#Large Baroque table cover

[damon25]

4 Reasons to Use our Baroque Beauty-Damask Table Linens for Restaurants on Festival Occasions

Restaurants work with festive occasions to give customers a memorable dining experience with a taste of elegance and sophistication, from Baroque Beauti-Damask table linens that can elevate the ambiance and impress patrons.

1. Timeless Elegance: Baroque Beauti-Damask linens are Baroque-inspired linens featuring intricate patterns inspired by the grandeur of the Baroque era. They instantly make any table a statement piece, fitting perfectly with the festive mood.

2. Premium Quality: Made from high-quality fabric and visually stunning and durable, these table linens are a steal! For restaurants, they are perfect for busy holidays and can withstand frequent use and washing.

3. Versatility: Themes can be created with different colored and sized linens to create multiple table settings. Their versatility makes them suitable for any occasion, such as Christmas, New Eve, an anniversary, a birthday party, etc.4. Enhanced Customer Experience: The linens by Baroque Beauti-Damask lend the whole dining atmosphere a luxurious feel and appearance. Guests associate the restaurant's refinement more, which helps create repeat visits.

Festive table linens incorporating Baroque Beauti-Damask are more than just decoration; they are a statement about your restaurant's quality. These luxury linens for tables will help you stand out this holiday season!

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest (4)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: description of rape, angst, trauma, mention of sexual harassment, violence, swearing, self-destructive behavior ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

With difficulty, every day, he forced himself to get used to her presence, to the smell of her coconut shampoo when she walked past, to her voice when she spoke to her year mates.

He always worked with his back to her, without looking at her, and she worked, as promised, in the corner, at the last table, covered by a pillar so that he could not see her most of the time.

On the one hand he felt uncomfortable, but on the other he thought with some feeling of pride that maybe this would help him get out of his area of weakness and trauma, that maybe this important decision would make something change in him.

She only dared to approach him when she wanted to show him her project, but when she laid it down in front of him he noticed with disappointment that it was too contrived.

There was too much going on, he thought, she was trying to prove to herself and him that she could create the most expressive, most complicated design possible.

"Overdone and tacky. This is not a competition for the most pompous baroque stained glass. Don't show me things like that again." He said dryly, returning to cutting glass. He heard her swallow loudly and walk away, leaving behind her scent of some new herbal shampoo.

Although he feared she would be a distraction to him and others, she behaved politely and decently, concentrating on her work, talking to her colleagues only during short breaks for tea or food.

She conformed to the rules and always cleaned her workstation thoroughly. She also dressed appropriately, usually wearing a large black t-shirt tucked into high-waisted black trousers, her hair either tied up in a braid or tied partially at the back of her head as the rest of her curls fell down her back.

As much as he didn't want it, she was the centre of his relentless attention − he waited for any stumble from her, any proof that she was faking it, that there was something different under that mask than she had shown so far.

It seemed to him, however, that the more days passed, the more relaxed and smiling she became. She worked on her new project while sitting with headphones on her head, listening to music, bobbing her head to its rhythm, painting at her table, undeterred by his unpleasant comment.

Two days after their exchange of words, she approached him for the second time, again holding a piece of paper. He looked at her sternly, wanting to make sure she knew what she was doing.

"Are you sure you want to show me this?" He asked warningly, and she nodded quickly before placing her draft in front of him. He pressed his lips together, feeling his heart thump involuntarily in his chest.

Her design was beautiful.

Her composition, although not perfect, even in its sketchy outline with the colours she had chosen and the positioning of the figures made the whole thing look light, lifted − he noticed immediately that the figures of the Virgin and Christ were inspired by Raphael's Sistine Madonna and wanted to see if she would admit it.

"Were you inspired by someone?" He asked coolly and she nodded quickly, smiling softly.

"Yes, Raphael's Sistine Madonna."

He hummed under his breath, pleased that she'd confessed, and began to analyse what he saw before him.

"On the left and right the composition is too filled in. You need to leave those four apostles lower, give more space to the background. Let them form an arc under the figure of Our Lady, not half a circle." He spoke at once what he noticed, running his hand over her work, pointing to the parts he had in mind.

She watched his every move with rapt attention and nodded quickly, her eyes shining with delight, as if with her imagination's sight she could see that indeed his changes would make the whole thing look even better.

"Yes. You're right, Professor, I will." She said excitedly, looking at him with a sort of gratitude and joy from which he felt uncomfortable.

He felt some strange kind of warmth in his lower abdomen at the thought that this smile suited her.

That she was pretty.

She was a pretty girl.

He bit his lower lip, embarrassed and horrified at his thought, and lowered his gaze, returning to his work.

"That's all."

He was not helped in dismissing this thought by the fact that, a few hours later, he came across her in the canteen, seeing her in nothing but a floral strapless summer dress.

He was relieved to find that nothing was showing through from under it, but the very fact that he saw her, in his perspective, in such a negligee made him take a greedy sip of coffee and avoid her, trying not to think about the pulsing he felt in the lower part of his body.

When he had gathered all the projects he made an appointment with the bishop, who invited him to his curia − they had coffee together and then proceeded to discuss the designs he had brought him. The bishop was delighted with three of them and couldn't make up his mind.

"You are the artist, tell me what you think. Which one do you think is the best?" He asked him, glancing at him curiously, catching himself involuntarily by the large gold cross hanging from his neck.

He looked intensely at the design that Wright had done and fought with himself, at the same time wanting to admit that she had surprised him positively with such rapid progress and considered her design one of the best, on the other hand not wanting to admit it to himself or to him. He grunted out loud.

"Please choose for yourself, Father Bishop. I am not a fair judge in this matter because I am prejudiced against one of the female students." He said frankly, and the bishop looked at him curiously.

"A female student? I thought your workshop was almost a male convent." He laughed low, gripping his belly concealed beneath his purple robe, and he huffed under his breath.

"It was." He muttered, as he nodded his head in understanding and sighed heavily.

"This one." He pointed his finger at the Wright project, and he pressed his lips together with a loud, tense swallow. Bishop looked at him curiously.

"Did I just choose the project of this female student?" He asked amused, and he looked away, impatient.

"Yes." He replied dispassionately.

"If you wish, because of our long-standing collaboration, I will change my decision." He said softly, and he shook his head.

"No."

Whether he wanted it or not, he had to announce the results and how he divided the work. While it was certainly a great achievement and he thought she had done a good job himself, he knew that she wasn't ready to do such complicated things as she had designed and that she needed to practice the basics for now.

The backgrounds were the perfect opportunity to do so and he saw no reason why she should suffer or consider it a humiliation, especially as he was the one who was to take care of the faces, with a little help from Cregan with the figures of the apostles.

He was concerned, however, when he walked into their workshop one day and saw Jason Lannister standing over her − although he was not happy that she was his student, he had decided to take her under his wing and felt responsible for her safety in every sense of the word.

Especially the kind he might have expected from Lannister.

As soon as he had left, he approached her with an unhurried step, standing on the other side of her table, asking dispassionately what he wanted, willing himself to be sure of his assumptions.

"To learn the secret of my success." She said without much emotion, concentrating on cutting out the papers. He felt a squeeze in his throat at her words knowing what she was implying.

"What did you tell him?" He asked coolly, leaning over the table, wondering if she was expanding on some lie or rumour about him. She looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, numbering piece by piece.

"That he shouldn't measure everyone by his standards. His attitude towards his female students was one of the reasons I didn't want him to teach me." She said quietly, and he furrowed his brow, finding it amusing that she feared harassment from Jason Lannister, but begged a known female aggressor for a place in his workshop.

"And you came to ask for a place with a professor who hit his student?" He asked seriously, lowly, and she threw him an anxious, frightened look − he saw her clench and lick her lips, swallowing hard, cutting another piece of paper.

"And did you hit her, Professor?"

He stared at her for a long moment, wondering if he should go any deeper into the subject, if he should talk to her about it at all. He felt, however, that he wanted to know what she thought about it, how she really perceived him.

"Yes." He replied with fatigue and frustration at the same time.

She didn't answer him for a long moment, her hands shaking as she tried to cut another template with straight, sure slashes.

"Why did you do that?" She asked quietly, and he chuckled under his breath.

"Does it matter?" He asked, as if the answer was obvious.

Since when did it matter what you slapped someone for?

In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of good manners, even if she acted like a monster, he had no right to touch her.

Women were untouchable.

Not like men.

After all, they were stronger.

"It matters if you did it for no reason or if you were trying to defend yourself against her, sir." She said uncertainly and he snorted at her words, amused.

"In what way could she harm me? Hit me?" He asked ironically, knowing that no one would ever recognise any of his explanations, that in many people's eyes there was no way that a woman could have harmed him, that she would have been at fault, unless she had thrown herself at him with a knife.

The woman had to commit the ultimate, sudden cruelty to be considered a real threat, when in the case of the men, verbal aggression was enough.

"Women can hurt men in all sorts of ways. It's just that they are hardly believed." She said quietly in a trembling voice and he felt his heart stop for a moment. He looked at her in disbelief, feeling a tightness in his throat, feeling sick again, as if he was about to vomit.

Women can hurt men in all sorts of ways.

It's just that they are hardly believed.

"I don't know if it's a good idea." He mumbled horrified, looking at her in shock, not understanding why she had come to his room, why she wouldn't let him alone.

She continued to nag him, encouraging him to rub oil on her back when she was sunbathing while his parents weren't looking − she untied her bikini top in front of him and let him look at her breasts.

He felt uncomfortable, excited and embarrassed at the same time, like when he watched pornographic films.

He felt that something was wrong.

"You are such a pretty boy, Aemond." She purred, trailing her slender fingers along his bare arm − he had just started going to the gym and was proud of having muscles, he wanted to look like a man already, even though he was only sixteen.

Her attention simultaneously boosted his ego but also overwhelmed him in a way that frightened him, so he involuntarily ran away from her or locked himself in his room when he heard her voice.

When she came to him that night, however, he forgot to turn the key in the lock of his door and never forgave himself for that.

The fact that if he had got up before bedtime and checked it, it would have never happened.

She came to him wearing only a strapless nightgown from under which practically everything was visible, the outline of her large breasts and her womb.

He looked at her terrified, thinking only of the fact that she could be his mother, that he felt sick, his hands trembling, his heart pounding like mad.

He didn't know what to do, what to say, he didn't want to offend her, he just wanted her to leave.

"Easy. Your eye, your scars don't bother me at all." She said softly, in a low, sensual voice, slipping the straps off her shoulders, revealing her naked body to him, at which he stared in horror, feeling his head humming, finding it difficult to catch his breath.

"Why are you so tense?" She laughed softly, quietly, as if it was funny, sitting down on top of him, sliding the duvet off him, and he shook his head when he felt her grab the material of his sweatpants.

"No. My parents will hear. Please." He mumbled, not wanting to come off as weak, as a man who couldn't satisfy a woman, but all he felt was terror − he felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest, cold sweat running down his hot back.

