’s probably as needless as the film’s prologue, though it does wrap things up in a nice bow.

What will be interesting to see is if the good karma Branagh has achieved with his autobiographical Belfast will carry over to the much bigger-budgeted Poirot mystery, especially since he was able to bring over many of his craft collaborators. I don’t see that happening, as Nile has the onus of being a sequel to a movie that received mixed reviews that was targeting an older demographic than the current critical pool.

Despite some pacing issues, Death on the Nile looks glorious, offers a great ensemble cast, and a final act that Agatha Christie fans should greatly admire. It’s good enough that I look forward with hopes that Branagh can play the role at least once more.

Rating: 7/10

[yoshi4sushi]

(purupurupuru) (purupurupuru) (click!) (coo!) (coo!)

 Happy Lucky Monday, minna-san! I hope everyone is hanging still from this horrible heat. Keep yourself healthy and hydrated. W/o further ado, let’s get on with this week’s news. First off, this week the Wano story will resume so let’s see what Luffy and Marimo head aka Zoro will respond to Hawkin’s stand. Don’t miss it! Next, this past weekend’s episode was bizarre as we see our heroes running away from Big Mom since Nami’s attack had no effect on here. Meanwhile, Chopper and Brook fight off all the goons aboard on Sunny with Perospero and Katakuri on guard to defend themselves. We then see Pudding and Chiffon caught up with the gang as she tries to tell them how Big Mom can be stopped, but Luffy and the others have a hard time to trust her since she betrayed them. She then goes haywire and starts berating them with horrible words of doom, but Chiffon is pulling the reins on her to stay focused on the task. She then tells Sanji that they need his help to make another wedding cake at Chocolat town in order to stop her. At the end, Sanji then takes up the task and left with the girls. Next time, Brook and Chopper are in big trouble with Perospero making move. Will the gang make it on time to save them? Don’t miss it! Now on with the goods! First off, we received a telegram from Tongari-san. He couldn’t come due this immense heat. He wrote that fun stuff is happening next month and of course, the month of ghouls, Halloween! First off, here is the theme of this year’s Halloween. This year’s is steam punk. Loads of fun stuff is happening. The tower will again have the annual Halloween contest. The first three two Saturdays, Oct.13th & 20th will be the adult contest. On Oct.27th will be the kids contest and if you have sibling or child, it’s free entry for them. Goods, games, prizes, etc. will be announced later on. The Halloween event will start on Sept.15th. Next, the tower is gonna be noisy and fun to celebrate the most funny clown of all, Buggy. His birthday is on Aug.1st. The café will serve Buggy’s Big Gigantic Game tiramisu cake with blue whip cream with a cherry nose served with some chocolate whip cream and sweet tortilla chips. They will also celebrate Cavendish’s birthday. They will serve Cavendish’s Hakuba Noble yogurt with some mango flavor whip along with his sweet shaped tortilla hat and edible flower petals. If you order either both, you’ll get a free birthday bromide card of them. Next, the Straw Hat store will be selling Buggy’s birthday such as his button and acrylic keychain. If you visit the tower and shop at the store, you’ll get a free big birthday card of him. Plus, if you spend over 3000 yen, you’ll get a free poster of him. The tower will also be selling August birthday buttons as well of the characters. Next, tower will be selling wanted ads acrylic key chains of the Straw Hats and new mini boats figurines of Sunny, Eneru’s ark, Sunny with his chicken hat, Shanks’ ship, Buggy’s ship, and the Polar Tang. These will be in blind boxes. Next, this week, all arcades will be stocking this new figurine of Luffy from OP magazine vol.3 in color and b/w color. Get those coins ready to win this awesome prize. Next, the new POP figurine of Hancock in her silver color bikini will be released in November. Check your local hobby store or Straw Hat store. You can also make reservation online from the usual online anime store. Next, Wonderfest released loads of upcoming figurines this year and early next year. First, they have this POP Maximum figurine of Hancock with Salome. No date released yet, but it will be sometime this fall or winter year. Next, these new Ichiban Kuji figurines of battle fight of Luffy vs Katakuri & Ace vs Whitebeard. Title of the new IK is Memorial Log. It will be released in December. More prizes will be revealed later. Next, new POP bikini figurines of Nami and Bonney have been completed. Figurine of Nami is holding a beer and Bonney in her erotic bikini which will include her hat. Both will probably be released next year. Same with this new POP Maximum figurine of Zoro in his two sword style. Next, this Saturday, the new mugi mugi plushies of Germa, Luffy, Nami, Sanji, and Pudding will be released. Luffy and Nami will be in their WCI outfits, & Sanji and Pudding will be in their wedding outfits. Cuddly cute! Next, all Straw Hat stores will be selling suit case covers cloth. Luffy, Zoro, Robin, and Ussop will be released this week. Law, Sanji, Franky, and Brook will be released in mid-Aug. Next, the stores will be selling this wonderful iphone 7/8 flip cover of Sunny part of a map background. Last, but not least, the OP app game, Thousand Storm, will be having a short campaign where you earn enough points and reach new levels you can get Eneru in his long cape from Log Collection. Well, that’s all we got for now. We will be absent next week since next week is my birthday and the crew and I are going with a dear friend to celebrate it together for two days. We will be back on Wednesday, but we’ll try to keep you informed beforehand. Kikko! Momon! Let’s get some shut eye.

