#notre dame light show

[aimasup]

throws up my hands in mock resignation but also a hint of frustration Okay Valentino is a cool villain I guess

He's like. Genuinely unsettling. Wish the show struck a better balance with his character sometimes (like sometimes when he's onscreen I have to skip over because I feel queasy and sometimes he's so unsubtle he feels more like a prop than a guy who's going to be a Huge Deal in s2)

[thepastisalreadywritten]

More than two miles long and 1,142 feet tall, Uluru, the red sandstone rock formation in Australia’s Northern Territory, wows travelers during the day.

But now, a new night spectacle Wintjiri Wiru illuminates the darkness adjacent to the monolith in a way that reveals Indigenous culture while dazzling with high-tech sound and lights.

“Humans are drawn to light—just think of how compelling sunsets are,” says Melbourne light artist Bruce Ramus, who designed the work in collaboration with the local Anangu people and Voyages Indigenous Tourism.

Wintjiri Wiru is just the latest offering—and newest technology — in the tradition of son et lumière (sound and light) shows, grand public spectacles projected on to (or close to) historic buildings and natural wonders.

These mash-ups of pageantry, culture, and art are experiencing a boom fueled by digital advances and tourist sites looking to attract visitors after dark.

Here’s where to see the latest shows, plus why visitors love these “virtual campfires.”

How did sound and light shows start?

Paul Robert-Houdin created the first sound and light show in 1952 at France’s Château de Chambord.

Music and narration played while slide projectors splashed colored lights on the 16th-century palace.

“We had the feeling that a new way of discovering and understanding monumental heritage was perhaps being born,” one observer wrote in Le Figaro newspaper.

The concept was a hit.

“Standing in the dark and being immersed in sounds and images creates a sense of enchantment,” says Jane Lovell, a professor of tourism at Canterbury Christ Church University in England.

In the following decades, other storied sites harnessed that magic, such as the Red Fort in Delhi, India, and Independence Hall in Philadelphia.

“There were captive audiences for these attractions, so the efforts were minimal—just light up these beautiful things that already existed,” says California light show producer Ryan Miziker.

Early technology was expensive and bulky: sofa-sized slide carousels, finicky stereo speakers that malfunctioned in bad weather.

The storytelling, if mostly historically accurate, could be clunky and lecturing.

At Egypt’s Pyramids at Giza, the still-running circa-1961 show features the Sphinx “narrating” a lofty spiel about ancient life as murky colored lights wash over the monuments.

https://youtu.be/anLYLqMyK1I

How tech took over light shows

“Son et lumieres started out as pretty rudimentary things—a castle would be lit up and a soundtrack would say, ‘this tower was built in 1592,’” says Ross Ashton of London’s Projection Studio, which designs extravaganzas for attractions from Welsh castles to Indian fortresses.

But by the 1990s, innovations in video, lasers, and audio meant creators could screen riveting, mind-bending shows.

“Digital video changed everything,” says Miziker.

“We had software to do 3-D mapping, which takes a round object like a globe and flattens it, or wraps any structure in overlapping, blending geometry.”

Sound evolved, too.

“Bells, spoken voices from different directions, or a fireball rolling, you can layer sound up, so it feels like a tapestry,” says Projection Studio’s sound artist Karen Monid.

Today’s sound and light shows are like mini action movies screened on historic buildings or natural wonders.

San Antonio’s The Saga wraps the 18th-century San Fernando Cathedral in sound effects (mariachi ballads, cannon blasts) and painterly images (folk dancers, renderings of the Alamo) to tell the story of the Texas city.

In Jerusalem, Israel, the ancient Tower of David has two night shows, one on city history and the other about the biblical shepherd-turned-ruler that gave the site its name.

Wintjiri Wiru harnesses LED lights, lasers, sound, and 1,100 drones to recount a legend from the Anangu, who consider Uluru sacred.

The show depicts mala (wallaby-rabbit) beings battling a gigantic devil dog spirit.

“Combine light with sound—in this case Anangu songs and other effects—and it’s like the desert is speaking,” says Ramus.

Other projects are more abstract, such as the new Aura Invalides show at Les Invalides in Paris, which fills the grand interiors of the historic military monument with surreal rays of colored light and outlines architectural elements in laser graffiti.

“People move around within the building, making it more like a 360-degree immersion than something didactical,” says Manon McHugh, a spokesperson for Moment Factory, the studio that created the show.

Why travelers love spectacles

Experts think people are drawn to these shows for their sense of wonder and spectacle.

“Sound and light shows are like fireworks—it’s impossible to look away,” says Miziker.

"Since audiences are sitting in the dark, there’s cognitive dissonance, with the atmosphere almost becoming its own entity,” says Lovell.

https://youtu.be/FV3XdOda3zM

Plus, in this age of Instagram, sound and light spectacles make ideal selfie backdrops or video ops.

“When Moment Factory started doing shows, we didn’t want people to have their phones out,” says McHugh.

Now, other digital production studios build in elements like photo booths to encourage participants to share their experiences.

How sound and light shows help tourist sites

Sound and light shows can be expensive and time-consuming to design.

(Wintjiri Wiru was developed over several years and cost $10 million.)

But many tourist attractions and cities are willing to shell out.

“They produce new income streams,” says Ashton. “People normally go home at night, but if you sell them a ticket to an illumination, they’ll come back.”

Many sound and light experiences in public, urban spaces — outside cathedrals, on city halls, across skyscrapers — are free, but paid for by cities to give visitors an excuse to stay an extra night.

“We used to think of tourism as a daytime activity, but there has been this tourist-ification of the night,” says Andrew Smith, a professor of urban experiences at England’s University of Westminster.

“Now cities want to attract people and keep them in town. It’s a commodification of the night, a way to extend economic and cultural activity.”

Studies indicate that these shows might even make city downtowns feel safer. “It starts to dematerialize the buildings,” says Ramus.

“You just see the lights, and our cities become transparent. They feel gentler.”

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Trust (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Summary: You and Ghost have been captured for questioning. Loyal to a fault, you'll do anything to avoid seeing his face before he's ready to show you.

AN: I'm not immune to military propaganda. Nor am I immune to the babygirlification. In a slump writing wise so I gave this a go. I might try one with Soap next but no promises since it'll probably end up on the never-ending pile of unfinished fics.

Content warnings: Descriptions of torture, injuries as a result of torture, moments of vulnerability (aka 141 care for each other).

Reader uses they/them pronouns and is part of 141. Fic can be read as platonic or romantic.

Masterlist // AO3

A palm smacked across your cheek; the sting brought you back to consciousness. Screwing your eyes up, you tried to settle them in your skull so that you could take in your surroundings. Your hands and legs tied to a chair was what you noticed first. A fold-out table was a few feet out of reach in front of you.

Then, beyond that, a sliver of light in the roof – a hole, not a light bulb – dropped onto a body, bound like yourself and twenty feet away. The carved mask hiding the face was illuminated.

Your body wrenched against your restraints, “Hey!”

Another slap silenced you. You looked up at the offender you had somehow looked over. A lackey. No one you recognised from any intel or manilla folder or briefing, so you surveyed their appearance for just how much this soldier was trusted with.

Single gun on one hip.

KA-BAR on the other.

Kevlar vest that was more slack on the right shoulder.

More weapons that you had, now that your arsenal had been torn from you.

With the clanging of metal, a rectangle of light broke into the room. Room felt like the wrong word. This was too empty, echoey to be a mere room. A silhouette appeared in that light then vanished as the door closed behind them. Footsteps, slow and steady, approaching you, and the lackey left your side.

Ronin Foster bent at the waist to meet your unwilling gaze. He looked almost identical to the photo you’d been given in your briefing about him. One difference was clear: the burn mark running parallel to the left side of his chin. You couldn’t fathom where or how he’d gotten that injury, nor did you have a lot of time to look at it before Foster turned silently and unrolled a sleeve of weapons onto the table.

You caught Ghost’s eyes, the whites stark against the shadows and black paint. He didn’t avoid your gaze. He held it, and even when Foster stepped in the way, you felt that conflicted comfort you had grown to know in the presence of your Lieutenant and his masks.

The rest of the 141 were possibly being held elsewhere. Or they could’ve made it out. But it would take days to reconvene and organise a rescue mission.

This was your new home.

Your training did not desert you as your captor removed his gloves, tugging at the fingers to free them. One reached behind him and withdrew from his belt a gun.

Following the arc of his arm’s swing, his body wrenched around. A slash of agony struck your forehead against the butt of his gun. Your ears rung around the hollow of your skull like the bells of Notre Dame. The room wobbled as you righted your head. You couldn’t make out the details in Ghost’s mask anymore, not as Foster pulled off the skull plate and tossed it aside. Its clattering on the ground punctuated the air. Your gaze wavered against the dizzying disorientation as Ghost writhed to get away. But Foster was still unrolling the balaclava off his face. The second you saw a hint of Ghost’s chin, your eyes snapped shut.

Boots strode across the concrete. Suddenly your chin was grabbed up, no doubt facing your captor. Ghost’s gruff grunts boomed across the gap between you as he struggled against his restraints – that’s what you presumed, your eyes still closed.