"Shhh. Just stay still and let me take care of you." She whispered, as if this was going to be their sweet secret, her hand exploring what was underneath the fabric and running her fingers over his manhood, clamping her fingers firmly onto it.

He pressed his lips together, holding back a moan of horror and discomfort as he felt himself involuntarily pulsing under her hand, betraying him and his body, responding automatically to her mechanical, determined movements.

"Look, see? You wouldn't be so hard if you didn't want it. It's okay, sweetheart." She cooed, as if speaking to a small child, and when she thought he was ready, she simply slid him deep inside her.

He looked away from her, pressing his lips together as he looked towards the window, thinking only of how a real man would enjoy this, that he had watched endless pornographic films depicting such a scenario and trying to focus on it, however, all he felt was a burning wetness under his eyelids and his body trembling.

She raised and lowered herself on top of him, panting loudly, whispering that she had wanted this for a very long time and that she knew he had too, but that it was okay, that she would take care of him now, that he was such a good boy.

He felt her hands on his torso, on his shoulders, on his cheek, her intense perfume that she must have lathered herself with before coming to him made him feel sick.

He threw up suddenly, and she almost screamed, getting off him, panting heavily.

"What the fuck?"

He sobbed pathetically, panting heavily, and it was only then that she realised how much she had misjudged the situation. She swallowed loudly, quickly dressing her nightgown back up.

"Relax, it's okay, nothing happened. Nothing happened." She repeated, but he didn't hear her, trembling all over, feeling that something inside him just died.

Women can hurt men in all sorts of ways.

He stared at her, feeling that his lower lip was trembling, his mouth twitched in a dangerous grin.

"You prefer to defend the abuser instead of the victim?"

She furrowed her brow at his words, clearly offended by his question.

"No. I just know her version of events. I wanted to hear yours before I decided what I thought of you, Professor. I thought it was only fair." She said with some kind of regret, and he felt his heart squeeze again, the thought that she would be sorely disappointed in him.

She would be disappointed in him just like his grandfather, his father, his mother, his siblings.

"There is no excuse for me. But I don't regret what I did. What do you think about it, Miss Wright?" He asked ironically, cocking his head, wanting to see what her answer would be, how she would try to justify him this time.

A sort of pain flashed across her face, her eyebrows arched in disapproval, her eyes expressing a pure, deep sadness from which he felt discomfort in his chest.

"That I feel sorry for you, Professor. Just like I feel sorry for that girl. I hope you find the decency to apologise to her one day. Excuse me, but I would like to focus on my work." She said calmly, lowering her gaze, going back to cutting again even though her hands were shaking.

He looked at her not believing what she said.

She dismissed him.

He pressed his lips together and walked out on his heel, grabbing his jacket on the fly.

He stepped out and lit his cigarette in a quick, aggressive movement, inhaling deeply, only now feeling how much his heart was pounding, how hard he was breathing, how his hands were trembling, droplets of sweat on his forehead.

He chuckled under his breath, rubbing the tip of his nose with the back of his hand, thinking how pathetic it was that he cared about her opinion.

She was nobody to him.

She could think whatever she wanted.

Nevertheless, he noticed that she had begun to avoid him − when he stepped into the room she would look away, pretend she didn't see him, that he didn't exist.

Even though he had only dreamed of it, her attitude now frustrated him.

She considered herself better than him, a saint, but he knew there were no perfect people.

If she wanted to despise him, so be it.

He decided to focus on his task, on making a faces for her project, which, despite his aversion towards her, he still liked. He easily found inspiration for the Twelve Apostles by sketching the figures of the older men in the town square one morning, standing by the fence.

There he had a whole plethora of interesting, expressive faces.

However, he had no idea what to do with the Mother of God.

Sometimes he would give her the face of his own mother or his sister, but he felt he had done this too many times, and he didn't want his work to look the same over and over again.

Sitting at his desk he glanced at his female student who despised him so much, watched her face in gentle concentration bent over her work, her warm gaze surrounded by a fan of long lashes directed at the glass she had just cut.

He wandered his eyes over her soft facial features, over her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her eyes, her neck, and felt like a voyeur.

He took his sketchbook in his hands and waited for the moment when she looked at him, wanting to make her face him, sketching her in the meantime in the position she was in now, just to catch the right proportions of her figure.

When she finally lifted her gaze to him he felt heat in his lower abdomen − she immediately averted her eyes, but that was enough for him.

He saw what he wanted.

On the one hand he felt like a pervert, on the other he felt some kind of sick satisfaction analysing every last bit of her face, taking several of his sketches with him and creating the final one. When he had finished it and dressed it with the right robes surrounding her head he thought it looked perfect.

Her portrait was melancholic, serene − there was a kind of warmth and certainty emanating from her gaze at the same time, her lips slightly parted, as if she had just taken a breath, making her look full of life, only frozen in stillness, in the moment.

He figured that as soon as he finished painting he would throw away all his sketches of her, and if anyone asked if he had been inspired by her facial features he would deny it.

Halfway through his work he went out for a cigarette and, convinced that there was no one else in their workshop at such a late hour, left the door open.

When he returned, however, he froze, horrified, seeing her figure bent over his sketches, an expression of disbelief on her face.

Fuck.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

"Get out." He growled harshly, enraged that she had seen this, that she now knew what he had done.

She wanted to say something, frightened, but he wouldn't let her finish, terrified of what she could do with her knowledge.

"Get. Out." He repeated warningly. She nodded and moved quickly towards the exit.

He didn't know what had tempted him to grab her tightly by her shoulder − he heard her draw in a quick, loud breath, terrified, he could smell her, herbal shampoo and some cheap hand cream.

"Don't ever come in here again without permission. Your painting room is next door. This is my private studio. Do you understand?" He burst out sharply and she nodded her head quickly, he could feel her whole body quivering. He let her go and she literally ran out, leaving him alone.

He walked over to the table, restraining himself with the remnants of his strength not to drop all the glasses and smash them to smithereens. He picked up the sketches with the depiction of her face and began to tear them to pieces one by one.

She meant nothing to him.

On his way out, heading for his car, he spotted Lyanna, the girl he had slapped then, also heading in the same direction. She was now in her final year of university and wasn't using shared workrooms, not wanting to run into him − as soon as she spotted him she furrowed her brow and turned away, tense.

"Wait." He called out after her, feeling his heart pounding hard, wondering what he was actually doing.

I hope you find the decency to apologise to her one day.

She stopped, looking at him terrified, breathing unevenly. He approached her slowly, stopped in front of her and sighed heavily, lighting a cigarette, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke out through his mouth.

"I'm sorry. For then. That I slapped you." He said, shaking the ash from his cigarette onto the ground with a flick of his finger, not looking at her but somewhere to the side, licking his lip nervously.

"The truth is, if I wasn't earning so much for the rector, I'd be out of a job straight away for it." He muttered, taking another drag and letting out a puff of smoke through his nose, unsure if he was actually apologising or explaining.

The girl looked at him in silence.

"I'm sorry too. For what I said back then. Jason brainwashed me pretty good." She muttered regretfully, not looking at him but somewhere to the side, thoughtfully.

"He was afraid of the fact that you were on his tail, that you wanted to destroy him. He made me believe that we were in love, that there was nothing wrong with that, but it wasn't until later that I noticed how he controlled me. I no longer have anything to do with him, only now do I understand how he manipulated me, and now I watch him do the same with younger girls." She said in a trembling voice, looking at her fingers, and he lowered his gaze, pressing the cigarette to his lips again, taking a deep drag.

"Have a nice day." He muttered, turning away, leaving her surprised.

She thought clearly that he felt like listening to her grief now, comforting her with a good word, that nothing had happened, that she was a victim too.

She had consented of her own free will and was suffering the consequences of her actions.

No one forced her.

She had a choice, and instead of the victims, the girls he molested when she wasn't looking, she chose herself.

He thought with amusement that he didn't feel better at all.

That no one would find out about what he had done.

That she wouldn't now, after two years, have those defamatory articles retracted, wouldn't tell the other professors that they had come to an understanding, to give him a break.

Everything would be as it had been, except that all he knew now was that she was as stupid as all the other women he knew.

And then he thought of her face, that face which in his eyes already appeared as Our Lady in a golden cloud, giving the weary apostles the hope of heaven.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[doctoreveel]

Hello there dearest and most evilest of Doctors, I have a very specific request for you if you're in the mood.

Could I please have some fancy, mayhaps vaguelly victorian, golden gifs? I'm talking architecture and antiques and extravagant fashion. Like a baroque vampire would enjoy these gifs. I always have a need for more gold on my tumblr dot com.

Please and thank you. <333

Welcome to the fancy golden vampire zone. HERE ARE SOME GIFSETS! Most are new, some are old!

Decor/Interior: Fancy Camp, Greek Temple, Mirror and Vanity, Wall of Mirrors, Coffin Table, Strange Living Room, Sitting Room, Fangtastic Decor, Coffee Bar P1, Coffee Bar P2, Victorian Street Lamp, Bright Golden Couch, Dark Living Room, Air Freshener, Taxidermized Butterfly Frame, Bedding, Taxidermized Rabbits, Museum, Cathedral Ceiling, Light Cover Replace, Dracula's Room, Dark Cathedral, Opera House, Phantom of the Opera Showing, Dark Red Room, Opera Garnier, Clothing/Accessories: Tattooed Hands with Rings, Bat Engagement Ring, Golden Knife Crucifixes, Sword and Cape, Victorian Night Gown, Large Pin/Necklace, Perfume Pendant, Cathedral Inspired Outfit, Deer Skull Choker, Vampire Nails, Fashion Catwalk, Centipede Tie, Bleeding Bird Earrings, Hand Belt, Gothic Chatelaines, Ouji Fashion, House Wives of Versailles, Crucifix Chokers, White Goth Outfit, Golden Cathedral Rings, Venus Ring,

Makeup: Golden Natural Makeup, Lipgloss Filling,

Food: Pomegranate Cake, Rose Tea, Eye Jellies, Drinking Tea, Afternoon Tea, Chocolate Skulls, Absinthe, Pomegranate Necklace,

Misc./Object: Typewriting, Skull Puppet, Burnt Book Art, Vampire Hunting Kit, Antiques, Embroidery, Vampire Book, Victorian Day in the Life, Slime, Skull Painting, Taxidermy Crucifix, Phantom of the Opera Book Painting, Misc., Misc. 2, Misc. 3,

[selmasemlan]

Finding Compassion in the Aftermath

Series Masterlist

Finding Compassion in the Aftermath

Summary: After the battle in Alubarna, Luna helps rebuild the city, but her exhaustion worries the crew, leading to a moment of compassion and support from her friends as they remind her to take a break.

The Straw Hat Pirates had finally earned a moment of peace. The sun was setting over the desert city of Alubarna, casting long shadows across the broken buildings and sand-strewn streets. In the courtyard of the royal palace, the crew gathered around a large table filled with food. After the harrowing battle against Crocodile and the Baroque Works, everyone was exhausted but relieved.

