#mr. fancy pants

[disacurveball]

Been absolutely grinding Toontown Corporate Clash as of late this winter break, and so I decided to do some sketching.

Here’s my human versions of the Sellbot managers :)))

[seraphtrevs]

look at my handsome boy!

[976-e-v-i-l]

[rednook]

Guys this man will LEGIT be izzys version of stede. ( In a way how Edward and Stede are in love couse they are silly little guys but izzy and that guy . )

[cloudellesims]

Victor gets picked up and dropped off from work in a limousine😳

[takeariskao3]

I agree with all of characters you hold a candle for, except Draco. I’m sorry girl, but that boy isn’t damaged, he’s the ultimate coward and exemplifies everything that’s wrong with white privileged rich men in our society today

yes, but what if we took that teeny tiny spark of a redemption arc (from DH) and we broke him down even more until he was a rock bottom princess? what if we got to watch him scrape and claw and dig his way out as he becomes a better person? what if his self condemnation for all his past misdeeds directs every action he makes then on? what if even after he’s paid for his crimes and been reaccepted into wizarding society he still holds the guilt until his dying breath? what then?

[make-a-little-mischief]

To quote a comment on Facebook:

"Wow! THE PANTS!"

[pabni]

As the only straight, cis person in these fandoms, I wish all you sags a happy ptide 😙🙏

[dxppercxdxver]

hello hello! in preparation for the opening of @tf2shipswag's oc bracket For Real i have written a vaguely persons-of-the-tale-esque bit of propaganda fiction in which our unwitting ocs experience a historical anachronism and discover they have been entered into the oc bracket! if you like early enemies to lovers and a tasteful dose of meta fiction (along with aggressively 18th century styled prose) you'll probably like this! i call it "there's such a thing as an author" or "persons of the tale But Worse"

Somewhere just to the left of the story well known, Samuel Mundy sat perched in the bay window, long legs stretched across the whorled-grain boards with languid content. Liquid summersong pooled in his lap with all the warmth of a loyal cat, golden and simple. The glass panes were thrown open to let in the comfort of the season—what little could be snatched from the jagged-toothed forest filled with the crack of gunfire, anyway—and he clutched a chipped china saucer in his fingers, picking at a fresh bread roll.

Gazing across the Manor’s ill-tended garden, Samuel sighed nearly dreamily, a reflexive smile playing across his cracked lips. For once, his little world was quiet, nary a disturbance to be found.

Of course, however, his peace was not destined to last, and Miss Pauling’s far off cry of, “Mail, boys!” roused the rabble from deep within the house’s corridors, who all came a-bustling with the energy of an anthill, and idle chatter filled the air, quickly snuffing the silence. Samuel, pointedly ensconced in his window-borne nest, merely watched his compatriots greet their friend and sponsor on the lawn as she distributed the sheaves of parchment and carefully tied packages amongst them. They were permitted some personal effects at their stations, which included a small allowance for assorted trinkets and treasures, and thus the days Miss Pauling ventured into town were filled with a quiet sort of excitement. Much as they were soldiers of a secret war, and trained for such, it grew dreadfully lonely and dreadfully threadbare.

This day, though… Something about it was different.

While the great majority of his fellows dispersed from the lawn as swiftly as they had come, their spy, Laurent, remained, conversing with Miss Pauling. Samuel could hardly make out a word at his distance, but his eyes were sharpened by his particular profession, and the feeling between their persons was a tense one. Her brows were furrowed sharply over the silvery frames of her spectacles, and Laurent’s hands formed clipped gestures at his sides. Whatever it was they spoke of, it hardly seemed a pleasant thing.

After mere moments more, Laurent plucked a paper from Miss Pauling’s elegantly gloved fingers and held it out before him, pursing his lips as he studied it, before shaking his head, offering Miss Pauling a crisp salute, and trudging across the lawn.

In what appeared to be Samuel’s direction.

Growling softly, Samuel wrinkled his nose, staring firmly down at his plate in some vain hope Laurent would pass him by, that the mysterious business he appeared so perturbed by was kind enough to leave Samuel alone. The last thing he needed was another catastrophe atop the neverending tumultuousness of his wartime existence.