But Foster was ignoring that side of the room blatantly, his grip crushing your cheekbones like he could wrench it off and throw it alongside Ghost’s mask. You narrowed your breaths to control yourself. While you couldn’t see, you couldn’t predict what could happen. But your defiance refused to let this awful man dictate when you saw Ghost’s face for the first time.

“Who told you about this place?” Foster asked quietly.

Nothing was heard from Ghost now, besides his breathing. You tried to match yours to his, pressing your lips together, your nostrils flaring against the throbbing pain.

Sharp pain splintered through your big toe, up your right foot. Your body fought the restraints and channelled your masked yelps into the bindings. Slowly, your chest puffed out all the air before sucking some back in.

“You’ve got at least nine more chances to tell me,” and Foster tapped his weapon – presumably the butt of his gun - against the rest of your toes. “Now tell me, how did you find this place?”

Between internal screams, you prayed that Ghost wouldn’t give up, and that his presence would give you the strength to do the same.

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

“Gambit, you still with me?”

You let out a hum, since it was all that your throat would allow. A sigh emitted from your Lieutenant. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or remorse. Sure, Ghost cared for you. You were on his team; it was in his job description to give the bare minimum amount of shits about you. However you could only hope that he gave as many as you did him. Or maybe now you hoped he didn’t, so that the mental barrier holding back the intel didn’t break so soon – or at all.

Your eyebrows raised and scrunched to stretch your face, but your eyes remained shut. Ghost hadn’t said a word about his mask being replaced and you doubted that Foster been kind enough to replace it between sessions.

The sound of the door opening reached you again; you could tell by the pattern of the foot fall that it was Foster. So, you cracked a joke in your head, that you were privileged that a terrorist with a notoriously busy schedule had made way for you and Ghost.

The laughter in your head was cut off when a fist yanked at the roots of your hair, forcing you to face the ceiling. Your eyes winced but still did not-

“Open.”

You waited for Foster’s response to your inaction.

A gloved hand suddenly grappled with your jaw, which was as clenched as your eyelids.

“Your mouth. Open it.”

Eventually, Foster managed to get it open long enough to pour something in. You choked on the first splash but began glugging it down once you realised that it was water and that Foster wasn’t pinching your nose. This wasn’t waterboarding. This was survival – extending your torture to reap its potential benefits. Thus you didn’t savour any of it nor save any to spit back in Foster’s face. Your torturer threw your head aside, strain twinging up your neck. A few seconds later, you could hear similar sounds – Ghost’s turn. That other benefit of not having to see whatever Foster was doing to Ghost. Unfortunately, your shoulders could not reach high enough to shield your ears.

A scrape from the table told you Foster had brought back his tools. Last time he was here, he’d tried to use them on Ghost. However since you weren’t opening your eyes, the effect was not as intended. As a reflex, you attempted to dissociate. One might think the injuries and blood loss might make it easier to fade away from your body. But no, the pain grounded you in your body. So it only made things worse when you found your jaw getting wrenched at again.

“Let them go!” boomed Ghost, causing your heart to ripple against your ribs. Him showing an ounce of care scared you more than Foster did. It meant something worse than before was coming and you were both getting close to breaking.

A bang shattered against your ear drums; the darkness before your eyelids grew a tad bit brighter. Your neck was sharply encircled by Foster’s arm, and your chin struggled against the crook of his elbow. Airway trapped, you were immobilised and drowning on dry land. The grip on you tightened, squeezing your eyes out of their sockets but still you held strong. If this was the last thing you did, you would not betray your friend.

The shouting began, all blended together, overwhelming your fractured mind. It grew and grew into a crescendo of bellows that shrilled with its urgency. Your mind bubbled at the edges a

Then it stopped. A snap. Foster’s weight dropped onto you. Something metal clattered onto the floor. Wet dribbled down your neck.

Thunderous absence of noise surrounded you, your weak attempts to suck in a deep breath barely a prickle in it. You hunched under Foster’s weight. There was no energy left to make a pitiful attempt to dissuade him. You were so encompassed by it that you failed to notice the approaching footsteps right up until you felt the air punctuated into your cheek by this new person’s presence.

A hand wiped at your forehead, lifting gently as it went.

“Gambit, you with me?”

You let out a sigh crossed with a laugh, “Gaz?”

Gaz replied with a chuff of relief, “Let’s get you home.”

The weight on your shoulders was yanked aside; your wrists felt an inch of relief as the plastic bindings were severed. There was din all around again: radio chatter, mumbled remarks about the location, and echoes around the concrete.

You tried raising your head to see “Ghost?”

“I’m here,” and his voice was oh so close now, “I’m here. You’re ok.”

Then you felt the binds on your wrists slacken completely. Your body tipped forwards and your head knocked into someone else’s.

“Gotcha.”

Ghost’s.

“You can open your eyes.”

Your grimy, sweat-stained skin rubbed harshly against his as he instructed you to open your eyes. Your whimper could not be contained as you shook your head:

“No. I don’t want to.”

“You need to open your eyes, Gambit.”

“Your face,” Your arm wavered, preventing you from emphasising your point, “I can’t.” And your body slouched further into him. True darkness took over the edges of your eyelids. The last thing you recalled was being caught by three hands and someone saying your name – not your callsign, but your name.

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

Your feet were in bandages, bones reset, though amputation was not out of the questions just yet. Turns out three days with sprains, breaks, and no toenails were not beneficial to you. It was a good thing that you had been carried to the helicopter and not made to walk

Stiff with lack of use, you deduced, and you didn’t try to wiggle them as you opened up your eyes. The bulbs above your bed burnt your sight; you winced away from them. Curtains surrounded your bed. They protected you from the shame you might’ve felt had anyone seen the state you were in. With a sigh, you willed yourself to sink into the mattress a little deeper and return to slumber.

However a set of approaching footsteps caught your ears. Then a gloved hand peeled back one of the curtains to reveal Ghost, his other arm still in a sling that was stark white against his normal gear and the basic black balaclava that was back where it belonged.

“Gambit,” he said, hesitating in the gap between the curtains before drawing them.

You went to say his alias, but you were halted by a sudden coughing fit. Your throat had decided now was a good time to curl up into sandpaper. At your side, Ghost held the cup to your lips. Your weak hands tried to take over holding it; Ghost’s firm ones curled around yours steady. His gloves were worn and rough like the calloused skin beneath, warm against your feeble fingers.

Once the coughing fit had abated, Ghost sat back in the chair adjacent to your bed whilst not quite making eye contact with you. Normally, he had no issues staring you down. Perhaps he had been worried about you.

Sniffing behind his mask, Ghost said, “You did good not giving up that intel.”

A compliment. He must have been really worried about you.

“As did you, sir.”

His eyes wavered towards the passing clogs beneath the dividing curtain as a medic passed by your section. Remaining rigid, he adjusted the inside of his hoodie pocket before speaking again.

“You should’ve opened your eyes. It might’ve helped you with Foster.”

“He’d’ve seen how I reacted to you. Gauged better how to get us to give up.”

How to get me to give up, you thought.

You continued quickly, “It’s better that he just had you. You’re better at controlling yourself than me.”

Ghost was silent for a while, and you were too. It was only a tad uncomfortable; you chalked it up to your injuries, your elbows being the only thing that really felt relief in this hospital bed. Perhaps that was what compelled you to explain him your reasoning further.

“I didn’t want to see you if you didn’t want me to.”

“You’ve seen my face before.”

“Hardly.” That was true for the most part. All you’d allowed yourself to see was one hell of a chin when Ghost lifted his mask up to eat or drink something in a mess hall. You concluded, “Showing your face is your call, Ghost. Not Foster’s or mine or anyone’s.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep sigh. Then Ghost grabbed the neck and peeled his mask up in one smooth motion, his chin on his chest. A shock of dirty blond hair – an inch of it pure white at the roots – was flattened against his scalp, until Ghost’s fingers combed through it twice. It matched his dainty eyelashes.

He looked back up at last. Your sight was stuck mainly on his eyes, still surrounded by their superhero mask painted onto his skin where the holes in his mask had been. Then you started making concentric circles around his face. Scars cut from the corners of his lips through his cheeks. Little ones dotted about his prominent nose, eyebrows, forehead, lips. A few bruises highlighted where Foster had gotten him.

You realised that you were staring with your lips parted and eyes wide so that you could commit his face to memory. But you couldn’t help yourself either.  

In short, your suspicions were confirmed: he was goddamn gorgeous.

He was just about to hide it away again, his matching skeleton gloves going to pull down his balaclava when you sat up quickly.

“Wait.”

Stilling, Ghost waited for you to speak again.

Your outstretched hand closed into a loose fist, “Just… Can I touch you?”

His reply was staggered with a blink, “Yes.” And he leant forwards with his elbows on his knees.

It struck you then why he was so unlike himself: he wasn’t here as Ghost.

The backs of your knuckles clumsily made contact with his right cheek, dragging down his jaw. Simon closed his eyes. His head tilted a fraction against your touch. Tears sprung free and tracked down your cheeks, contradicted by your smile that was brimming with the delight of being trusted.