Luffy, his face stuffed with food, looked around the table and swallowed a massive bite of meat. “Hey, where’s Luna?” he asked, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth.

Nami, leaning back in her chair, let out a tired sigh. “She’s helping rebuild the city. I think she’s been at it all day.”

Luffy blinked, his usual exuberance dimming slightly. “All day? Why didn’t she come eat with us?”

Sanji, who was busy dishing out more food, chimed in. “She’s been really busy. Every time I +tried to get her to take a break, she just smiled and said she’d be fine.”

“She wants to help,” Vivi added quietly, her voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and concern. “Luna’s been doing so much. I think she feels responsible for not being able to do more during the battle.”

Usopp nodded, a small frown on his face. “She’s been working nonstop, using her powers to fix things up and even grow plants back. It’s incredible to watch, but…”

“But she’s going to exhaust herself,” Nami finished, worry clear in her eyes.

Luffy, now more focused, stood up abruptly. “I’m going to find her.”

Chopper, perched on his shoulder, looked up at him. “Can I come too? I want to make sure she’s okay.”

With a nod, Luffy turned to the rest of the crew. “You guys keep eating. We’ll be back soon.”

As they made their way through the city, Luffy and Chopper could see the extent of the damage. The streets were filled with rubble, and buildings were reduced to mere shells of what they once were. Yet, amidst the destruction, there was a glimmer of hope.

Luna stood at the heart of a devastated plaza, her hands glowing with a soft, ethereal light. Around her, vines and flowers sprouted from the dry earth, weaving around broken beams and shattered walls. Slowly, the once barren and crumbling plaza began to take on a new life, vibrant greens and delicate blossoms replacing the desolate scene.

She moved with a graceful determination, her face calm but focused. Each movement of her hands guided the plants, and with every soft breath she took, new growth sprouted, covering the scars of battle with the promise of renewal.

Zoro stood nearby, his arms crossed as he watched her intently. He didn’t say anything, but his presence was steady and reassuring, a silent support. Every so often, Luna would pause, her shoulders drooping with exhaustion, and Zoro would step forward, his expression softening.

“Take a break,” he’d say in his usual gruff manner, but there was a gentleness in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Luna would reply, a tired smile on her lips. But Zoro would just shake his head and hold out a water bottle.

“You can’t help if you’re too tired to stand.”

Luna would take the bottle with a grateful nod, sipping slowly. She knew he was right, but it was hard for her to stop, to take a moment for herself. There was so much to do, so many people still hurting, and she felt an almost overwhelming need to do more.

As Luffy and Chopper approached, they saw her helping a group of townspeople lift a fallen beam, her powers making the task easier as vines coiled around the heavy wood, lifting it into place. The people around her murmured their thanks, awe and gratitude in their eyes.

“Luna!” Luffy called out, his voice bright and cheerful as ever.

She looked up, surprised, and then smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Luffy, Chopper. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, duh!” Luffy replied with a grin. “Why didn’t you come eat with us? You’ve been working all day!”

Luna glanced at the half-repaired plaza, her expression conflicted. “There’s still so much to do. I can rest later.”

Chopper hopped down from Luffy’s shoulder, his small face serious. “But you need to rest too, Luna. You’re exhausted.”

Luna hesitated, glancing back at the plaza. She wanted to argue, to say that she was fine, that she could keep going, but the concern in their eyes made her pause. She didn’t want to worry them, didn’t want to be a burden.

Zoro, still watching from his spot, stepped forward. “You need to listen to them. Take a break, even just for a few minutes.”

Luna looked at him, her eyes softening. She knew he was right. Slowly, she nodded. “Okay. Just for a little while.”

Luffy’s grin widened, and he practically bounced over to her. “Good! And after that, you’re coming to eat with us!”

Luna laughed softly, the sound light but genuine. “Alright, alright.”

Later, as the crew returned to the palace to rest, they found Vivi standing on a balcony, looking out over the city. Her face was drawn, her eyes filled with sorrow as she took in the sight of her home, battered and bruised by the conflict.

Luna, feeling a pang of sympathy, approached her quietly. “Vivi?”

Vivi turned, her eyes red from unshed tears. “Luna… It’s all so terrible. So many people hurt, so much destruction. I wanted to protect them, but…”

Her voice broke, and Luna stepped closer, reaching out to gently take Vivi’s hands. “You did everything you could, Vivi. You fought so hard to protect your people.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” Vivi whispered, her voice trembling. “Look at all this pain…”

Luna’s heart ached for her. She understood that feeling, the crushing weight of guilt and helplessness. She, too, had struggled with those emotions, had felt the sting of inadequacy, the fear of failing those she cared about.

Taking a deep breath, Luna squeezed Vivi’s hands gently. “I know it’s hard. I know it hurts. But you’ve done so much. Your people love you, and they’re so proud of you. They’ll rebuild, and they’ll heal, because you gave them hope.”

Vivi’s tears spilled over, and she collapsed against Luna, sobbing quietly. Luna held her, her own eyes wet, but her voice steady and calm. “It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to feel this way. But don’t ever think you didn’t do enough. You’re amazing, Vivi, and your people are lucky to have you.”

They stood there for a long moment, the quiet comfort of their shared sorrow and strength surrounding them. Luna, still grappling with her own insecurities, felt a sense of peace in offering comfort to Vivi, in being there for her friend.

And as the night slowly descended over the city, the two of them, with the rest of the crew nearby, found solace in each other’s presence, a reminder that they weren’t alone, that they were stronger together, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

[petertranart]

I have recently read through printed version of my Batman fan-fiction comic book. We must emphasis the term fan-fiction, as I have no affiliations with DC comics, but I had been a fan of mainstream superhero comic books ever since stepping into a library at a very young age. This is the only Batman story that I could tell at this particular point in time, and as one grows older and moves on to other things, the world of comic books - particularly that of superhero comics - is one that doesn't seem terribly important. Perhaps if I was younger and had little duty, this could have been done sooner.

To describe the book, the story follows an Irish immigrant called Leila, who after arriving to Gotham City, encounters tragedy when her lover is killed by an anonymous assailant. This is a Gotham that has been transposed to Victorian Britain during the onset of its economic formation and growth. A grief-stricken Leila is eventually taken in by the retired industrialist Bruce Wayne, whereby she spends her time evading chores on his estate, whilst playing with the local homeless boy. Being fully aware of her master's previous life as the Batman, Leila soon develops a morbid fascination with the mask that he had worn some decades prior.

Outside of the evident themes of migrancy and the history, there are some philosophical themes that warrant our attention. Painting broadly, it is a commentary on the cyclical nature of violence, with our protagonist being sceptical of what the comic has termed the 'heroic project'. The heroism of the past puts forth the idea that our history is one of progression. For Leila, in her discussions with the elderly Wayne, she challenges such assumptions on the basis that there is no empirical evidence for it. Instead, she believes that violence is fated, and therefore as a consequence suffering is inevitable. If violence is dictated by fate, then no amount of training can avert it, which is why she believes the heroic project is ultimately one of failure. Although somewhat unpleasant, I think her fatalistic outlook is natural, and is ultimately borne from the conditions in which the character exists. This forms a basis for the horror scene in the book.

Some words on elements of form, and elements of style. It wouldn't be amiss to say that the bronze age era of superhero comics have been an influence. This can be attributed to me marvelling at John Buscema and Stan Lee's How to Draw book when I was about five years old. I'm also interested in the painterly arts as well, and find that there isn't much that differentiates 'pop' from 'fine' art. Without waxing lyrical on the subject matter, if one looks to how Buscema composes a scene in his loose sketches (consider Conan), you can see the human form takes priority; and the environmental, environmental perspective form, the mechanical, is secondary. This is how Baroque artists approached the canvas when they painted their masterpieces. Needless to say although I have tried to take a traditional approach (particularly with the cover), it should be said that there are some things the printed comic book can't do. To give examples, impasto and chiaroscuro generally doesn't translate well to the medium, as the printed page can't capture the nuances of layer and tone. The printed comic book that sits on a table lacks the grandeur of a large painted canvas on a gallery wall. Ultimately in spite of its creative efforts as a visual medium, the medium itself is a limiting one.

[untilthenextencore]

Of Sea, Stars & Jimmy's Surprise~... ( Fic Drabble)

~

A bit from a fic I've been toying with~

This takes place around the early 2010s~

Jimmy & his young pregnant wife, Yulissa Garcia~

~

'I've got a surprise for you." Jimmy announced as he strode up to Yulissa.

"Yeah?" She giggled, covering her mouth shyly.

"Yeah." He lifted up one of his scarves to her. "Here. Turn around."

Upon following directions, Yulissa found her vision suddenly obscured as Jimmy tied his scarf around her eyes. She felt his hands brace her arms firmly yet gently, nudging her forward as he instructed further. "Follow my lead."

Yulissa was guided down the corridor. She wracked her brain as much as she could but all she could think laid in that direction was a room in the house that had stayed empty but for a few of Jimmy's guitars. And though she felt she might have been mistaken, that seemed to be exactly where he was leading her for some reason. The way he gingerly brought her to a stop in the center of the room made her think some of his guitars indeed were in the room still.

"You ready for your surprise, darling?" Jimmy stunned her by how breathless with excitement he seemed to be.

"As ready as I'll ever be I guess. You certainly seem more than ready yourself."

"I am. You'll see why, love. I can't wait till you see why. And you will... In three... Two... One..." Jimmy carefully removed his scarf from her eyes & announced. "Go on, love. Open your eyes."

When Yulissa opened her eyes, she gasped. She indeed found herself in what she had once playfully termed "Guitar Storage Room #76" rotating the number with whatever number crossed her mind before. But that was not what had instigated her surprise. Instead, it was the room's transition. It had a completely new look. Though a few of the guitars still remained the room had transformed completely.

The walls, once creamy white & plain now were a mix of purples, pinks, oranges, blues and whites. Lush sea and sky scapes. One wall mimicked the early dawn. The next a crystal mid day. The third wall a soft dusky evening. The doorway behind her linked the evening to the morning in a lightening ombre with tiny stars dotting the entryway.

Inside the room against the "early day" wall, was a changing table & dresser set. The wall nearest the dresser held a large pink & peach seashell riding a cresting wave & opening towards the dresser & changing table to reveal a pale lavender white pearl. Jewels rose up from a chest underwater & scattered in the foamy sea water alongside flowers & equally scattered petals. Those were not the only flowers. The shell itself had a rose on one side of the mouth & a poppy on the other. Above the shell flew doves with a pale ribbon held between their beaks as if to hail the treasures below. The combination of the open treasure chest below, the doves & the bright light above all seemed to embrace both the seashell & the dresser & changer in front of it.

The midday wall held the sight of a grove by a lake in full abundance. Apples, oranges, lemons, peaches & grapes ripe for the picking. Baskets of roses all in bloom. Some fruit scattered the grounds along with flowers. All of this bathed in the starburst sky.