“Bushman.”

In spite of his willing, Laurent’s infuriatingly smooth voice lilted into his ears with a weariness that belied an intent beyond an obligatory passing greeting, and Samuel found himself looking up to meet his tired gaze.

The warmer weather had done a kindness to the spy; his sallow complexion and skeletal frame were given a new life in the sun, and the embroidery in his suit shimmered like the finest of jewels. And still, Samuel couldn’t help but find him dour, unpleasant, and downright infectious in his discomfort. Almost in response to Laurent’s hardened grimace, Samuel shifted in his seat, his skin itching ‘neath his clothes.

“Spook.”

When the acknowledgement of Laurent’s presence failed to dispel him from Samuel’s immediate company, he sighed, and turned to properly face the equally beleaguered spy, letting his boots sway loosely beneath him.

“Unless it’s business, I’m not interested,” he said brusquely, fixing Laurent with a firm stare that he returned with unflinching readiness. Pale eyes bored into his own as Laurent shook his parchment bounty open with a sharp flick of the wrist.

“While my present port of call has little to do with our current occupation,” he said, calm and measured, “I have a feeling you will want to see this.”

The paper was rough and worn, stained deep yellow with the wear of travel, and the ink splashed across it was coming off on his skin and the leather of his glove in small flakes, but there was no mistaking the printing.

At first, Samuel blanched, presuming it a call for their heads, but as he read, the fear curdled into something far more baffling. Taking up most of the page was a sketched rendition of the two of them—sniper and spy—stood side by side, illustrated Laurent flashing a wry smirk at his ink-bound companion that the drawing of Samuel readily returned. Bold typeface toward the top spelled out “WANTED” clear as day, although there was no reward attached. Twirling arrows pointed to Laurent and him in turn, annotating precisely who was whom. There was yet more type at the bottom, but Samuel had rather stopped processing exactly what it said by then, and handed the sheet back to Laurent with an incredulous scowl.

“What in the hell is this?”

As Laurent crisply refolded it and placed it in an inner pocket, he replied, “We appear to have been entered into some sort of tournament.”

“Tournament?” Samuel’s mind whirled, spiraling out endless possibilities, each one markedly worse than the last, “As in… fighting?”

“Mercy of mercies, I do not believe so,” Laurent mused, crossing his arms and glancing into the distance. “Even with my considerable skill, we would hardly stand a chance with you on our side.”

“Watch your tongue, Frenchie.” Livid, Samuel snapped, instinctively reaching for the machete at his side. “Don’t pretend you’re not glad of this as well.”

Laurent snorted. “Of course I am, but it is hardly a matter of cowardice.”

“Yeah? What is it, then?”

“I do not wish to dirty my suit,” Laurent sneered, mouth curved sharp as his knife. In that moment, Samuel wished for nothing more than to knock that wretched expression from his face, but resorted instead to knotting his fist in the fabric of his shirt. It certainly would not do to lose his composure so early and in a place so visible to his superior, but oh how he longed to rattle Laurent around, maybe beat some sense into him along the way.

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Fine. If we’re not to be fighting, what exactly are we meant to be doing?”

“If I am interpreting the missive correctly,” Laurent said, smoothing the fine hairs of his wig, “it is really less of a gladiatorial affair, and more of a… popularity contest.”

“Oh.” Cocking his head, Samuel let the implications wash over him, feeling his body recoil in the wake. “Oh.”

“Strange, is it not?” Taking a deep breath, Laurent shrugged slow and deliberate. “Still, I suppose I might consider myself at an advantage. I have many a desirable quality to be considered…” He trailed off, but Samuel was suddenly alight with energy.

Held in his hands was the opportunity to be absolutely devilish, and he seized it with vigor.

“Oh, really?” he said, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

Laurent whirled, eyebrow raised in sharp relief. “Is this a joke?”

“No.” Samuel poured as much sincerity into his voice as he could, leaning forward with earnest. “You see, we’ve been friends for so long—” he stifled a laugh, “—and I’d never even realized! Please, tell me about these ‘desirable qualities,’ I would love to hear all about them, and at the greatest of lengths.”