“You’re right,” Simon mused when he opened his eyes, “Good thing you kept your eyes closed.”

“Yeah,” You sniffled. “But at least now I can tell Soap you’re not ugly.”

Scoffing, Simon tugged his balaclava back over his face and adjusted it to fit properly, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“How wrong he was,” you almost giggled with glee.

Even as the laughter ceased, your smile remained. And you could tell by the small crinkles at his eyes that Simon was too.

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

AN: In my head, Ghost has Marie Antoinette syndrome, but before he had sandy blond hair.

[transform4u]

I’m a gay British boy who’s about to start Oxford university, but I’ve always loved the idea of fraternities can you make me an all American frat bro himbo

You hear the ringing in your ears first, a high-pitched whine that crescendos until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, snappppp—a jarring shift, and you're plunged into a sea of chaotic noise and flashing lights. The air is thick with sweat, beer, and the pungent tang of energy drinks. The music pulses through the room like a living thing, a relentless beat that drowns out everything else. “Roll up in the whip, yeah, we gettin’ lit, Every night’s a party, yeah, we never quit. Poppin’ bottles, hittin’ shots, it’s a vibe, In the club, everybody’s feelin’ alive.”

The thumping bass reverberates in your chest, and the strobe lights dance erratically across the room. You start to feel a wave of self-consciousness, folding inward as you try to make sense of your surroundings. The crowd’s energy seems almost overwhelming, and you instinctively shrink into yourself, trying to blend into the background.

Suddenly, a colossal figure looms behind you. His presence is commanding, and before you can react, he slaps you on the back with a force that makes your whole body jolt. “Lighten up, bro!” he bellows, thrusting a cold beer into your hand.

As you lift the beer to your lips, the fizzy liquid hits your system like a jolt of electricity. The cold sensation spreads through your body, and you can feel it almost instantaneously. Your muscles begin to twitch, and then—without warning—your body starts to expand. It’s like an incredible rush of energy and growth. Your abs, once lean and unremarkable, begin to tighten and define themselves, blossoming into a chiseled six-pack. Your biceps swell, becoming massive and bulging, the veins standing out like ropes under your skin. Your triceps grow, and your pecs balloon outward, pressing against the fabric of your shirt until it stretches to its limits.

Your bubble butt takes shape, rounding out and enhancing the curvature of your body. It feels almost surreal as you watch your physique transform in the mirrors scattered around the room. Memories of a preppy Oxford education and the quiet evenings watching Doctor Who on Saturday nights start to fade, replaced by a rush of new experiences. The country clubs, the genteel atmosphere of high society, and the small, timid boy hiding behind the couch are slowly displaced by vibrant scenes of football games and raucous nights of partying.

In the back of your mind, you can almost hear the cheers of your old man and your seven brothers as they watch Notre Dame games together. The memories of a Catholic upbringing, your Irish roots, and growing up in Indiana become vivid, almost tangible. The once-familiar scenes of quiet sophistication are replaced by the roaring excitement of tailgates, the camaraderie of friends, and the boisterous laughter that echoes through these nights of revelry.

Your height shrinks gradually, inch by inch, until you’re standing at 5'6". With this physical change comes a surge of anger, an almost primal frustration. You remember the teasing, the jokes about your height from your bros, and how you dedicated yourself to bulking up, pushing yourself to build the kind of physique you always wanted. The transformation is complete: you’re now a young, hotheaded 20-year-old, brimming with muscle and confidence, ready to dive headfirst into the energetic chaos of the party.

Around you, the festivities rage on. The music blares, people dance, and the atmosphere is electric. Beers are clinking, laughter fills the air, and the party shows no sign of slowing down. You’re in the heart of it all, embodying the vibrant, intense energy of the night, fully immersed in this new, exhilarating version of yourself.

As the party rages on, you feel an overwhelming surge of confidence, an intense sense of badassery that courses through your veins. Your reflection in the mirror catches your eye, and you notice something incredible: intricate tattoos begin to appear across your skin, spreading like wildfire.

It starts with a simple black ink design on your forearm, a fierce tribal pattern that coils and twists, its sharp lines and bold curves giving you an instantly menacing look. The pattern seems to pulse with life, almost as if it's syncing with the rhythm of the music.

The tattoo extends from your forearm up to your bicep, where it morphs into a large, detailed dragon. Its scales are meticulously shaded, each curve and edge giving it a three-dimensional effect that makes it look like it’s about to leap off your skin. The dragon's eyes seem to glimmer with a fiery intensity, and as it wraps around your arm, it seems to growl with silent power.

The amber liquid slides down your throat, each gulp a small victory against your own intellect. You can feel the beer coursing through your veins, a slow poison that dulls the edges of your mind with each passing second. It starts with a faint buzz, a gentle hum that tickles the back of your skull. But soon, the buzz grows louder, more insistent, until it drowns out all rational thought.

Your brain, once a hive of activity and knowledge, begins to shut down sector by sector. Memories of British history and literature fade away, replaced by a hazy blur of American pop culture. The names and faces of long-forgotten kings and queens are pushed aside by the grinning visages of reality TV stars and TikTok personalities. Your mind, once a bastion of intelligence and sophistication, is now a wasteland of shallow entertainment and empty calories.

You let out a laugh, a crude, obnoxious sound that echoes through the room. It's a laugh devoid of wit or charm, the kind of laugh that announces your descent into stupidity for all to hear. Your thoughts, once complex and nuanced, are now reduced to simple, base desires. You want to eat, to drink, to fuck. Anything beyond that is too much for your diminished brain to handle.

As you take another swig of beer, you feel a pressure building in your gut. It's a familiar sensation, one that you've felt countless times before. But this time, it's different. This time, it's a pressure that signifies the final nail in the coffin of your intellect. With a loud, vulgar noise, you release a massive fart, a testament to your complete and utter lack of class or refinement.

In that moment, you feel a sense of relief wash over you. The burden of knowledge, of intelligence, is lifted from your shoulders. You are no longer a slave to the demands of your mind, no longer beholden to the expectations of society. You are free to be the dumbest version of yourself, a brute force of ignorance and stupidity.

As you stand there, surrounded by the stench of your own flatulence and the bitter taste of cheap beer, you realize that this is your true calling. To be a complete and utter dumbass, a walking embodiment of everything that is wrong with modern society. And as you raise your glass in a toast to your own idiocy, you know that there's no turning back. You are now, and forevermore, a complete and total fucking moron.

You let out a dumb chuckle as you spot a hot dude across the bar. He's got that total bro vibe going on, just like you. But as you inhale, your nostrils flare, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. The stench of your own wet fart fills your nostrils, and for a moment, you're disgusted at the thought of finding another dude attractive. "No homo, bro. Just checking out his gains," you mumble to yourself in a thick bro accent, trying to justify your gaze.

Your eyes wander from the bro to a dumb blonde chick across the room. She's wearing nothing but a short skirt and a tight tank top, her breasts practically begging to be squeezed. You feel your cock twitch in your jeans as you imagine all the dirty things you could do to her. Without a second thought, you approach her, flexing your thick biceps as you go. "Hey there, sexy. I'm the biggest, baddest motherfucker here. How about you come back to my place and let me show you a good time?" you say, your words dripping with cheesy pickup line bravado.

The blonde giggles dumbly, clearly impressed by your macho posturing. "Ooh, you're so strong and manly," she coos, running a finger down your chest. "I bet you could really fuck me good." Your mind races with lustful thoughts of scoring with this dumbass chick. You want to bend her over and fuck her brains out, to make her scream your name as you pound her into submission. "Let's get out of here, babe. I'm gonna make you my little fuck toy," you growl, grabbing her ass possessively.

As you lead her out of the frat house, your hand groping her barely-covered tits, you feel a surge of power and dominance. You're the alpha male, the top dog, and this dumb blonde is your prize. You can't wait to get her alone and show her what a real man is capable of. "You're mine now, bitch," you snarl as you shove her into your car. "And I'm gonna use you like the dumb slut you are." The blonde just giggles, too stupid to realize she's in for the fucking of her life.

[call-me-maggie13]

My late 40s to early 50s boss just asked what’s wrong with 18-25 year olds these days

And as a 21 year old all I could think was

The world has been on fire since we were born and we’ve been told the adults are putting it out and now we’re old enough to realize they’ve been pouring kerosene on the flames instead of water.

Before my first birthday, 9/11 happened and the world wouldn’t let us forget it. When I was 6 years old, on September 11th, my teacher sat us down in front of a tv and showed us footage of 9/11 and then told us we weren’t allowed to cry. She said that it was real and those were real people jumping from the building because jumping was a faster death than burning.

When I was 7 years old, the economy collapsed and my family went from lower middle class to poverty, we went from healthy home cooked meals every night to mac and cheese and beans for weeks in a row. We started skipping holidays because mom and dad couldn’t keep the lights on and buy us new toys. We started wearing clothes and shoes until they fell apart.