The dusky scene held a riverside scene. Something of a timelessness in it. A place in between time. In between places. Elements both of the Thames & the LA River after a good rain lay within. Hers & His. Up in the star dotted sky lay the brightest star, with a halo around it, floating in a sheer almost milky haze. Bringing with it hints of the galaxies above. Heavens. Eternity.

Yulissa was stunned into a tearful silence. The whole piece told a story in a blend of some of their favorite art styles. PreRaphaelitic & Post-Impressionist. With Italianate Renaissance touches to combine the two.

His study had Pre-Raphaelitic & early Victorian art mixed with the psychedelic artefacts of his youth. Her study had Impressionist Sargent & Mexican Muralist Kahlo art with Baroque Reubens touches.

This was the blending of the two. An expansion of the blending of their beloved art styles that lay in their bedroom. The ultimate expansion. All four elements. Earth, Air, Water & Fire. All five realms. Sky, sea, air, land & universe. The perfect & ultimate combination of the two of them. Just as their soon to be arriving, little one would be.

All that could be heard was her soft, shaky breath as she gazed from wall to wall, hands still covering her mouth.

When he asked. "Well, what do you think?" Her answer was simple. She turned & ran the few steps into his arms, hugging him tightly. He embraced her tenderly in return. His long arms holding her together when she fell apart.

"Yulissa... Darling..." He cooed, petting her hair & pressing a procession of sweet kisses to her temples. Just when she felt herself almost give herself to her tears entirely, she stepped back.

She made sure, however, to remain connected to Jimmy, pulling back, yet remaining with his hands clasped in hers. "Baby, this is gorgeous! Just gorgeous! How did you do this? How did you get all this done? Who did you hire? And what did you tell them to create this?"

"Oh, I have my ways..."

~

Hope you guys like it~!

Enjoy~!

[sangeetasha9820]

Banjara Market Home Decor Finds You Won’t Believe Exist

If you're someone who loves giving your home a fresh, stylish, and affordable makeover, then Banjara Market in Gurgaon should be at the top of your must-visit list. Often called the “flea market paradise” of Delhi NCR, this vibrant and chaotic market is a goldmine of home decor treasures that look straight out of a premium catalog — minus the jaw-dropping price tags.

In this post, we take you through some unbelievable home decor finds that will leave you wondering why you didn’t visit Banjara Market sooner. From intricately carved wooden mirrors and hand-painted ceramic pots, to bohemian wall hangings, vintage lanterns, and one-of-a-kind console tables, Banjara Market truly has it all. And the best part? You can score stunning pieces for as low as ₹200!

One of the biggest attractions at Banjara Market is its range of mirrors and frames. Oversized wooden mirrors with distressed finishes, baroque-inspired carvings, and rustic textures are common — the kind you’d find on Pinterest mood boards. These pieces instantly elevate the vibe of any room, whether it’s a cozy living space, an entryway, or a minimalist bedroom.

Another treasure trove within the market is its collection of cushion covers, dhurries (handwoven rugs), and macramé wall hangings. Perfect for creating that boho-chic or indie aesthetic, these items are hand-crafted and full of character. Many stalls feature locally sourced textiles, often in earthy tones and tribal patterns that bring warmth and authenticity to your home decor.

If you love repurposing furniture or DIY home styling, Banjara Market offers an endless supply of salvaged wooden furniture: bedside tables, stools, bookshelves, and quirky cabinets, often with vintage knobs or colorful finishes. These are perfect if you're into upcycling or want statement furniture without the designer price tag.

But it’s not just about furniture and large decor. The smaller knick-knacks like metal planters, ceramic dishes, vintage clocks, brass figurines, and candle stands make for excellent accents. These add charm to your interiors and are fantastic for styling shelves, corners, or coffee tables.

A visit to Banjara Market is not just a shopping trip — it's an adventure. You’ll find yourself bargaining with local vendors, rummaging through stacks of decor, and discovering unique, one-of-a-kind pieces you’d never expect to find in a street market. It’s the perfect place for decorators, home stylists, and even casual shoppers looking to add personality to their spaces.

So whether you're moving into a new home, revamping your current one, or just hunting for that perfect decor piece, Banjara Market won’t disappoint. Its charm lies in its unpredictability — you never know what hidden gems you’ll stumble upon.

Trust us: these home decor finds are so good, you won’t believe they exist — and certainly not at these prices. Happy hunting!

If you are finding more product and information then you can check our full Blog

[taxevasiondoflamingo]

Image ID: A four panel comic of Vivi and Mr. 3 at a required Baroque Works training. The first panel shows Miss Doublefinger indicating a large sign reading "TEAMWORK" spelling out what each letter represents: Talented Employees Attaining Meaningful Well Organized Rewarding Knowledge. Crocodile's bounty poster hangs to the side, as well as two motivational posters of alligators off to the side, one reading "just keep smiling" and the other reading "hang in there." Vivi whispers to Mr. 3 "Psst! Three!" and he responds, "What, Miss Wednesday?" In the second panel Vivi gestures to Miss Doublefinger with her thumb, smiling, and asks, "Do you know why they call her Miss Doublefinger?" Mr. 3, giving her a side-eye, asks, "No. Why do they call her Miss Doublefinger?" In the third panel, Vivi has tears in her eyes trying not to laugh, and covers her mouth with one hand. She says, fighting laughter, "Because--because she--" In the fourth panel, Vivi is still trying to explain her joke but cannot get further than, "Because--because--" and bangs her fist on the table with how funny she finds this joke. Mr. 3, completely unimpressed, looks forward and deadpans, "Why do they call her Miss Doublefinger, Miss Wednesday." END ID.

this is the fifth time vivi has tried to make this joke in that day

[becoration]

Keys for a cozy and modern living room

Post has been published on becoration

Keys for a cozy and modern living room

Of all the rooms in the house, the living room is the center of social life at home. Meetings; sofa Sundays, movie and blanket; team projects with classmates or coworkers, and winter afternoons of board games are all activities that are generally carried out in this area of the home. It may have more or fewer square meters, but its presence in the home is essential. Along with the foyer, the living room can be neutral ground for entertaining visitors, especially useful in occasions where there is not yet enough confidence with the visitors. Being a highly trafficked area of the home, what cannot be missing in the living room are seats.

However, there is not always enough space to place a multi-seater sofa or many chairs around a large table that accommodates a good number of diners. In these cases, an elegant option to have additional seating that also does not take up square footage in the living room, are poufs.

That said, find cheap and pretty poufs with which to give this area of the home a contemporary and informal touch, to remove seriousness from the living room (but not elegance), and make it more modern without giving up a cozy and relaxed atmosphere. To help you in this task, we reveal the keys to achieving a cozy and modern living room, but also functional.

Adjustable lighting

Modern living rooms should be bright. To make the most of natural light during the day, large windows can be installed, with sliding doors and motorized blinds. As for artificial lighting (necessary at night), it is recommended to have an installation that allows regulating the intensity of the light emitted by the bulbs, in order to create a more or less relaxed atmosphere according to the needs of each moment.

Connection to the terrace

The living room windows could provide access to the terrace or garden. In the first case, it would be very convenient to close the terrace and install blinds. This way, the usefulness of the terrace is regained in the colder months. In addition, through the blinds, the privacy of the terrace as part of the home is maintained. It is a way to take advantage of a space that, in most homes, would only be used in spring and autumn.

Contrast of colors and textures

Modern living rooms tend to opt for a range of neutral colors (blacks, whites, grays, earth tones…) that are combined. However, to avoid falling into monotony (and not lose that eclectic and contemporary touch), some color accents are added to these previous tones. For example: one of the main walls of the living room can be painted in a more striking shade. Red interacts very well in living rooms where the predominant base color is gray. In living rooms where brown prevails, using a blue color can provide a very attractive contrast. Something similar happens with textures. Smooth, soft, non-rough textures are usually chosen (for example: faux leather or fabric armchairs) combined with the natural texture of other materials, such as brick (for the walls), or the lace that some cushion covers show.

Simple and practical furniture

Instead of looking for visually very ornate furniture with many ornaments, including volutes (for example) in their legs and, in general, resembling the baroque, the buyer should opt for simpler furniture, with simple lines and fewer ornamental details. It is important that they are, above all, functional, and require little maintenance. Wood remains the material par excellence. On the one hand, it helps to achieve a cozy atmosphere that no other material can achieve. And, on the other hand, having many varieties and tones of wood: according to the tree, the applied dyes… it gives a lot of room to enrich the space with different visual rhythms without being strident.

Straights and curves

It is true that modern living rooms have more elements formed by straight lines than curves. However, in order to avoid falling into monotony, it is advisable to introduce interruptions in that straightness. This can be achieved with round tables, curved armchairs, and poufs. The latter are especially practical for several reasons:

There are models that are foldable. They can be easily stored in the closet, to be taken out only when needed. They are especially recommended for those who have occasional guests at home.

Poufs may include storage space inside, so apart from serving as seats, they also serve to store objects inside.

In a house with children, it may be a good idea to include poufs in a specific area of the living room. It would be a way to create a space for painting and playing or also (why not?) a reading corner.

They are items that have been designed not only to sit on, but also to rest your feet. It is a good way to have a footrest without sacrificing the elegance of the living room, while breaking the homogeneity of so many straight lines.

via: MiMub in Spanish

[longlivebatart]

Ter Brugghen's Mars Asleep

Welcome to Long Live Bat Art, the podcast for art lovers who don’t see art as much as they want to. My name is Sydney and thank you for taking this slow tour through an art gallery with a casual art lover. Today, I’ll be talking about Mars Asleep by Hendrick ter Brugghen. I hope you enjoy. 

Hendrick ter Brugghen’s life is shrouded in mystery. He was born around 1588 in maybe Deventer in the Netherlands. Ter Brugghen studied under Abraham Bloemaert, who we will cover later this season, in Utrecht in the early 1590s. 

He may have met Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio in Rome in 1604 because when ter Brugghen came back to the Netherlands, art historians can see Caravaggio’s influence. So if he didn’t meet the man himself, he definitely came into contact with his work. He also might have met Peter Paul Rubens. Other Italian artists that influenced ter Brugghen were Annibale Carracci, Domenichino- whose real name was Domenico Zampieri but was mostly called by his nickname because of his short height- and Guido Reni, who were all Baroque artists. The technique of lighting called chiaroscuro is prevalent after this time. Chiaroscuro is a fancy term for lighting and shading. 

When ter Brugghen returned to Utrecht in late 1614, he worked with Gerard van Honthorst, who was a fellow Dutch follower of Caravaggio, known colloquially as the Dutch Caravaggisti. 

In 1616, ter Brugghen registered with Urecht’s St. Luke’s Guild, which was a painter’s guild. 

He painted Christ Crowned with Thorns in 1620 based on prints by Lucas van Leyden, who we will cover in a couple of episodes. It seems as though ter Brugghen used van Leyden’s work as a base because some of his countrymen saw him as being too Italianate in his work so ter Brugghen cleverly used an artist from his own country to temper these protests.