For a long, terrible pause, Laurent only stared, and Samuel faintly worried he was about to receive a length of cold steel across the throat or wedged between his ribs, but then Laurent’s cheeks flared red beneath his powder, and his mouth hung agape.

“You— you arse!” he snarled, seizing Samuel by the cravat and drawing their faces close. “You would do well to mind your manners, bushman. I do not abide mockery, nor do I suffer a fool, and you, sir, are a prime example. Remember this, lest I be forced to remind you.” With this, he drew his suit back, revealing the delicately tooled sheath for his beloved dagger. Samuel swallowed, thought up every prayer he could, and grinned wolfishly, fiddling with Laurent's elegant sleeve cuff.

“Wouldn’t want to get this dirty, would you?”

Laurent’s nostrils flared, his breath hot on Samuel’s lips, before he released him, pushing him back roughly and huffing, indignant. Samuel massaged his neck, relief coursing through his veins. A scant few feet away, Laurent stood in profile, nearly serene if not for the subtle movement of mute, furious speech.

“Nice talking to you,” Samuel said cheerfully, and, strange as anything, Laurent actually laughed. It was a brief, choked thing, barely identifiable as humor, if not for the smile playing across his face.

“You, sniper,” he said, reaching out and taking a bite of Samuel’s bread roll, “are a ridiculous, ridiculous man.” With this last remark, he about-faced and trudged across the lawn, spine ramrod straight and be-ribboned hair flouncing against his back.

“I know you are, but what am I?” Samuel called after him, and Laurent retorted with a sharp, “Go fuck yourself!” which Samuel could only meet with a thrown bread roll. It collided with the back of Laurent’s head with a satisfying muffled thunk, and Samuel cackled as Laurent let loose a long stream of French obscenities, harshly adjusting his wig so rudely whacked askew.

“I hope you know I despise you,” Laurent hissed once he had deemed himself presentable, and disappeared inside the house with the slam of the heavy oaken door.

“Yeah, yeah, hate you too,” Samuel said. Tucking his legs back into his window seat, he inhaled the lively summer air, and discovered he could not stop his beaming.

[as ever, flintlock fortress is a collaboration with @chiropteracupola]

[muggycuphead]

Phiddie's Drunk FancyJanuary 2024 - Day 26

Day #26 – Oh god no

“We’ve spent the whole day fixing this up, truly one of the crew’s biggest masterpie- WHAT IN TARNATION”

The Rabbit must’ve conspired on this, I bet’cha he did that long-eared rascal bozo-

<- Day 25

Day 27 ->

Wanna see the other prompts? Check my teaser here

[krsonmar]

Chances are your pants are not as fancy as the pair

Of very fancy pants that Mr. Fancy Pants will wear

P-P-P-PANTS P-P-P-PANTS

IF YOU LIKED IT THEN YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT

[cpttucker]

42 (420 implied) and 69 baby

42 The German - Horse and Bass https://open.spotify.com/track/7wSBn8XmgSl5ZKpYNumCvi?si=9cdc4af1ce584bbb 69 I Feel Fantastic - Joco https://open.spotify.com/track/0iq3MFEbuKTWJgdhwdOwXI?si=c9f813c68c0c4a8b the german being on here is so fucked . mr fancy pants is also literally above both of these and thats funny.

[thatsprettylane]

Kid and Heyes sure have a lot of outfits for men living on the run.

[pyrokineticwarrior]

Dev do you like it when it gets knotted inside of you?

"What does? My muscles? No, I don't like it- I appreciate it when those muscles get loosened by a nice massage. Sometimes I don't even realize when I work out too much and it just occurs."

[a-b-riddle]

Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼‍♀️

It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.

You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.

But the past two returns home have been… different.

Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.

“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.

After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.

He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?

So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.

The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.

Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.

He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.

“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.

“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.

You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.

Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.

“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.

“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”

“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”

For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”

“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.

“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”

“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.

None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.

“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.

Four times the love.

But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.

John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.

Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.

Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.

And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.

Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.

None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.

You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hung up.