When I was 11 years old, Sandy Hook was attacked by a grown man with a gun and 26 children and teachers were brutally murdered. My teachers never looked at us the same and I haven’t felt safe in a school since. After that, once a month we would have active shooter drills and we were taught to fight and cause as much damage as possible if an armed man entered our classroom because it gave other classes a few extra seconds to escape, it gave our siblings a few extra breaths of safety. We were taught to cover ourselves in other students blood and play dead if we weren’t hit, we were taught that we weren’t safe and we wouldn’t be safe as long as we were in school.

When I was 15 years old, my high school art teacher locked us in the classroom and told us if we heard gunshots we should line the desks up lengthwise so that they reached the other wall because that would be harder to break through than a barricade. She told us that she knew about the threats and she wouldn’t judge any of us that wanted to leave. She told us to get our siblings and stay in the buildings as long as possible, to duck in between the cars so we couldn’t be seen until we got to ours. She told us about the trail behind the auto shop that was lined with trees and led off campus. I got my brother and his friends and we left, we spent the day sitting on the floor in my living room waiting for a phone call that the people we left behind were dying.

Two weeks later, one of my friends dragged me out of a football game and forced me to go home with him. He grabbed my brothers and my best friend and forced the six of us into a two seater car before he would tell us anything. His mom worked for the school board and had told him the police found an active bomb under the bleachers in the student section, and they weren’t informing anyone because they didn’t want to incite panic.

When I was 16 years old, ISIS set off a bomb at a pop concert in Britain and killed 22 people, injuring at least 100 more. The next day at school, our teachers went over how to stay safe if we ever experienced something like that. They told us the most important thing to remember was to not remove any shrapnel because it could be keeping us from bleeding out, they said it was more important to get yourself out safely before you worried about anyone else.

When I was 18 years old, my teachers stopped teaching and put the news up on the projector and we watched as the Notre-Dame burned. The boy I had sat next to since second grade spent the entire day trying to call his sister who was studying abroad in Paris, I watched this kid I had never even seen frown fall apart in English because she wouldn’t pick up the phone. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was okay.

Six months later, my history teacher put the news on the projector again for another fire. This time, we watched as an entire continent burned for three months. We watched their sky turned orange from the smoke and their wildlife drowned in pools because they were trying to escape the heat.

When I was 19 years old, the whole world shut down because of a global pandemic. I didn’t meet a single new person for eight months, despite the fact that I had just moved across the country. I watched as people didn’t wear masks and spread it to everyone around them, I was so scared when I went back to my room every night because my roommate was immunocompromised and I was terrified I would give her Covid and kill her.

Just two months later, I watched a video of a black man being murdered by police officers. I watched the world around me explode after George Floyd’s death, people destroying businesses and police stations. I watched some of my friends realize police officers didn’t exist to keep them safe, they existed to keep the people in power in power. I learned that some of the people I had grown up with would rather watch a black man die than admit that maybe, maybe, the system was broken.

When I was 20 years old, I went to the mall with a friend to buy a birthday present and I was pulled to the ground by a twelve-year-old girl after gunshots went off in the mall. I held this child’s hands as she cried for two hours until we were evacuated by police, and then I waited with her outside and helped her look for her mom. I gave her my phone to call her mom and I watched as she called the number over and over and never got a reply. I waited with her until a police officer took her to the station to try to find out more information about the girl’s mom, I hugged this girl I had never seen before and I wished her the best. I never found out what happened to her or her mom, it keeps me up at night sometimes worrying that this little girl was orphaned.

When I was 21 years old, I started working at a daycare and exactly a week later, Uvalde happened and I found myself crying because my students are the same age those kids were. When they came in after school the next day, one of them had asked me if I had heard about Uvalde and I told her I had, I asked her if she was scared of going to school because of it. Her reply broke my heart. “We practice for it every week so that when it happens to us, we know what to do. I’m just worried that the shooter is going to start in my baby sister’s classroom and not mine.” I listened as other students with younger siblings agreed with her, one of them saying “I would take fifty bullets, if I had to to keep my little brother safe.”

Early this year, I watched Russia launched bombs into Ukraine, blowing up churches and schools and hospitals and apartment buildings. I watched as the estimated death count rose from the hundreds to the thousands to the tens of thousands. I watched men send their wives and children to bordering countries for refuge while they stayed behind to fight, knowing they would probably never see each other again.

Just four months ago, I watched as my right to medical privacy got taken away. I watched my old roommate fall apart because she was denied the right to have her dead fetus removed from her body for almost two days, I worried every time I looked away from her that the next time I saw her would be in a casket. I watched as the women around me realized the military-grade weapons that had torn children in classrooms apart were protected by the government but our bodies weren’t.

There is nothing “wrong” with my generation, we’ve experienced all these things as children and were expected to respond with patriotism for a country that continuously sacrificed their children for the “right” to military-grade weapons, that took away my freedom of choice. We are tired, we were told the world was a wonderful place then shown, at every step, how the world was a place of destruction and pain. And we are angry. We are angry because no one but us seems to be trying to fix anything. And we are scared. We are scared because our children, our nieces and nephews, our cousins and our friends children are growing up in a world that won’t protect them.

[chefkids]

Wondering if you have any thoughts on the symbolism of “our mother of victory” line between the siblings. Not sure if it has any meaning behind just reflecting their (probably) catholic upbringing, but I don’t trust anything in this show to not have further meaning so wondering what smarter minds out there mean…

Our Mother of Victory, Pray for Us

The root of this is in the saying Our Lady of Victory, Pray for Us, which comes from a battle that the Catholics won against the Ottoman Turks. It is often used as a prayer before big event, Notre Dame football team says it before football games for good luck. Adding mother instead of Lady places their mother, Donna, in comparison to a literal Saint, the Virgin Mary. Which is ironic and part of their inside joke because as we know she is far from a Saint.

But I actually think this is a reference to a John Hughes movie called The Great Outdoors, a movie about bear attacks believe it or not. In the opening scene the say Our Lady of Victory, Pray for Us.

We already know Chris Storer has said Hughes movies are a big source of inspiration, specifically in season 2. He included songs from movies like Pretty in Pink, National Lampoons Vacation, and he even gave Kevin McCalliper McCallister from Home Alone a shout out.

Yes. Even more Bears and Fish. So bear with me.

The Great Outdoors is about a family from Chicago that goes on a trip to a cabin and the mother's sister and her husband, who they don't really get along with, invite themselves on the trip. At the start of the movie the dad tells them all a scary story about a man eating bear that he saw through the window and shot at but is still on the loose.

The Bear also starts off with a man going face to face with a bear. The bulk of the movie is about the two families not getting along, but by the end of it, the mythological bear appears and chases them into their cabin and attacks them, but they end up scaring it away and then they all get along and things work out between them.

The first Bear attack after their prayer was with Mikey and Donna

The second Bear attack was with Carmy

But this time, they were actually victorious. Because of Sydney. She managed to get the Bear away from them so they could keep going.

She is their miracle. Right before Sydney ever appeared there was a Virgin Mary figure. Sydney is always portrayed like Mary with light behind her, even with her hair always covered and in blue and white. Mikey is viewed as a Jesus like figure, he died so that they could all fix their sins and the restaurant. He is this ghostly figure whose memory is everywhere. Sydney and Mikey tied together, and she is the one that takes on his last words. Let it rip.

Carmy views Syd as a miracle, he could barely even look at her when he said it. Finding the money in the tomato cans was a miracle, it allowed her to come back and be with him. Her coming to work for him in the first place was a miracle, she came in at the perfect time when he needed her the most. Their Mother of Victory was not their mother at all, but Sydney.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Picture an Angel

warning : obsession, using of ropes, innocent/naive reader, older man/younger woman, Frollo being Frollo

Info : Our lord and savior has a hold on me and I wanted to write more for him and his way to corrupt the innocent reader. I see you guys liked my first One-Shot with him here is more have fun reading ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His angel. She was his angel, his sweet angel in the church that was almost completely in his hands. He knew exactly that as soon as either her father died or another man came he had to strike. He had to finally have her, the golden ring on her finger that he had bought her specially would be given to her by him.

He would own her as his wife. Knew that it would only take a few more steps until they would be united under God and he had her all to himself. But until then he still had time to play his game and would do so. Because like every lord, every man with influence and power he wanted to show this.

Wanted to see and show the beauty of his love at all times. A work of art. He wanted to hold her beauty, wanted to have her hanging on his wall until he would finally have her. A picture of temptation in his bedroom and to dream about his physical desire to finally give satisfaction.

He would not entrust this work of art to any artist too much he was afraid that the one would take her away from him. Artists as beautiful as art could be were free spirits and could enchant such young, delicate beings as his angel was.

But he himself had strength he knew he would exploit their piety and naivety. Because he was the church and would thus protect them from evil. The evil that was everywhere and only his angel was the light in this damned world.

,,My angel" he murmured and his ringed fingers ran over the stained glass window in his room. A creation that spoke even more for his wealth. The light of the rising sun the red of the glass flaming sun punished him the cave called for him and would eventually fetch him.

A cave that surrounded him and the church the home of his angel. He saw the church, saw Notre Dame and knew that she was lighting the candles. How beautiful she looked as she lay down and prayed before the Blessed Virgin.