He and a few other Dutch painters- Thijman van Galen, Michiel van der Zande, Frans van Knibbergen, Dirck van Baburen, and Gerard van Hornthorst- seemed to have been cavorting around Italy around the same time. Ter Brugghen and van Baburen seemed to be close when they returned to Holland because van Baburen’s themes and style creeped in, especially in the early 1620s. 

Ter Brugghen died on November 1st, 1629, possibly because of the plague. 

The little we do know about ter Brugghen is mostly because of his son, Richard. Richard found a letter from Adriaen van der Werff, another painter, that read that van der Werff appreciated ter Brugghen’s work. Richard presented this letter and four paintings his father had done of the Evangelists to be hung in Deventer’s town square as a memorial to his father. On the memorial, it claims in Dutch that when Rubens traveled through the Netherlands and arrived in Utrecht around 1627 he said he saw only one artist whose work impressed him- ter Brugghen.

It’s mainly because of this letter and memorial that interest in his father was drummed up again and more art historians started looking into this artist. 

Now the painting.

A man is asleep, his head propped up on his hand and his elbow on a small circular table. His skin is pockmarked and rough, and he has a light brown beard and mustache. The mustache is short and the beard only extends slightly past his chin. He looks peaceful, for the Roman god of war.

He’s wearing polished metal armor- a breastplate, arm guards, and a helmet. The helmet has a large white feather along the entire top, anchored at the back and flowing towards the front. The fibers of the feather- they’re fine. They pick up the light, which is coming from directly overhead. It casts a shadow on the left side of Mars’s face. The helmet has rivets along the brim and a slim band going from the front of his forehead to the feather. There’s an oval design on the side facing the viewer of the painting. There are smaller designs in the oval, but they’re so fine I can’t see them. The helmet is slightly battered, but still retains its shine and decoration. The helmet casts a shadow along the top part of Mars’s face, right over his eyes. Very convenient for a nap. 

He has a tight coif under the helmet, protecting the sides of his head and his neck. It leads to the breastplate. It is made of two curved decorative pieces over the main body of the armor. The decorations on the front of the shoulders are curls, almost like ferns or more feathers. More towards the center of his chest are designs that look like the spade in a deck of cards. Now that I’m looking more closely, I think what I initially took as an oval on his helmet might be another spade.

Mars’s left arm is still holding his sword, though it’s lax in his lap. His arm armor is banded on the upper part of his arm, halfway up his bicep. At his elbow is another spade design. There’s a slim band of fine design going from his elbow to his wrist. The same design is on the underside of his other arm, straight down his chest, and from the midpoint of the curl design diagonally to meet the center design at the bottom of the armor. Again- so fine I can’t tell what it is. The armor is also battered, like it’s been struck multiple times by a ball peen hammer. Mars is wearing a red cloth around his lower half that’s gathered above his knees. The folds are realistic. They’re more draped than folded, actually. The clothing has a black stripe down the side, from the hip to the side of the knee. His knees and lower legs are exposed, though you can’t see much below his knees. The hilt of his sword has multiple curled metal arms wrapping around above the grip. 

At another second look, what I took for a table originally now looks more like a drum- there are wooden sticks near Mars’s elbow. Most likely a drum of war. 

Now for my thoughts.

The shine off Mars’s armor is incredible, as is the softness of the white feather. The detailing in the armor, I feel like I would have to practically press my nose against the painting to see what they are, but I doubt the museum would let me do that. The fact I had to look twice at both the drum I thought was a table and the detail on his helmet means that it’s worth it to examine art for a while. And not just art, either. If you can, I recommend looking at anything with a closer eye. First impressions aren’t always right, though you probably already know that. Never be afraid to admit when you’re wrong- it’s a skill everybody needs to practice. I’ve been guilty of doubling down on ideas I now regret. Digging my heels in stubbornly when four words and a contraction would have helped- ‘I’m sorry, I was wrong.’

Admitting fault in yourself is never simple or easy, but no one is perfect. Depending on your religion, your deity might not even be perfect. Romans certainly didn’t think their deities were perfect- they argued, they fought, they made mistakes. And they rarely admitted fault. So learn to do it, and you’ll be better for it.

I always liked Greek mythology more than Roman. That may just be because I was exposed to Greek first, so I’m biased. But Mars is an interesting god. He’s the god of war, yes. But also of death and the protector of the Caesars. 

His Greek equivalent, Ares- he’s less nuanced. Ares wasn’t worshiped as widely as Mars was because he was more or less seen as the hated brutality of war and conquest. Even his own parents weren’t particularly fond of him. But he had children by Aphrodite, goddess of love, who was married to Hephaestus, the god of fire and the forge. 

But I love Greek mythology because the gods were so, for lack of a better word, human. The people of the past didn’t always see their God or gods as untouchable, perfect figures. The Greeks and Romans especially saw their gods as just like them- they ate and played and argued and slept. Instead of the Judeo-Christian belief of humans being made in God’s image, the Greeks and Romans instead put their own habits and needs on the gods. I think that made the gods more approachable and made the people more relaxed about talking and praying to them. 

So this is the challenge for this episode- think of whatever deity or deities you believe in as a friend. Not an authority figure, not the Almighty. A friend. And if you don’t believe in any deity, try to personify whatever you hold dearest but might be a little afraid of. Maybe it’s science, maybe it’s math, maybe it could even be a person you really trust. But here’s a secret- in my experience, people aren’t ever as scary as they seem. Whether they’re a politician, a celebrity, or one of those people all over social media, there’s a lot more in common between you than you think. And for the religious people, try to remember that when you’re making the deity you believe in a friend. Make common interests- even if that common interest is yourself and your well being. Because if you find that common interest, you’ll find it a lot easier to relate to the person you’re pretending these ideals are. And once you do that, you might find it a bit more comforting when you believe in whatever you do. And I’ve always firmly believed that prayer should be comforting, as all aspects of religion should be. Not so much fire and brimstone, but the comfort that someone loves you dearly and truly wants what’s best for you. I think most people have forgotten that, and it’s something I think we should bring back. Comfort is something we could all use more of in our lives, and it’s the comfort we bring ourselves that can be the most powerful. 

If you liked this episode of Long Live Bat Art, please consider telling a friend and reviewing to help the podcast grow. A link to the transcript of this episode is available in the show notes below. And you can follow me on Twitter at Long Live Bat Art and tumblr at tumblr dot com forward slash Long Live Bat Art. That’s Long Live B-A-T Art. Thank you for listening to this episode, and I will see you in two weeks.

[multifandomxreader]

I come to your aid, my dear writer!

an idea would be an adhd!gn!reader that always manages to survive, but no one understands how.

they get distracted easily, can't concentrate for too long when someone is explaining the plan, and start wandering off to explore, etc.

everyone think they survive only thanks to the rest of the group

but chishiya is the only one who sees the truth (reader finds important clues at early stages of the game while wandering off, they try to explain what they believe is the right answer (normally being the right answer) but no one manages to understand what they mean because reader doesn't explain their full thought process or forgets to add context, asking simple questions out of curiosity and sometimes helping the group realise stuff, their previous fixations on random hobbies being useful, etc)

also, the reader is usually calm and unbothered about the situation, always in a good mood

people underestimate them a lot

gn reader with adhd x Alice In Borderland

It was time to play another game, you had only two days left on your visa which left you with no other choice. Hatter teamed you up with Kuina and Chishiya, something that made you feel safer. You drove to the location of your assigned game, a mansion in the Aoyama area, one of the wealthiest in Tokyo. You enter the entrance hall and each grab a phone off the table. In the room are two other players waiting for the game to start. A man fitting the aesthetic of the area, wearing an expensive watch and an even more expensive-looking suit is tapping his foot impatiently on the marble floor. And a posh older woman who could easily be your grandmother, fidgeting with her pearl necklace. 

Chishiya immediately starts analyzing the people and the room while Kuina greets the other players. The registration closes and an arrow appears pointing to an opening door, everyone hurries inside and the door closes behind you. On your phones appear the ace of clubs and a voice starts explaining the rules. “Game: escape room. Find clues and get out of the room in time.” You laugh “An ace? We’re definitely gonna ace this” you look at your friends to see if they got your joke, Chishiya rolls his eyes while Kuina snorts. They got used to your humor by now but you never skip the opportunity to make a cheesy joke to lighten the mood. 

“Thirty minutes left.” You look up at Chishiya as he begins speaking: “Okay, the room is big so let’s split up to cover the ground faster. Share everything…” You look around the room as your attention is pulled to a big bookcase. You tilt your head to read the titles. “I loved this book, ooh, Kuina you will really like this one!” “... and lastly we need a code to open that door.” Chishiya ends his little instruction talk. Everyone splits up to look for clues, the room is basically a large living room. Decorated with lavish couches and baroque art. After scanning the shelf with books you notice an aquarium with a small turtle. You smile as you watch it move, becoming hypnotized by the cute animal.

Meanwhile, the others were searching frantically for the key that would open a box. You got taken out of your trance when someone yanked you backward. “Search the fucking key you idiot” the posh asshole swears as he grips the front of your shirt. Immediately Chishiya and Kuina come to your aid. “Look violence isn’t gonna solve this game, so leave him alone” Kuina speaks. The guy lets go of you and points at the box, “We need a key to open it, search for it.“ You take it from Chishiya’s hands and examine it. It’s a wooden box, decorated with flowers, one flower stands out, a carnation. “Hey, Kuina did you know that a green carnation used to be a symbol to show that you were queer. It was popularized by…” You rush to the bookshelf as the others stand in confusion, your fingers trace the names of authors until you find the one you’re looking for: Oscar Wilde. You take it off the shelf and read the title. “The Picture Of Dorian Gray” you exclaim “I loved this book! The way Wilde portrays the dark side of humanity…” “Y/N!” Kuina signals. “Oops sorry. Does anyone have a knife?” “I do” the old woman proclaims while waving her purse in the air. She pulls the knife out of it but hesitates to hand it over. “What are you going to…” Chishiya snatches it from her before she’s able to finish her sentence. “Just trust them.” 

He gives you the knife and you walk determined towards the portrait hanging above the fireplace and slash it. Behind the canvas a key appears, you grab it and toss it at Kuina who opens the box. “Ten minutes left.” The box contains a riddle that gets rapidly solved by Chishiya, the riddle leads to another clue. It keeps on going like this and it looks like you were almost there. You slowly gravitate back to the turtle. 

“Five minutes left” the voice chimes. Behind you, the others cheer because they found the final code. You join them as Chishiya types it in. The door opens but you were met with another one. A sorrowful sigh left the older lady and the man punches the wall. The door was beautiful, so would have been escaping but you could just as well admire the craftwork that went into making the door. Beautiful curves, leaves, a turtle. A turtle. “One minute left.” You reach for the wooden turtle and start pushing it. It moved. You copy the unusual trail of the actual turtle, which had made you so interested in it in the first place: a triangle. 