[dawnasiler]

Editor’s Picks: The 22 Best Beauty Gifts Under $100 for the Friend or Family Member Who Has Everything

How do you shop for that beauty lover in your life whose collection could compete with Sephora?

They probably already own many of the products in this year's hottest skincare, makeup and beauty gift sets. But you still want to impress—even if your budget is under $100 (US). 

Enter this list of more than 20 beauty gift ideas that are guaranteed to surprise and delight. 

From a cult-favourite hair brush to a high-tech skin analyzer, these are the most thoughtful, unique and genuinely cool presents to put under the tree.

Read on to discover the best beauty gifts of 2019.

The Best Beauty Gifts Under $100

Yves Durif Petite Brush & Comb Set

Yves Durif Petite Brush & Comb Set

Move over, Mason Pearson. There's a new brush (and comb!) in town, developed by Parisian hairstylist Yves Durif. His namesake Yves Durif Petite Brush & Comb Set includes a travel-sized hair brush and a full-sized comb, both handmade in Italy from natural ivory resin. They're so gentle, you can use them on wet and dry hair.

Cooluli Mini Beauty Fridge

Cooluli Mini Beauty Fridge

If Instagram is any indication, 2019 was the year of skincare fridges—and none are cuter or more functional than the Cooluli Mini Beauty Fridge. Compact and portable, it has a four-litre capacity and both heating and cooling modes. The latter is a great way to extend the shelf life of skincare products by inhibiting oxidation and bacterial growth.

Dagne Dover Hunter Toiletry Bag

Dagne Dover Hunter Toiletry Bag

A few months back, I was kindly gifted a Dagne Dover Duffle Bag, and now I'm obsessed with the brand's incredibly practical yet stylish creations. The Dagne Dover Hunter Toiletry Bag is made from washable, durable neoprene, and comes with two removable mesh pouches to keep beauty essentials organized. 

StackedSkincare Ice Roller

StackedSkincare Ice Roller

Ice rollers like the StackedSkincare Ice Roller are one of the handiest gadgets for your skincare arsenal. Made from stainless steel with a gel and water core, you just pop it in the freezer to chill. Then, roll it over your skin to help reduce redness, puffiness and inflammation. It can even shorten the lifespan of a pimple!

Highborn Salome Full Spectrum CBD Topical

Highborn Salome Full Spectrum CBD Topical

Highborn Salome Full Spectrum CBD Topical is a fragrance and topical CBD experience in one. The blend of coconut oil, rose otto, holy basil and other essential oils is spiked with  THC-free CBD, which is non-psychoactive. When applied to pulse points or areas of discomfort, it triggers relaxation within five to 10 minutes.

blendSMART Rotating Rose Gold Foundation Brush

blendSMART Rotating Rose Gold Foundation Brush

There are makeup brushes, and then there's the blendSMART Rotating Rose Gold Foundation Brush. Thanks to a patented innovation, the head spins at a rate of 190 rotations per minute to mimic the blending motion of a professional makeup artist. It works with cream, liquid and powder formations to create a seamless, natural skin finish—no skills required!

Silke London Silk Hair Wrap

Silke London Silk Hair Wrap

Anyone who struggles with "bed head" will appreciate a Silke London Silk Hair Wrap. Made from 100 percent mulberry silk, it protects your hair from friction while you sleep, which is said to contribute to slow growth, dryness, frizz and split ends. The brand even claims that you can get away with washing your hair less often!

WAYSKIN Skin Analzyer

WAYSKIN Skin Analzyer

The WAYSKIN Skin Analzyer is a skincare nerd's dream gadget. The donut-shaped device measures your skin's moisture levels (along with humidity and UV), and records all the data through an app on your phone. That way, you get real-time feedback on just how well your skincare routine is working at warding off dry skin. 

Victoria Beckham Smoky Eye Brick

Victoria Beckham Smoky Eye Brick

There's room for another palette in your collection when it's the Victoria Beckham Smoky Eye Brick—one of the most buzzed-about launches of the year. You get four complementary shades in a chic, slim tortoiseshell case. There are four colour harmonies to choose from, including Tweed (shown here).