How her hands were clasped together, her head bowed, or sometimes looking up at the statue. He watched her as if she were his holy virgin the gesture went from pious in his eyes to lustful. Kneeling before him she would either way.

His horse Snowball was already saddled and made ready at his door. And with the ringing of the church bells he got on his horse and rode through the dirty streets of Paris to get closer to the church.

He rode faster and faster, the people he did not care and rushed or jumped to the side. They were unfair and were only unnecessarily in his way. The mob turned away and only moments later he had arrived at his angel.

His pretty holy angel he would wait for him in the church. Descending and straightening his clothes, he opened the heavy church door made of the old wood before the cold of the stones gave way to him.

The torches and candles were burning and yet no one seemed to be here. No one except himself and his pretty angel. Where are you, my love? he asked himself, stepping forward and after a few minutes he heard the soft singing. The bright voice of his love seemed to call him and he followed.

He followed her up to the church tower where she had her room. The big room with the view of the city she loved. The city where she stayed only with her father or a few guards, otherwise Frollo would always be at her side.

The thought that she might come to harm had made the judge a little crazy. But the possibility that he would lock her up in such a way that the people would hate him even more did not occur to him. He listened to the singing for a few more minutes before knocking.

,,Who is it?" she asked and he thought he heard her startled gasp. You will sing for me, my heart, went through his mind before he announced himself and entered her room. The light of the sun shining on her through the window, the colored glass showing an angel with a white rose made her look even more beautiful.

The light dress she wore was pretty and yet chaste it was perfectly fitted to her. But he could see exactly her ankles, her tender hands and wrists and her neck and guess what her body looked like underneath.

Her beauty would still belong to him. ,,My Lord, you have come for the picture," she said, and he heard her uncertainty, knowing that her father knew nothing about it. She had told Frollo that day that the Dean of Paris would visit the orphanages in the city.

The elder nodded, looked in the corner of her room and saw under the large white cloth the canvas and the easel, the colors her father had given her for her twentieth birthday. A day on which Frollo had also given her something.

A golden ring with an amethyst inserted, he had put it on her finger. A look at her hands told him that she still wore it. She belonged to him, respected and only because she did not know the world as he knew it. ,,Am I really suitable for this...there are more beautiful women" she murmured and looked at her hands on which the ring was.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head, seeing her looking up at him as his hand came down on hers. ,,Not my flower," he started and ran his fingers over her cheek, turning her head towards the small mirror which was another gift from him to her. He saw her looking at herself and saw the small discoloration of her cheeks.

,,You are the image of the Virgin Mary, you are true piety and beauty," he finished telling her before detaching himself from her and instructing her to sit on her chair while he set up the easel and placed the blank canvas on it. ,,I'll adjust it a little for the perfect picture," he said after setting up the oil paints knowing he was the only one who could paint her perfectly. It was his.

Separating himself from the painting, he went over to her and took a rope from his coat pocket. ,,It is the ribbons of faith that have made Mary consort with the angel...as you blossom here, you too will live up to the angel, won't you?" he asked and the rope slowly tightened around her wrists holding her hands in the praying position folded on her lap.

His long thin cold fingers were adept at tying the knot, taking his time before lightly grasping her chin and making her look up.

There was uncertainty in her gaze as he knelt down and lightly lifted the fabric of her dress. ,,Frollo!" she said in surprise and wonder, and she wanted to pull away, but he just put his hand on her thigh and placed the ruffled fabric in her hand.

,,Always one step at the sin...the flesh of the body and the beauty is what the devil wants isn't it?" he asked and saw how she seemed slightly overwhelmed her voice that could sing so beautifully fell silent for a moment before she nodded and turned her gaze towards the picture. Goosebumps appeared on her body as his fingers stroked up her ankle and he withdrew.

Even her good faith only went so far as she could interpret a man's desires. ,,Is everything done so far?" she dared to ask, looking at him hopefully, still knowing that for a woman of God's house she must look lewd. But for Frollo she was everything.

She was the angel of innocence and the fire of sin on which he would and should burn himself. ,,It's ready, I'll start, don't move my dear" he demanded and she complied with his request. Frollo took the brush and began to apply the first colors to the painting.

While his fingers knew exactly what they were doing, his eyes kept going over her body and he saw her either avoiding his gaze, not holding it, or looking at the window with the angel. His eyes held on the ropes at her wrist, imagining how her body would look when he tied her to the bed.

The rope would leave marks on her hands, legs, thighs, arms and breasts. The marks he would caress to make up for it. Would she cry? The tears in her eyes dripping onto the pillow he would wipe away and kiss away, reassuring her that it was his will.

She would be good to him. She had to. As she held up her dress he saw more and more of her skin and enjoyed the warmth and softness as he stroked over it. He imagined what it would be like to have her next to him, warming his bed and keeping him warm. She would become his angel. His wife.

His until the sun threatened to set in the sky and he knew they would have to continue it another day. ,,It's time...Father will be back soon" she said and he saw how the position was starting to hurt her and she tried to move a little. But he calmly put back the colors and the canvas.

He let her take her time before returning to her, letting the fabric fall back over her ankles and twisting a strand of her hair back and forth between his fingers. ,,We'll finish it, I promise, my flower," he murmured and after a time that was almost too long he opened the rope and took it with him.

He helped her up from the chair and in an act of lust kissed her wrist prints. He heard her surprised gasp but she did not pull away. ,,For your effort, I'll bring you a rose next time, it goes with the picture," he said and saw her nod a little before she lowered her gaze again and shut up. But by the time the dean arrived, his daughter had already put on her gloves and was reading again.

But the shot and the kiss still seemed to burn like the cave fire that would await Frollo after he landed in the grave. But as this would still have time, because first the devil would go to the flower sooner or later. Sooner or later she would be his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ria-coolgirl , @hesperia24 , @aliensthegreat , @strangecrowd133 , @her3ge , @fantadym @ranminfan , @siwucha , @cat-lover-nile

[iliveiloveiwrite]

✨-Colin Bridgerton, im obsessing over him since season 3 came out and im desperate for more content😩 I hope youre doing well, thank you🥰

My love,

It’s close to eighteen hours since we were pronounced as husband and wife, and in those eighteen hours I have pinched myself eighteen times for I cannot seem to believe that an angel such as yourself could marry a lost soul like me.

In my years of travelling, I have seen many breathtaking sights. I’ve watched the sun rise over the Acropolis in Athens, I’ve heard the bells of Notre Dame ring for its morning service. I have experienced the beauty that much of Europe has to offer, yet all of that does not compare to the sight of you walking down the aisle. It holds no comparison to the sound of your vows - your gentle, loving voice echoing in the church where you promised me your forever. The countries I have visited, the experiences that have shaped my worldviews are inherently nothing to the sight of you in our marriage bed.

As I write this, the sun has only just begun to appear on the horizon, painting the sky a rosy pink reminiscent of the flush on your skin after our first night together as husband and wife. Dim light is beginning to fill the room, casting its warm glow across your face. Your lashes begin to flitter against the bright intrusion and I cannot help but wonder whether you were handmade for me; whether I hoped, prayed and wished so strongly that the deities heard and you were sent to me - for me, alone.

There are not enough words in the English language for me to accurately describe the depths of my feelings for you. Luckily, I have an eternity to show you just how much you mean to me, just how much I love you and just how lucky a man I am to have found a woman like you.

I’m finishing my letter here - you’ve woken up and called to me. I cannot help the smile that crosses my face at the sound of your voice; our eternity begins now.

I love you now, I’ll love you always.

Colin.

[lovesicklovermia]

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙧𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙚

﹒﹒ ﹒summary - silence had been infiltrating for longer than you could recall. even reunited, silence was continued. yet, it was silence filled with joy.