The door opens and everyone leaps through just in time before the floor collapses. You look at your friends in shock before grinning widely. “I fucking love you y/n” Kuina sighs as she pulls you into a hug, Chishiya pats your back “Well done.”

notes: I hope you enjoyed it! it was fun writing a reader with adhd and putting some of my own special interests in it ;) (queer history)

[indirecticn]

"you will not harm her," thor had replied as quick as lightning, eyes flashing that brilliant blue in warning. he was as charged up as someone about to do battle, but this was a battleground of an entirely different sort.

and here, loki was not the enemy, but once again a brother in arms, of a sort. it was a peculiar feeling, to have slipped and snaked through the motions of the past two days, never quite wallowing in any particular emotion but touching each gently, promising a return eventually.

it was exhausting, and loki had no issue admitting as much.

"again, i am tired, thor. we can discuss this in the morning, can't we, brother?" it was the use of that familial term, spoken with enough soft sincerity, that had thor standing down and finally shucking off his own invisible armor.

the older man's shoulders slumped, as if suddenly mjolnir weighed more than the feather it felt like when used in battle.

"very well, sleep well," and with that they parted ways.

now this was even more strange. how had he lived here for a thousand years and yet one locked away in the dark corner of a dungeon left him feeling as if he had never lived here at all. the sensation was uncomfortable, as was that of the watchful eye of guards posted at each doorway loki walked through.

the eye of odin was always watching, but if this was his chance at freedom he decided it had to be a sacrifice made. no manner of complaints about the increased guard near his room would come from loki's mouth.

there were multiple entrances to his rooms, of course, and not all known by the guards either. the main foyer was decked in all manner of green and gold, as was his taste, and reflected a standard asgardian style of what a midgardian might think of as baroque, though hardly the only kind of architecture used. generally, with the weather always pleasant, there were many open spaces only shielded from balconies or terraces by gauzy veils at best, most layered so enough tied back allowed a peek at the private garden but still allowed for some sense of privacy.

this first room had just that, a large pair of velvety emerald couches, low tables between for sitting with visitors, books he had left behind years ago still sitting untouched where they had been before. it opened up into a stunning open balcony that had marble steps leading down to a covered terrace set in the middle of a garden full of wild, flourishing flowers and fruit trees here and there. a whole row of beds had been dedicated to herbs, even.

but if one were to cut off to the left they would find the other rooms that all led into each other, and most had walls covered in shelves stacked with tomes of all sizes and ages. in one room that jutted out in such a way as to also lead to the garden from it's own steps, a large, leaning tree was centered, lights only coming on when a presence of someone was felt by the enchantment on them.

it was this room that also housed his bed, and led to his bathing quarters, which was where he had snuck in.

for the first time in days loki released the tension he held between his shoulder blades and the illusion with it. he began to strip down, one piece of armor at a time, some illusion and some very much real, until he was left in only his black breaches.

perhaps were he not so tired he would have felt her presence, but as it were he did not and so when he strolled to the main foyer, shirtless and barefoot, it was with a myriad of scars exposed across his chest and back, some even curling around his arms as if he had been gripped by some hot coil of iron.

loki, startled, took two steps backward, "what are you - ?! these are my PRIVATE quarters what are you-"

he looked down at his chest, one scar glossy pink across his right breast over his heart. at once his magic blossomed and slid the illusion of perfectly smooth skin over his entire body. loki glared at her.

"they put you here, didn't they? words spreads fast in the realm eternal," he grumbled. despite the illusion he wore... her name could not be covered up where it was scrawled on his wrist.

Thanking her was too much. It was too cruel a kindness after all Loki had done in the last hour. Timed the reveal of their bond to the most cutting moment. Using Jane like nothing more than a pawn on the chess board that was their twisted fraternal relationship. Wordlessly, Jane turned on her heel and stomped from the throne room. Her foot falls barely echoed off the expansive walls despite the frustration she channeled into each one. As she left, snippets of Thor and Loki's discussion continued to reach her ears.

He did not want her either.

Magic to break the ties on their souls might kill her.

They would just have to see about that. And what? Loki was tired? Jane was the one whose life was steeply getting worse while his seemed on the rise. She just wanted to fall into bed and cry. If the brothers were following her, the doctor took no notice, heading through the cavernous halls in the direction she remembered her room being in. But when Jane pulled open the door she thought led to her bedroom, it was empty. Nothing remained of the clothes Frigga had managed to scrounge up for her, the ones Jane was pretty certain were Asgardian child-sized. Jane stood blinking blearily at the dim room and neatly made bedclothes. Was she lost? Had she misremembered? The doctor was not the best with direction but she had been sure-

Jane turned, finding one of the golden clad Einherjar stationed in the hall. Earlier that morning they had been in charge of keeping her under house arrest. It made sense that they would know where she should go. "Excuse me, I seem to be lost I-" Jane's polite beginning was cut short by a curt gesture from the guard to a door several rooms down from where she was. Ah, she had not been too lost. But when Jane opened that door, it was not the room she remembered. Her brow furrowed, not understanding why she had been directed to the wrong place. Sure, it was a lot nicer than her previous room, lacking the sort of blandness all guest rooms possessed....but it was very green.

Jane's jaw clenched, her grip on the door tightening when she realized whose room this was. Her face heated at all the implications made in being moved to this room. hands balling into fists that it was clearly openly known in the palace before anyone deigned to tell her.

"What the fu-"

[hometoursandotherstuff]

When artist Margareta & husband Seppo bought this manor that dates back as far as the 15th cent., it was in such disrepair that it was hard to discern what the original may have looked like. It took them 16 yrs. to renovate. Now, the whole family, grandchildren and all, live here.

Now, the home is full of color and pattern. In the Green living room, where the family hangs out the most, the peacock pattern sets the color tone.

On the left, gilded rococo armchair in green silk fabric. The armchair on the right is covered in velvet stripes with red silk.

A suitcase found at a flea market serves as a coffee table in the small salon.

The large gas stove with double ovens and kitchen island provide for big dinners. At the rustic dining table there is also a small sofa corner for company.

In a walk-through room there is a pretty wallpaper with detailed flower pots.

In this room, the paintings are old prints from fashion magazines from the 19th century.

In one of the small salons, which is in line with the bedroom, Margareta has let the Orient meet the old Swedish 18th century in the company of a real classic wallpaper,

Chesterfield sofa in denim, gold patterned wallpaper is Baroque, and a table lamp with a feather shade.

The beautiful parquet floor in a diagonal grid pattern that was hidden under a plastic mat is original and now sanded and oiled.

There is plenty of space and several comfortable guest rooms. Gilded cabinet with many small boxes bought on a trip in China.

The bedroom is in one of the largest rooms in the house with windows on three sides.

Here, the beautiful veranda is set up for a tea party. 

https://www.expressen.se/

[brainfuzzz]

A Happier Life Ch. 3 "A Day In The Life"

This is a fic where Luffy is 7 and living with Crocodile in Alabasta. Baroque Works knows that Crocodile is the boss and so does everyone else. Crocodile struggles to be a villain while raising a goodhearted Luffy and being involved with a Revolutionary. This fic is for my pure enjoyment of crocomom and wanting to create a much happier timeline. Some chapters will have more plot than others. Some chapters will only exist for fluff or very mild smut. I never go to graphic but who knows. All straw hat ages are younger and based around Luffy's except for Robin who I made 14 and Franky 16. Brook stays the same along with Jinbei. Most backstories will be rewritten to make them happier with some exceptions. Oh, and Crocodile is Whitebeard's son.

NSFW Chapter

            Bacon accompanied by a sweet syrupy scent hangs in the air lulling Crocodile out of his sleep. He first instinctively reaches for Luffy to pull him close. When his hand finds nothing but the empty bed, he jolts awake. He sits up, eyes scanning the room for his son. Then he hears his laugh coming from the kitchen accompanied by the sounds of dishes clanking together. Then a deeper laugh of a man followed by Robin’s voice. Crocodile’s shoulders relax as he lets out a relieved breath. He slowly slides out from under the sheets and covers himself with a silk navy blue robe.

            When he steps out of his room, he finds Luffy sitting at the head of the table, bouncing up and down in excitement for breakfast. Crocodile smiles at the sight of Luffy’s bright face. Robin sits next to him sipping her cup of coffee with a book opened in front of her. Then Dragon steps up to the table and slides a tall stack of pancakes towards their son.

            “There you go. My famous chocolate strawberry pancakes!” He’s wearing an apron that is covered in flour and wet doughy stains. When Crocodile walks further into the large room that doubles as the living room and kitchen, he discovers the kitchen counters piling with dishes.

            “Famous huh? Then why haven’t I heard of them?” Crocodile asks while approaching the espresso machine.

            “Because it’s a big revolutionary secret.” He lifts a finger to his lips and gives Luffy a wink. Crocodile finishes making his coffee and leans against the kitchen island. Dragon walks over and does the same across from him, their faces inches apart. They lean in and share a short kiss. When they part, Crocodile wants to pull him back in and devour him right here and now. But he doesn’t. Not with Robin and Luffy only a few feet away. Crocodile tilts his head to peer over Dragon’s shoulder to see Luffy staring at them as he chews a mouth full of pancakes. Crocodile pushes himself away from the island and crosses over to sit next to him.

            “You didn’t wake me when you got up.” He says while reaching out to tap the top of his straw hat.

            Luffy swallows his massive bite and grins, “Dad told me not to. Said he wanted to surprise you.”

            Crocodile glances back at Dragon who shrugs and says, “Turned out that I had a few free days to spare and decided to pop by for a surprise. Plus, I feel bad about yesterday.”

            Crocodile leans back in his chair and sips his coffee before saying, “Good.”

            Robin gives a soft giggle from behind her book. When the clock strikes 8, she slowly closes the book and reaches for her bag propped against her chair.

            “Are you going to school?” Luffy asks with a full mouth.

            Robin nods, “Yeah, Mrs. Mayweather should be here soon. I’m going to head up. When I’m finished, I’ll report to your office.”

            “That’s fine.” Crocodile nods as she starts for the door. When Crocodile recruited Robin, he made sure that she would be able to continue her studies. But because of her infamous past and large bounty he can’t just send her off to school. So, he hired a private tutor to come and give her lessons during the day. They have classes in a spare room above the casino. Sometimes Miss Goldenweek will join her when she’s not on assignment. She mostly learns from Mr. 3 and so far, doesn’t seem to be falling behind.

            Luffy stabs at the remaining pile of pancakes and pouts his lips, “I don’t have to go to school today, do I?”

            “I thought you liked school?” Crocodile arches a brow from over his coffee. Dragon gives a soft laugh and joins them. He slides a small stack of pancakes in front of Crocodile. Luffy blows out a puff of air.

            “I like hanging out with my friends, but I don’t like sitting still that long. Mr. Gonzo is boring!” He angrily stuffs his mouth with pancakes. Crocodile has to hold his tongue. Had he had it his way, Luffy would be taking classes with Robin upstairs, safe, and under his roof. But Luffy quickly learned that other children get to go to school together and then demanded that he be allowed to attend as well. It was possibly one of the most heated arguments he’s ever had with a 7 year old. In the end, Luffy had won.

            “Well, don’t worry.” Crocodile sighs at last. “You’ll get to spend the day with us. But you will go tomorrow, understand?”