Hanacure The All-in-One Facial

Hanacure The All-in-One Facial

Hanacure The All-in-One Facial has been all over Instagram—it's the face mask that turns you into a wrinkled old lady as it dries—and the results are no joke. Besides moisturizing, it also brightens and tightens thanks to an array of peptides (including copper). And now, you can now buy it in a single-dose starter kit.

The White Company Fluffy Faux Fur Sleep Mask

The White Company Fluffy Faux Fur Sleep Mask

Everyone loves a sleep mask, but instead of the ubiquitous silk, why not a furry one instead? The White Company Fluffy Faux Fur Sleep Mask is made of plush faux fur with a satin lining and strap. It's also machine-washable.

Augustinus Bader The Cream

Augustinus Bader The Cream

Yes, you can get a bottle of the most sought-after skincare product of 2019—Augustinus Bader The Cream—for less than $100. That's because it now comes in a 15 mL "discovery" size. Inside is the breakthrough formula that both moisturizes and activates cellular repair. Any skincare addict will drool over this one!

Rouje Paris Lip Palette Les 4 Rouje

Rouje Paris Lip Palette Les 4 Rouje

French girls don't apply lipstick straight from the tube. They dab it on with their fingers for a softer, lived-in effect—and the Rouje Paris Lip Palette Les 4 Rouje makes it easy to do just that. Created by French "It girl" Jeanne Damas, it has four creamy shades that work not just on the lips but also lids and cheeks.

Aquis Lisse Luxe Hair Turban

Aquis Lisse Luxe Hair Turban

For anyone who hates waiting around for their hair to dry, the Aquis Lisse Luxe Hair Turban is a game changer. Woven from ultra-fine fibers that wick away moisture, it cuts drying time in half while keeping strands smooth. Over time, hair will get healthier because it's not being exposed to as much heat, water or friction.

Skin Gym Face Sculptor

Skin Gym Face Sculptor

Face rollers are all the rage right now, but few are as sleek as the Skin Gym Face Sculptor (it resembles the ReFa, which is more than double the price!). The metal globes have a deep kneading action on the skin, similar to a professional massage. As such, it's meant to firm, sculpt and boost radiance.

Gisou Honey Infused Hair Perfume

Gisou Honey Infused Hair Perfume

Choosing a fragrance for someone else is risky. So why not gift them a hair perfume instead? As seen all over Instagram, Gisou Honey Infused Hair Perfume has a delicate feminine floral scent, and is infused with honey to boost hair's shine and moisture.

VitaJuwel Wellness Water Bottle

VitaJuwel Wellness Water Bottle

Crystal-infused water bottles like the VitaJuwel Wellness Water Bottle are the latest way to stay hydrated. Even if you don't believe in the power of amethyst (for awareness), rose quartz (for tranquility) or clear quartz (for energy), you'll probably notice that the water tastes a lot cleaner.

Chanel Rouge Allure Liquid Powder

Chanel Rouge Allure Liquid Powder

Anything from this brand is sure to please, but especially the Chanel Rouge Allure Liquid Powder, one of the most exciting innovations to hit the lipstick category. It's a cream-to-powder formula (yes, powder!) that creates a soft, blurred matte stain. With 13 shades, there's something for everyone, from subtle to bold.

Diptyque Hand Care Set

Diptyque Hand Care Set

Everyone can use more hand soap and hand lotion, especially when it's the fancy kind that you'd be proud to display in your restroom. This Diptyque Hand Care Set includes both and a wash and a lotion that look, feel and smell luxurious.

Slip Slipsilk Pure Silk Pillowcase

Slip Slipsilk Pure Silk Pillowcase

You can never go wrong with a Slip Slipsilk Pure Silk Pillowcase. Not only does it elevate beauty sleep into a luxurious experience, but it also helps to prevent "sleep wrinkles" and keeps hairstyles intact. The fabric also ensures your skincare products stay on your face, where they belong, instead of seeping into your pillowcase.

RMS Beauty Hidden Desire Palette

RMS Beauty Hidden Desire Palette

The RMS Beauty Hidden Desire Palette will convert any makeup lover to clean beauty. Every shade is new and only available in this palette; you get six eyeshadows, a blush and a luminizer to play with. The texture of this brand's powders is incredible (so buttery!), and they're all made with non-toxic ingredients. 

Hey Dewy Portable Facial Humidifier

Hey Dewy Portable Facial Humidifier

Dewy skin is just a click away, with the Hey Dewy Portable Facial Humidifier. It plugs into your laptop, car port or charger and uses ultrasonic technology—not heat—to emit a fine mist of hydration. (I think it's a much better option than facial steamers, which get way too hot and can seriously damage your skin.)

Shop Editor’s Picks

Have you tried any of these products yet? Which beauty gifts are on your list?

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Editor’s Picks: The 22 Best Beauty Gifts Under $100 for the Friend or Family Member Who Has Everything syndicated from The Skincare Edit