﹒﹒ ﹒set in - some point during/after daryl dixon tv show! but don't worry, no spoilers, you dont need to watch that to read this!! (mostly because i havent even watched it)

﹒﹒ ﹒pairing - daryl dixon x reader

﹒﹒ ﹒ content inclusions - france!!! angst!! light fluff!! reader is a ballet dancer!!

notre dame once owned lights, candles that glistened and glowed above tourists, mourners, anyone’s eyeline. they had filled the old building with so much historical knowledge, so much joy and understanding (usually) for the place they were visiting. yet, as walkers took over, the visitor numbers fell almost instantly, until there was nobody.

then, many years later, there was you.

a ballet scholarship in paris had been extremely short lived. you recalled the day well. dancing around your room, as stupid as ever, and although alone in this momentous occasion, it didn’t take you too long to realise you had someone who you could celebrate with.

so, with your best friend in lead and a grin on his face, you’d driven his motorbike to the cheapest liquor store you could, gotten wasted, then kissed yourselves dizzy.

three weeks later, you left for paris. suitcase in hand, your best friend was honestly troubled by the fact he couldn’t drive you on his motorbike all the way to the airport. you’d laughed it off, and driven together.

the goodbye was the worst. you didn’t know what to do, where to touch, who to hold who. to his surprise, you'd held him. you placed one hand on the back of his hair, one on his collarbone, and you’d leaned in, and given the most awkward press-hug of your life. 

you regretted it every day. 

a week later, the apocalypse had began.

you’d been in a stretch class, until the only thing that really stretched was those vile creatures, their pale and disfigured arms reaching towards you with the cruellest of intentions. the girls you danced with named them as ‘laidrons’, meaning ‘uglies’, and you found yourself in no rush to disagree. 

the nights trapped in the ballet academy were long, but your regrets lasted longer. you didn’t doubt your talents in ballet - not that it mattered anymore, anyway. you didn’t doubt your skills, or your willpower to move countries, to move to a country where you could not understand the language so well. 

you regretted not kissing your best friend goodbye.

perhaps it was stockholm syndrome, your captors being the vile, sickly creatures that had taken over your lives, where you could go, how you had dressed in preparation, what you could eat - everything benefited those who had taken over. you’d lived first. now, you couldn’t imagine a free world. yet, as these days had gone by, you imagined how it’d feel holding him, him holding you, the simple emotion that flooded and pumped through your veins as you thought about the taste of his lips, a taste you’d so quickly recalled from the drunken night of your acceptance, yet forgotten soon after.

yet, as years came and went, and zombies showed no signs of stopping, you regretted your choices of education, not only those regarding your best friend. you longed for sanctuary, so sanctuary is where you went.

notre dame.

a gorgeous building, and although the bells no longer sang to warn of new hours, new days, you practically sang with joy as you’d entered the building. those joyous notes had quickly been subsided, however, as you’d realised you had to clear out an entire hoard of uglies. cameras dangling from their sickly necks, t-shirts with baguettes, macarons and eiffel towers. you’d kept a camera, but once looking through the photographs, had decided to bury it in the back garden. it felt wrong, to rifle through photos of the person you’d just killed.

you made a life for yourself in notre dame. towering walls and doors meant years of salvation, and salvation is what you received. wine, stored in towers. food, that you took from stores and rationed without failure. perhaps it was wrong, to bury your life away in one building, for the rest of time. perhaps it was wrong for whoever to send a zombie apocalypse upon this weak world. what could be done?

you reflected, every day. however that looked that day - that was up to you. you changed your ways of reflection often. sometimes you’d close your eyes, sometimes you’d plead for a bright future, and sometimes you’d stare up at the stain glass windows. just because the world had been overthrown, that did not effect the bright light emitted from the sun.

today, you’d stared. and you’d stared, and you’d stared. your doors were blocked with such precision, it was a wonder anybody had entered the building at all.

yet, they had.

instead of violence, you’d pleaded for your life to be taken quickly, with ease. you’d pleaded for your life to end as if you were approaching sleep, as if you were returning home, as if you were receiving a kind hug. it had been several years without a hug. it had been several years without people at all.

there had been silence. hell, you hadn’t even heard the footsteps.

then arms looped around your waist, and you’d heard nothing other than a sob.

confusing, yet you’d understood. this was still a cathedral, and you should provide sanctuary for anyone and everyone you could. it wasn’t your fault, that people had presumed that notre dame had been overrun with cruel monsters. it wasn’t your fault, that they were unaware of your newfound title of a murderer.

clearly, your newfound friend had dealt with worse.

you hadn’t pried this individual away, and simply glanced left, instead. a head, tucked away on your shoulder. you recognised the hug, yet your heart beat too quickly to give a quick-witted response. instead, warmth filled your heart.

“are you alright?” you’d practically cooed, for you knew the person well enough, of course. pure silence followed, so you affirmed that you knew who he was. “daryl?”

nothing more than a muffled noise, then as you’d attempted to turn your whole body, you’d practically been launched onto the steps, arms wrapping securely around you. “of course ya’d be in the prettiest damn place ya could find.”

those words, the distance from your last moment that you’d managed to hear his voice, to this precious event. you’d practically only sobbed in response, a small chuckle escaping your lips, before you pressed each palm onto each cheek of his, lifting his head up slightly.

he was a different man.

but, to him, you were still the prettiest girl, lighting up the place, making it the prettiest place in the universe.

maybe you had changed. hell, he wouldn’t have the faintest clue. he was quite worried - not for how he’d fare with the girl he’d been missing for this great number of years, but how he could convince you that he could still love you, despite his fear to say so.

he thought it felt wrong, to hold you in such a doting and gentle manner, while he had slung people-killers, a bow and arrow thrown over his back. he’d held you gentler than he’d held anything since the apocalypse, yet, as you’d squeezed him back tighter than ever, he’d recalled that normalcy was, to some, the easiest way to deal with such an inhumane situation.

he understood quickly that you were one of such people, and as he’d whispered his vows to stay with you, whether here, whether in america, or whether on the moon itself, thoughts of others had been discarded - for once, in his life.

he’d lived so long without you, his strength emitted from serving justice to you, which - despite his usual confidence in you, had faltered as the world did too. he did presume you were dead.

yet, as you’d lit a candle together, the light from both the windows and the one singular candle emitting you to see one another, you’d simply studied one another for a while.

feeling whole was no longer something either of you could reward yourselves with. but, one another’s presence was the closest you could ever reach.

[muiitoloko]

A few days ago I remembered some videos/posts that talked about how Judge Turpin and Minister Frollo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame) looked alike, well, imagine if our dear Turpin had a partner with a strong personality like Esmeralda has, who doesn't obey the judge's orders and one of her biggest hobbies is to irritate him (whether by doing silly things like pasting drawings on his things or even something like leaving the house when he had said no) but despite everything they get along well and love each other in their own way

You don't have to write about it, only if you want to of course, I just had to ramble about it with someone

(Isso tá remoendo minha cabeça desde o final de semana juro pra ti 😭)

Title: The Witch and the Judge.

Summary: Despite everything, Judge Turpin loved his damned gypsy.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: none

Author's Notes: Haha, can you imagine Judge Turpin dealing with a partner like that? It would be like trying to control a whirlwind with a mind of its own! 😄 But hey, who knows, maybe underneath all that irritation, they'd find a strange sort of harmony. Love can be weird like that!

Your life with Judge Richard Turpin is a complex dance of irritation and affection, a performance that seems to bewilder and entrap him in equal measure. Despite his stern demeanor and the cruel reputation that precedes him, his infatuation with you is a peculiar mix of fascination and frustration, which you wield with the deftness of a seasoned performer.

One crisp morning, you decide to step out into the bustling streets of London without his permission. Dressed in your colorful gypsy attire, you wander through the market square, the scent of fresh bread and spices filling the air. The whispers and stares of townsfolk follow you, a stark contrast to the grim respect they show Turpin. When you finally return, his expression is a storm of fury and relief.

"Where have you been?" he demands, his baritone voice echoing through the grand halls of the mansion. You merely smile, a knowing glint in your eye, and brush past him, leaving him to stew in his mixed emotions.

On another occasion, the mischievous glint in your eye turns towards his prized judicial robes. Waiting until he is preoccupied with one of his many cruel decrees, you sneak into his chambers and don the imposing black garb. The heavy fabric swirls around you as you stand before the mirror, mimicking his haughty stance and imperious glare.

When he finds you, he is momentarily struck silent by the absurdity of the sight. His stern mask cracks, revealing a flicker of amusement before the inevitable exasperation sets in. "You are impossible," he mutters, shaking his head. You laugh, a light and teasing sound that softens his scowl.

Perhaps the most audacious stunt you pull involves the elaborate wooden closet in his study. With a cunning and agility that both amazes and infuriates him, you manage to tie him up inside, gagging him with one of his own silk cravats. You then stride into his courtroom, his robes billowing around you, and take his place on the bench.

The courtroom murmurs in confusion, but none dare question the judge—your judge. You bang the gavel, summoning an authoritative tone. "Order in the court," you declare, relishing the power. The charade lasts only a few minutes before Beadle Bamford bursts in, eyes wide with shock and horror at the sight of you impersonating his master.

Beadle grabbed you firmly by the arm and led you out, his grip tight and his face a mask of concern. You allowed yourself to be guided, playing the part of the innocent and bewildered gypsy wife.

He whisked you into Judge Turpin's office, his steps quick and urgent. "Tell me where the Judge is, now!" Beadle demanded, his voice sharp with worry.

You tapped a finger against your cheek thoughtfully, pretending to ponder. "Oh, Judge Turpin? Hmm... I seem to recall now. I believe I left him somewhere."

Suddenly, a muffled buzzing noise filled the room, as if someone was screaming but gagged. Beadle's eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. "What have you done this time?"

With a flourish, you pointed towards the large wooden closet in the corner of the study. "Why don't you take a look inside, Beadle?"

Beadle hesitated for a moment, then approached the closet cautiously. With a swift motion, he opened the door and Judge Turpin tumbled out, bound and gagged, falling into Beadle's arms. Turpin's eyes blazed with anger and humiliation, but his words were muffled by the silk cravat gagging him.

"You! You treacherous witch!" Turpin's voice was muffled but filled with venom. "I'll have you hanged for this!"