            “Okay!” Luffy flashes another wide grin and finishes off the last of his pancakes. Crocodile makes him go wash up after he somehow managed to get syrup all over himself. Crocodile sighs and sets his coffee cup down to take a bite out of the pancakes Dragon had prepared. Before he can take the first bite, Dragon slides his hand over Crocodile’s thigh. Crocodile eyes him suspiciously. Dragon props his chin in his other hand with mischievous a grin splayed across his face.

            “Our child is in the next room.” Crocodile warns, taking his first bite of breakfast.

            Dragon gives a slight shrug. Then he looks down and softly asks, “How long has it been?”

            Crocodile sets his fork down. It’s been too long. With Crocodile busy with Baroque Works and Dragon busy with the revolution, they hardly find time to be together. And the few times they are, its usually spending family time with Luffy and Robin. Not much of it can be spent alone together. The heat rushing to Crocodile’s groin is evidence enough that they desperately need to lock themselves in the bedroom. Dragon’s hand slides even higher and squeezes, sending a jolt of pleasure. With the only thing between his hand and Crocodile’s thigh being silk, his heat sends a tingle up Crocodile’s spine. Crocodile turns to face Dragon, his heart racing as he succumbs to the overwhelming urge to have this man, right now. They lean in, hands reaching out for the other and…

            “I’m done!” Luffy announces as he reenters the room. In an instant, Crocodile and Dragon part. Crocodile stabs at his pancakes with the clear of his throat as Dragon looks away, suddenly enthralled with the crown molding while trying to discreetly adjust his pants. Luffy looks between them and says, “What’s wrong with you two?”

            “Nothing, nothing at all.” Crocodile smiles and stands, abandoning his pancakes. He walks over and kneels down to give Luffy’s cheek a kiss. “I need to get to work. Think you can look after dad for me?”

            “Yeah, no problem.” He says nonchalantly. Crocodile smiles and gets to his feet. He gives Dragon a more apologetic smile and turns for the bedroom to get dressed for the day.

            Crocodile distracts his thoughts with work. There’s not a day that goes by that he isn’t completely swamped. Sometimes people forget that he’s not only running an elaborate bounty hunter company but also a casino that acts as a hotel and restaurant. There’s always a fire to be put out or some crisis that he needs to handle personally. He delegates as much as he can but its never enough. And on top of all of that, he’s a warlord and has duties to uphold with the World Government.

            He sits at his desk, tapping his pen to a sheet of paper he’s been trying to read for the past five minutes but can’t seem to focus long enough to get past the first sentence. He’s staring at his clock but he’s thinking of dates. He’ll have to report to headquarters soon for a warlord meeting. They’re usually pointless. Warlords have no interest in Navy affairs, but they’ll do what they must to keep their title. Truthfully, Crocodile doesn’t mind them. They can be inconvenient because he’s almost always in the middle of something, but it is a nice escape. Sometimes. Other times it just adds to his problems. He rubs his eyes when the image of Doflamingo flashes across his mind and suddenly he has a headache.

            He pauses when a tiny hand lifts from the front of his desk with a tiny wooden toy ship in hand. Luffy bounces it in the air as if sailing on waves.

            “Hello Mary, where are you off to?” Crocodile props his chin in his hand. Luffy’s head pops up and smiles.

            “We’re off to find our crew!” Luffy announces.

            “I thought you already found your crew?” Crocodile realizes he won’t be reading this report anytime soon and places the sheet of paper back into the pile.

            Luffy frowns while fidgeting with his toy ship, “None of my friends want to become pirates.”

            “What about Vivi?” Crocodile rolls his chair out from behind his desk and lets Luffy walk around and climb into his lap. Crocodile gently lifts his hat off Luffy’s head and places it on his desk. “I thought Vivi wanted to join your crew?”

            Luffy shakes his head, his fingers still turning the toy around, tracing the lines of the bow, “Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn’t.”

            Crocodile kisses the top of his head, lingering just long enough to take in his scent. He doesn’t know if it’s a maternal parent thing, but he always feels a deep sense of calm whenever he catches Luffy’s scent. It was worse when he was a baby.

Crocodile tilts his head so he can see more of Luffy’s face, “Don’t worry. You’ll find your crew. They’re out there somewhere just waiting for their captain to find them.”

            Luffy looks up at him and flashes his signature grin and says, “Yeah!”

            The door at the top of the long stairs leading to the casino opens as Mr. 2 steps inside. Luffy wiggles in Crocodile’s lap until he’s hopped off and is running towards the stairs shouting, “Bon!”

            “My, if it isn’t Straw Boy.” Mr. 2 puts his hands on his hips with a grin.

Luffy scrunches his face up. “I told you I don’t like that nickname! It’s not cool enough.”

“To bad, so sad.” Mr. 2 shrugs. He approaches Crocodile’s desk while Luffy tries to climb up his legs. “Boss, I am happy to report that the mission went off without a hitch! But was there ever any doubt?”

“Good job,” Crocodile begins riffling through his papers trying to find the one pertaining to Bon Clay’s current assignment. When he finds it, he hands it to him. Mr. 2 takes the papers and crosses over to the long table that they use for meetings to fill out his portion of the report. Crocodile forces himself to return to the paper he had been trying to get through earlier. With both adults consumed with paperwork, Luffy sprawls out on the floor and stares up at the ceiling.

“I’m so bored I’m going to die.” he announces.

“Simply tragic.” Crocodile says while filling out the bottom of the form.

“Always with the dramatics.” Mr. 2 hums. Luffy lets out a huff.

“What’s your father doing?” Crocodile asks when he’s finally finished with the paper. Luffy rolls his head so he’s looking at him.

“He got a call from work and told me to come in here with you.” He explains before rolling his head back so he’s once again staring at the ceiling. Crocodile frowns.

“Bon Clay, do you mind watching Luffy for me?” Crocodile gets to his feet.

“With pleasure.” Mr. 2 smiles over his report. Crocodile leaves Luffy in his care and enters their living quarters. He can hear Dragon’s voice coming from the bedroom. When he enters the room, he finds Dragon sitting on the edge of the bed speaking into a transponder snail. When he notices Crocodile, he gives an apologetic look before nodding and responding to the person on the other side. Crocodile crosses his arms not sure of what to do. On one hand he wants to make Dragon hang up the receiver and go back to spend time with their son. On the other hand, he understands that some things need his attention for things to run properly. Especially when lives are on the line. Needless to say, neither of them has quite found that perfect work life balance.

Then he realizes something and comes up with an evil plan. He quietly shuts the bedroom door and locks it. He peeks over his shoulder to see if Dragon heard the lock, but he’s fully engrossed in what the other man is saying. Crocodile slowly crosses the room and enters the closet. He first removes his hook and then begins to undress. He pauses in front of the closet door. For some reason, he’s starting to get nervous. He banishes the feeling and forces the door open.

Dragon freezes, his eyes wide. Crocodile leans against the doorway, completely naked. He gives a grin that makes Dragon swallow.

“I need to call you back.” Dragon hangs up the receiver before the other person can protest. Crocodile starts to approach Dragon but is intercepted halfway. They kiss, hungry and desperate for the other. Crocodile is pulling his clothes off, not caring if anything gets torn. They stumble back and fall on the floor but make no attempt to stop. Dragon manages to grab onto the sheets on the bed and pull them down, so they aren’t rolling around on the cold tile. Dragon rolls Crocodile over so that he’s on his back and starts kissing his neck. With one hand sliding up Crocodile’s leg, hitching it over his hip, the other slips between Crocodile’s legs. Crocodile lets out a low satisfying moan, his legs opening seemingly on their own, inviting Dragon in. Crocodile reaches for his bedside table. He struggles to open the drawer, causing his book to topple over the side before eventually yanking the entire drawer out to get the bottle of lubricant.

When they were younger, they could have gone all night long. But now? Now they’re lucky if they can do it multiple times in one night. He’s not sure how long this round lasted, but he knows it can’t have been long. Not when they were both pent up, desperate for the others touch. Dragon’s head rests against Crocodile’s chest as Crocodile’s body continues to tremble. Dragon eases out and rolls so that he’s lying next to Crocodile. They say nothing for a moment, the only sounds are of them trying to catch their breaths.

Dragon gives a soft laugh, “You should interrupt my work calls more often.”

Crocodile swallows and runs a hand over his sweaty forehead, “Sure, I’ll just pop into your headquarters naked from time to time. I’m sure no one will mind.”

“I won’t.” Dragon rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. His other hand lazily trails the lines on Crocodile’s chest. Crocodile tilts his head at him and leans forward to give him a kiss.

“I should get back. I don’t like leaving Luffy alone with Bon Clay for this long.” Crocodile says reluctantly. Dragon rolls on his back with a sigh.

“I should really call them back. It was important.” He rubs his face tiredly. Crocodile gets up first, cursing when he realizes how weak in the knees he is. He manages to slip into the bathroom and clean up quickly. When he steps out of the bathroom, Dragon is waiting and smacks his ass when he starts towards the closet. Crocodile gives him a look but grins when he turns away.

Once he and Dragon are decent once more, Dragon returns to his call and Crocodile leaves to look for their son. Crocodile still fiddles with his neck scarf—struggling to get it to fold correctly—when he steps into his office. He stops dead in his tracks. Bon Clay and Luffy hold pens in their hands having a pretend sword fight. Bon Clay does a ballerina move prompting Luffy to kick his leg. Except Luffy is now rubber, so his leg accidently stretches too far and knocks into Crocodile’s desk. He hits it so hard that it causes all his papers to scatter on the floor. Crocodile stares at the mess and then at Luffy and Bon Clay.

“He did it!” they both say while pointing at the other. Crocodile sighs and realizes he’s not going to be getting much work done today after all.

Read full story HERE on AO3!!!

[multicore-processor]

As a holiday gift for my family I'm making postcard prints of AI art, so I ended up generating around 1000 images this weekend with Stable Diffusion 2.1.

(Fair warning, I know a lot of tips and tricks for this stuff are out there, but I haven't read many of them. I did this project mostly blind)

Most of what I got sucked. Objects being too big or too small, people with too many arms, faces that don't look right, compositions that didn't look good. But then sometimes I got something like this.

Some prompts were dead ends. It just cannot draw a bicycle right, or properly depict a person using a typewriter or a table saw. It has trouble creating a composition with two objects, especially if they would not normally appear together.

On the other hand, having "American romantic landscape painting" at the end of the prompt got me 100% gold.

I wanted to make a bunch of different styles, so I tried many in my prompts. Some resulted in images that weren't very appealing to me, like "rustic folk art" and "post-impressionist painting". Some had other issues.

"Vintage travel poster" gets you a cool style, but also tends to result in large text in the image which is always misspelled. Some types of painting style get you great images surrounded by obnoxious golden frames. "Baroque painting" and "neoclassical painting" have strong stereotypes about their subjects, so for example it's hard to get a baroque painting where people are wearing steampunk costumes.