Beadle swiftly removed the gag from Turpin's mouth, allowing him to spew threats and curses. Turpin squirmed in Beadle's grasp, struggling to free himself. "Beadle, you fool! Release me at once! This is insubordination!"

Beadle obeyed with a reluctant nod, releasing Judge Turpin who stumbled to his feet, his face contorted with rage and embarrassment. As Beadle swiftly exited the study, leaving you alone with the seething judge, you turned to face him, the smirk on your face only serving to further incense him.

Turpin lunged towards you, his baritone voice thundering, "You damn gypsy witch! What foul magic have you used on me this time?" His hooked nose twitched with disdain as he grabbed you by the shoulders, his grip tight and unyielding.

You met his furious gaze with a playful glint in your eyes, pretending to be both innocent and provocative at the same time. "Oh, my dear Judge," you cooed, your voice sweet and mocking, "I just wanted to remind you how it feels to be at my mercy."

Turpin's anger only seemed to grow, but beneath it, there was a familiar gleam of desire. "You are an infuriating creature," he growled, his face inches from yours. "You toy with me like a cat with a mouse. Do you take pleasure in humiliating me?"

You chuckled softly, not breaking eye contact. "Maybe a little," you admitted, your hands reaching up to gently touch his face, tracing the lines of his furrowed brow. "But you love it, don't you, Richard? Admit it."

Turpin's expression softened slightly, his sharp features relaxing under your touch. His voice was quieter now, filled with a mix of frustration and longing. "You bewitch me, woman," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "I should have you arrested for this insolence."

You leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing against his ear. "But you won't," you whispered, your voice a low murmur filled with promise. "Because deep down, you want me just as much as I want you."

Turpin's grip on your shoulders loosened, his resolve weakening. "You are a dangerous temptation," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should resist you."

"But you won't," you repeated, a playful smile spreading across your face. "Because I'm the only one who truly understands you, Richard. The only one who can challenge you."

Turpin's hands slid from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together. His voice was low and urgent. "You infuriate me to no end, woman," he breathed, his lips finding yours in a possessive kiss.

You melted into his embrace, knowing that despite his harsh words, you held a power over him that no one else could match. As his hands roamed over your body, you whispered against his lips, "Just admit it, Richard. You love me."

Turpin pulled away slightly, his dark eyes boring into yours. "Damn you," he muttered, his voice thick with desire and frustration. "I love you, you wretched gypsy."

You smirked, tracing a finger along the edge of his jawline. "And I love you, my Judge," you replied, your voice filled with equal parts affection and mischief.

Turpin's lips curved into a reluctant smile, a rare sight, as he watched you waltz away in his judge's robes. His eyes followed your figure, a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration evident in his expression. He shook his head slightly, knowing that your antics would continue to both infuriate and intrigue him.

As you reached the doorway, ready to disappear around the corner, Turpin acted swiftly, stepping forward to close the distance between you. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you firmly against his chest. His hooked nose buried in your hair, he inhaled deeply, the scent of your wildflowers and spice overwhelming his senses.

"Damn witch," Turpin murmured softly, his voice a mixture of exasperation and desire. "You've bewitched me from the moment I saw you."

You tilted your head back, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eyes. "Have I, Judge?" you teased, knowing full well the effect you had on him.

Turpin's grip tightened around you, his baritone voice low and urgent. "Yes, you have," he admitted gruffly. "And now, my dear, it's time for you to learn your place."

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "And what place is that, Judge?" Your voice was teasing, but there was an underlying challenge in your tone.

His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, "Today, I'll be teaching you how to be a proper wife."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a mix of anticipation and curiosity washing over you. Turpin's intentions were clear, yet you couldn't help but smile mischievously.

Before he could act further, you danced out of his embrace, slipping away from his hold. With a flick of your wrist, you threw off the judge's robes, letting them fall to the floor. You turned to face him, standing there in your gypsy attire, a smirk playing on your lips.

Turpin's eyes followed your every move, a mixture of frustration and desire evident in his gaze. As you began to walk away, he couldn't resist any longer. He lunged forward, capturing you in his arms once again. This time, he didn't let you slip away.

"I warned you, you vexing woman," he growled, his lips finding yours in a fierce kiss. His hands moved possessively over your body, pulling you closer against him.

You melted into his embrace, knowing that despite his stern exterior, he was captivated by you in ways he couldn't resist. His kisses were demanding, his touch possessive, but there was a rawness in his desire that matched your own.

When he finally released you, Turpin rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "You are a maddening creature," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "But you're mine."

You smiled, tracing a finger along his jawline. "And you're mine, Richard," you replied softly, your voice filled with a warmth that surprised even you.

Turpin's eyes softened as he looked at you, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Come," he said finally, taking your hand in his. "Let's put an end to these games for now."

You followed him willingly, knowing that while your playful antics had brought you closer together, there was much more to discover about the complex dance that had entwined your lives.

[shitsndgiggs]

heyy just wanted to ask for a quick request! take as much time as you want. your such a good writer!! 🫶🏽

could you do one with arda güler x a feminine reader. they both meet on holiday and after realising they share a few similarities they end up dating or something. you can change it to how you like. something with a plot like that.

thankss!!! ❤️‍🩹

THE CITY OF LOVE - ARDA GÜLER

The city of love brings people together

Arda Güler x fem! reader

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

The bustling streets of Paris were alive with the hum of tourists and the aroma of freshly baked croissants. The Eiffel Tower stood tall in the distance, its iron lattice glistening under the summer sun.

I had always dreamed of visiting Paris, and here I was, ready to capture the perfect photo with the iconic tower in the background.

As I fumbled with my phone, trying to get the right angle, I realized it was nearly impossible to get a decent shot by myself.

I sighed in frustration, glancing around for someone who might help. That's when I noticed him – a tall, dark-haired man with a warm smile, casually dressed and clearly enjoying the sights.

"Excuse me," I called out, walking up to him. "Would you mind taking a picture for me?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine with a friendly glint. "Of course," he replied, taking my phone from my hand. "Happy to help."

I posed in front of the Eiffel Tower, and he snapped a few pictures, showing me the results. They were perfect – far better than anything I could have managed on my own.

"Thank you so much," I said, genuinely grateful.

"No problem at all," he said, handing my phone back. "I'm Arda, by the way."

"I'm Y/N," I introduced myself. "Nice to meet you, Arda."

"Would you like me to take a picture for you?" I offered, noticing he didn't have anyone with him either.

He smiled. "Sure, that would be great."

After I took a few shots of him with the Eiffel Tower, we started chatting. We discovered that we were both traveling alone and had coincidentally planned to visit many of the same landmarks.

"How about we explore the city together?" Arda suggested. "It's always more fun with company."

I agreed, and we set off on an impromptu adventure through the streets of Paris. We visited the Louvre, strolled along the Seine, and indulged in crepes from a street vendor.

The day flew by, filled with laughter and easy conversation.

"So, what do you do, Arda?" I asked as we sat on a bench, enjoying the view of Notre-Dame.

He hesitated for a moment before answering. "I play football. For Real Madrid."

My eyes widened in surprise. "Wow, that's amazing! I've heard of Real Madrid, of course. You must be pretty famous then."

He chuckled. "I guess you could say that. But today, I'm just a guy exploring Paris."

The day ended with a beautiful sunset at Montmartre. As we watched the city light up, I felt a connection with Arda that I hadn't expected.

"Do you have any plans for dinner?" Arda asked, glancing at me hopefully.

"I don't, actually," I replied. "Do you?"

"How about we find a nice little bistro and continue this amazing day?" he suggested.

Dinner was delightful, filled with more laughter and stories. By the time we parted ways that night, we had exchanged numbers and promised to stay in touch.

Over the following weeks, Arda and I kept in contact, texting and calling each other regularly.

Our bond grew stronger, and it wasn't long before we decided to take the next step.

One weekend, I flew to Spain to watch him play. Seeing him on the pitch, surrounded by thousands of cheering fans, was surreal. He was incredible, and I felt so proud.

After the match, we met up, and Arda introduced me to some of his teammates. "This is Y/N," he said, beaming. "She’s very special to me."

Our relationship continued to blossom despite the distance.

We made time to visit each other whenever we could, exploring new places and creating beautiful memories.