So I ended up using "digital art" in most of my prompts, sometimes with modifiers like "realistic" or "stylized" or "colorful". This lines up with what I've seen in other discussions. Digital art covers a wide range of styles, but it does at least specify that you don't want, like, a photograph.

Finally, sometimes you get something that doesn't really make physical sense, but is so cool you have to keep it anyway.

[lovelypeasantjellyfish]

I feel her hold and her voice and her face - Chapter 1

A/N: Hi there, I know I disappeared for a while there (I don’t really have a reason for why, I guess I just needed some time for myself) but I’m back! And finally writing for a new character. 

Title is from the song 'It's You, It's Me, It's Us' by Reinairy. Go listen to it.

Pairing: Lady Dimitrescu x Reader

Summary: You always ran hot after taking a shower, luckily for you, it’s cold tonight, and The Lady just asked you to bring her tea. 

Warnings/Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, maid/mistress relationship

Words: 2302   AO3 Link   Chapters: One Two Three Four Five Six

Setting the tray on the console table beside the large double doors, you take a moment to adjust the hastily thrown on uniform covering your body. Anita had informed you that the Lady requested you to bring her a cup of tea just as you stepped out of the shower, and in Castle Dimitrescu, what the Lady wants, the Lady gets. Even if it meant that you had mere minutes to get dressed and get the supplies from the kitchen and up to the second floor.

Knocking twice, you take a deep breath and announce—

“My Lady, your tea is here.”

A faint “Come in” is all the permission you need to twist the golden knob, entering the Lady’s study with the tray in hand.

She doesn’t look up from the large stack of papers on her desk to acknowledge you when you enter, simply gesturing to the accent table in the corner. You wordlessly set the tray down on the wooden surface, hoping that the slight rattling of the porcelain went unnoticed. A maid, Trica, had been ‘sent away’ a mere three days after you heard the Lady’s second daughter berate her for ‘breathing too loud’. While you knew that that fate was unlikely to befall you tonight, you didn’t want to take any chances and prepared the Lady’s tea as quietly as you could after shutting the door.

The Lady had specific tastes. That much was apparent to you the moment you stepped foot into the gorgeous castle two winters ago and became under her employ. While most of the castle was heavily decorated in the Baroque style, Lady Dimitrescu’s private wing, which housed the Hall of Ablution, her study, and her chambers,  was even more lavish. Paintings and sculptures of women lined the panelled walls and hallways; it was clear that The Lady had spared no expense on decor as the use of gold stood out, no matter where you looked: the picture frames, the ornate legs of the chairs and tables, even the sconces that provided the much-needed light had gold details.

The luxury of it all was a huge change from the simple wooden furniture you were used to in your previous life and in the servant’s wing, and your breath was taken away each time you were lucky enough to step foot in Lady Dimitrescu’s wing. Although it took up much of the second floor of the castle, the Lady was a very private woman. No one was allowed in her wing unless they were explicitly summoned by The Lady herself or tasked with cleaning the rooms, although the latter usually fell to the same four maids: Anita, Marcia, Andreea, and you. The three daughters were exempt from this rule, of course, but even they made themselves scarce when The Lady was in a sour mood, which was almost always after the phone in her room rang.

You turn your attention away from the tea for a second to glance at your Lady, she was frowning at the papers in her hand but her eyes lacked their signature glint, almost as if her mind was somewhere else. The atmosphere in the castle had been tense since the phone rang in the morning, but what made everyone in the castle, even The Lady’s youngest, be on their absolute best behaviour, was the eerie silence that lingered throughout the day. Everyone had been hoping for some noise, any noise, from The Lady of the castle; furniture breaking or yelling, even the screaming of an unfortunate maid would have been welcome at this point.

But Lady Dimitrescu had been cooped up in her study all day and judging by the full glass of Sanguis Virginis you had set out for her still present at the table long after the daughters had finished their meal, she hadn’t joined them for dinner as well.

You chew on your lip, there had been some changes that you wished to discuss with your Lady, but now was definitely not a good time. Besides, you were her maid, all you had to do was follow her directions, respect her place as The Lady of the castle by not questioning her, and be loyal. You could do these three things, even if your shrinking duties in the castle had planted a seed of dread in your chest.

Carefully pouring in a measured amount of the thick, coppery liquid from the flask into the teacup, you stir it in and gently set it down on your Lady’s desk. Taking a few steps back, you stood at her side, hands folded neatly at your front. You might have done what she asked of you, but you weren’t dismissed yet, even if the other maids were already halfway to dreamland by now.

She looks at you this time, golden orbs trailing up your form. They land on your still damp hair for a brief moment, before sweeping down to study your flushed face. You look down, avoiding her gaze.  You always ran hot after taking a shower, and this time was no exception, especially after you had practically run up a flight of stairs while carrying a tray laden with the heavy porcelain tea set.

Lady Dimitrescu was well aware of this fact, she could practically feel the heat radiating from your body. She smiles, setting down the papers in her hand.

“Thank you y/n, I see you’re as eager to please as always. Do take the time to fix yourself in the future. Your hair is a mess, darling.”

You blush harder, unsure if it was because of The Lady’s praise or the embarrassment of being thought of as unkempt. Your hand reaches up to the damp locks, trying to smooth them down as much as you could and tucking them under the white cap.

“I’m sorry, My Lady. I will be more mindful of my appearance in the future.”

She picks up the delicate teacup, daintily holding it with her glove-covered fingers.

Despite the black leather gloves, the way that Lady Dimitrescu moved always seemed so elegant and graceful, and even this time, the image of her sipping from a teacup with her eyes closed, enjoying the scent of the lavender tea, could be a painting in an art museum and you would be none the wiser.

You cast your eyes towards the rug the moment you caught yourself staring at her, hoping that she hadn’t noticed, would she think it was rude? The clinking of the cup as it meets the saucer keeps you from spiralling, and you finally look up to meet your lady’s eyes; even when seated, she was still a head taller than you. Silence envelops the room, save for the crackling of the wood in the fireplace and your own heartbeat, your Lady was still looking at you, with a look in her eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

She sighs, beckoning you with her hand. You walk towards her, if you were going to die, might as well make it easier for your Lady, right?

“Now turn.”

You blink in surprise before doing as she says. Maybe she just wanted to drink from you? But she could do that from the front right? You’d seen her do it before. The Lady doesn’t give your mind a chance to wander further, as she removes the white cap from your head and frees your hair from the ribbon that was supposed to hold it in a bun. Despite your mind racing at this point, it comes to a complete halt when you feel something begin to thread through your locks.

Was The Lady… brushing your hair? Where did she even get a comb from?

“Um… Lady Dimitrescu?”

The movement pauses for a moment, before continuing. “Just stay still.” She sounds slightly defeated, as if she had paired the wrong steak with her wine but realised halfway through her meal when it was too late to change her mind.

You don’t answer, simply studying the wallpaper before you and doing your best to not move as your Lady ties your hair up into a neat bun. When the movement stops, you wait a beat before turning to face your Lady, she was fiddling with her gloves at this point, but you do your best to not stare. Does her skin itch from being encased by the leather all the time?

You open your mouth to thank her, but she interrupts you, “Make sure the fire doesn’t die out, y/n. It gets rather chilly at this hour” she says, already turning her attention back to her desk.

“Yes My Lady.” You walk towards the large fireplace, shoulders slumped. You place two more logs into the steadily burning fire, taking care to keep your apron and dress clean. The maids’ laundry wouldn’t be clean and dry until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, and you had a feeling that the Lady wouldn’t take too kindly to a dirty uniform when you arrive to dust her study before she began her work tomorrow morning. Confident that the fire wouldn't die out before your Lady decides to call it a night, you return to her side. “Is there anything else you would like me to do, My Lady?”

“That will be all—” She looks up from her papers, and frowns. Her hands reach out towards your hair once again, but they linger on your forehead for a moment before dipping down to caress your cheek. “Actually, cel mic, go fetch a blanket and come here, it’s going to be a cold night.” Her fingers rise and brush a stray hair to the side. It takes an incredible amount of effort to not melt under her touch and crumble as your heart skips a beat.

You loved it when The Lady allowed you to warm her up, it always made you feel extremely safe and your mind would go hazy. You could never remember much afterwards, but you always woke up unharmed, feeling refreshed even, not that you could ever tell anyone, least the rumours start to fly and you’re forced to deal with the emotions and the past that you had buried.

When you return with the blanket and a scarf, Lady Dimitrescu had returned her attention to the papers on her desk. She puts them down when you close the door with a soft click, her golden orbs follow you as you take off your shoes and pad towards her. Looking into her eyes for permission, you wait for her nod before climbing into her lap. Her signature white dress was incredibly soft against your thighs as you settle in her lap, your legs spread on either side of her waist. You unfold the scarf first, draping it around her shoulders and smoothing the material.

Lady Dimitrescu is still the entire time, peering down at you. She hadn’t asked you to bring a scarf, only the blanket, but she doesn’t move, except to lean forward slightly so that the fabric flows down her back and arms.

Her large hat blocked out most of the light, save for the candle that illuminated her desk; it cast a warm glow on her face, turning her eyes into liquid gold. You look up briefly to catch her gaze and promptly withdraw your hands from the material, letting them hover just above the warm fabric.  You hadn’t been thinking when you grabbed the scarf from her closet, only that her arms were usually neglected whenever she asked this of you, and that the blanket might constrict her movements.

“I thought your arms might be cold, My Lady.” You explained, quickly following up with, “Would you like me to put the scarf back?”

“No, draga mea. Leave it.”

You nod, moving to unfold the blanket next. You drape it around your own shoulders, letting the cloth hang over your Lady’s chair and her legs. It sits heavily on your shoulders as your arms circle around her middle, hands gently clutching at the soft white fabric, breathing a small sigh of relief as your cheek meets the cool skin of her exposed chest. She hums when you do so, and you feel her chest rise as she inhales. Despite the minutes that had passed since you stepped out of the shower, you were still very warm, the heat from your face spreading pleasantly across her chest.

“Is this alright, My Lady?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment, and you tense. You’d gone too far this time. You move to detach yourself from her, but her hand presses your face back to her chest, keeping you there.

“Just stay still, cel mic.” Her voice was low, there is a slight rumble against your ear when she speaks, it's strangely comforting, as if the world itself was speaking to you. She shifts slightly, adjusting you in her hold, it doesn’t take long before she finds a position she’s comfortable in, and she picks up her pen, resuming her work.

The scratching of pen on paper and the faint crackling of wood in the fireplace becomes a lullaby, your eyelids grow heavier with each passing second. You let them fall, letting all the different sensations melt together: the cool silky smooth skin beneath your cheek, the gentle rocking as her chest rises and falls, the sound of paper being shuffled, The Lady’s perfume mixing with the scent of lavender tea and roses, her soft voice as she whispers the words from her papers. Your mind slows, forgetting about the dread, the tension emanating from the rest of the residents in the castle; in that moment, all you could feel was her hold, all you could hear was her voice, all you could see was her face from earlier, liquid gold pouring into your soul.