[briarvalleyarchives]

ANTHEMS OF OLD

╰┈➤ ❝ just as the young fae prince once fell asleep to an ancient lullaby about an encounter in a dream, known throughout briar valley, the children of men in nations far away too have their songs and ballads passed down through generations. as different as our worlds might be, we all find hope and guidance in their melodies. ❞

Event Duration: June 15th — July 31st

1. Sometimes, It’s Not Meant to Be • [Malleus x Reader]

In which you and Malleus grow apart.

by @xxheartspadexx

2. Someday… • [Malleus x Reader]

❝ someday these dreams will all be real, still then we'll wish upon the moon. change will come, one day... some day soon. ❞ — the hunchback of notre dame

by @pyroxeene

3. Ma Belle Evangeline • [Ruggie x Reader]

Ruggie contemplates his love for you.

by @ryker-writes

4. When She Loved Me • [Malleus x Reader]

Malleus reflects on the love he shared with you.

by @ryker-writes

5. That’s How You Know • [Leona x Reader]

Leona shows you his love for you.

by @it-happened-one-fic

6. The Second Star To The Right • [Silver x Reader]

silver meets you in his dreams but can't talk to you and when he finally enters your dream there's only...

by @yunarim

7. They Live In You • [Malleus, Lilia]

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Malleus tried to look harder at himself. He never noticed how, even if he was still young, one could see without a doubt, he was Malleus Draconia, and he was their child.

by @curekibouka-writing

8. Love Is A Song • [Silver, Lilia, Malleus]

Children are creatures of love and magic. If so, he’s willing to stay right here and give the last of what little he has.

by @curekibouka-writing

9. A Conversation • [Silver, Lilia, Malleus]

A light that has once touched you would never fade, the magic never vanishes. It seeps into moments of your life, and dwells in the best parts of your heart.

by @curekibouka-writing

10. I Won’t Say (I’m in Love) • [Leona x Fem!Reader]

In which Y/N refuses to say that she's in love.

by @vera-deville

11. When Can I See You Again? • [Idia x Reader]

After classes you go with Ortho to Ignihyde to play with Idia. You end up eating noodles with him for dinner, and before you leave is when your conversation warms up a bit.

by @cheapshrimpysheep

12. Always There • [Malleus, Lilia]

❝ always there to warm you in the winter.... always there with shelter from the rain... always there to catch you when you're falling... always there to stand you up again... family...❞ — Lady & the Tramp 2

by @pyroxeene

[finleyforevermore]

~Things I would do if I played Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame~

"No, last year, [Frollo] said 'someday.........maybe!'" is played for laughs.

Smiling but very confused during the end of Topsy Turvy, like "oh they like me now, ok, I'm still not really sure what changed in those few seconds-"

Like in a community theatre production I saw, I don't reject Phoebus' help following Quasimodo being attacked.

"Oh no, not me, gargoyle..." is played for laughs like in the Papermill production/boot.

For "But in winter...cold", I actually try to think of something to say before simply settling on "...cold"

I do the "oh I'm gonna fall!" trick more than once during "Top of the World"

Absolutely lovesick during "Heaven's Light"

Straight up BOLTING for the bells at the end of "Emeralda"

Quite confused at the start of "Flight Into Egypt", like "where did Saint Aphrodisius come from???"

My Quasi is the absolute WORST liar. It's a miracle Frollo believes him in the scene following "Flight Into Egypt"-

I do little jazz hands towards the statues when I tell Frollo I'm just talking to "....my friends!" after hiding Phoebus

Starts internally/not so subtly panicking when Frollo puts his lamp on the finger of the statue.

"It's a clue!....she gave me!" is played for laughs like in the Papermill production/boot.

Quasi says "I don't hear anything" (like in the aforementioned community theatre production I saw) rather than Phoebus; played for laughs.

I'm absolutely devastated during "In a Place of Miracles", almost crying.

Angriest "Made of Stone" ever XD

G note at the end of "Made of Stone"

Smiling during the "Made of Stone reprise" in the finale, like I'm saying to the statues "hell yeah let's do this!!"

Brief pause before I reply "Yes, your friend!" to Esmeralda. I'm sad that Esmeralda doesn't romantically like me but then it hits me that being her friend is still the greatest honor.

Barely containing anger when Frollo says he could've loved Esmeralda.

I whisper "yes I do" while the gargoyles whisper "yes you do"

I make it a bit more clear that Quasi killing Frollo was spur of the moment and in a blind rage, so when he says the "There lies all I have ever loved" line, and it works a bit better.

I give Phoebus a hug during the "Out There reprise" in the finale.

More of a directorial thing, but I keep the marks on my face, so I'm deformed along WITH the cast. I saw a comment on a video related to the musical (I forget what video tho-) where the acceptance of Quasimodo in the musical is less of "you're beautiful like us" like in the Disney movie and more of "we're ugly like you". I like that a lot more than what the show does. (everyone is deformed other than Quasimodo)

Either the townsfolk reveal they are deformed in their own ways like in the US productions or a crowd gathers around Quasi and young girl who is deaf like him signs "I love you" to him like in the community theatre production I saw.

🔔✨The end!!!🔔✨

[disneyparksattractionstournament]

Disney underrated songs tournament matchups

SO sorry for the months wait you guys, I lost motivation, life has gotten really stressful, but I am back and should be starting the tournament soon! Here are the matchups for the Underrated bracket. The obscure match ups are coming next!

Aquarela do Brazil vs Aristocats theme

All in the golden afternoon vs That's What Makes the World Go Round

Thomas O'Malley vs Once upon a wintertime

Sing sweet nightingale vs Yodel-Adle-Eedle-Idle-Oo

Heaven's Light vs Honor to Us All

Little April Showers vs Fidelity Fiduciary Bank

What is a Baby / La La Lu vs OneJump Ahead

Why Should I Worry? vs Dalmatian Plantation

Higitus Figitus vs True To Your Heart

Melody time vs Little Dressmaker / the Work Song

Once Upon a Time in New York City vs Look out for mr stork

Worlds greatest criminal mind vs Always Know Where You Are

Peace on earth vs Song of the Roustabouts

Not in Nottingham vs When Somebody Loved Me

Almost There vs Let’s sing a gay little spring song

Pink elephants on parade vs Perfect Isn't Easy

Colonel haiti march vs Another believer

I'm Still Here (Jim's Theme) vs God Help the Outcasts

The Headless Horseman vs Love

The Phony King of England vs We Know The Way

Step in Time vs Little Wonders

One Jump Ahead Reprise vs Kanine Krunchies

You Belong To My Heart vs Hellfire

The Three Caballeros vs Listen with your heart

Colombia vs Steady as the beating drum

Ichabod, ichabod crane vs Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride

On My Way vs Let Me Be Good to You

Show Yourself vs Let’s go fly a kite

After today vs The motion waltz (Emotional commotion)

Katrina vs Mine Mine Mine

The Bells of Notre Dame vs Main Title / Cinderella

Goodbye So Soon vs What a dog / he’s a tramp

[pennylanewrites]

sur le fil [levi ackerman x f!reader]

chapter 1: la vie en rose

moving to paris, you get to meet a set of interesting neighbours; one talkative, bubbly, exciting and kind. one reserved, serious and tortured. the first will be your guide through life in paris; the latter, you soon find out is your colleague.

a/n: reader, hange, moblit and petra are 24-25 years old. erwin and levi are both 28 in this fic. erwin gets introduced soon so dw heheh

masterpost | next

packing up your whole life and moving to paris was sort of on a whim. you really only realized it when you were on the plane, and you could spot the eiffel tower, the arc de triomphe, the notre dame. oh, you were going to have so much fun.

it wasn't hard to find your new home -after taking a taxi and two buses from the airport. you had booked a room from an old lady living in a haussmannian building. three rooms were already occupied, and a kitchen, common room, library and terrace were included in the low price of 250€ per month. you assumed that the old lady simply wanted company; it wasn't easy to find something that cheap, right in the heart of paris.

"madame dubois, so nice to meet you!" you greeted the lady rushing out of the building with a handshake, but she opted for a hug and a kiss on each cheek instead. how european.

"call me paulette, darling, please." paulette was pushing 70, tall, slim and stylish. she held a slim cigarette between fingers decorated with gold rings; she wore a long linen shirt over matching pants and ballerina shoes. very french, you thought, as you followed her inside.

as you stepped inside, you were greeted by high ceilings, ornate moldings, and large windows that allow an abundance of natural light to fill the rooms. the kitchen, located at the heart of the house, had marble countertops, state-of-the-art appliances, and custom-made sage-coloured cabinets. you could tell you would have a lot of fun in this kitchen. as you left the room, you noticed a wide selection of teas, a whole countertop in fact, dedicated to them. adjacent to the kitchen was the common room, knick-knacks and books filling every surface and empty corner. The baby-blue coloured room was adorned with plush beige and off-white furniture, intricate chandeliers, and a majestic fireplace, creating a cozy and sophisticated atmosphere. the library, opposite to the living room, housed an extensive collection of books, with floor-to-ceiling shelves that exuded an air of intellectual refinement. a cozy reading nook by the window invited you to spend many afternoons with a cup of coffee and your nose in a book.

"your room is on the first floor, along with two more. then there’s mine and one more on the third, and of course the terrace, that you’re free to use whenever.” you were admiring the paintings on the walls as paulette guided you to the first floor and to the second door on the left. you wondered who the other two rooms were occupied from, but you guessed you would find out soon.

paulette unlocked the white door and handed you the key. you entered into a mainly beige and lavender-coloured room, small but efficient; the boxes you had packed were sitting in front of the bed, arriving just before you. a double bed with two nightstands stood in the middle, a large wooden dresser on the side, with intricate golden details. two wicker sitting chairs by the window and an empty desk and small bookcase. paulette was showing you the bathroom, but you were too busy admiring the notre dame from your dusty window. despite it being half-burnt, it remained beautiful.

“my room is on the top floor to the right. anything you want, i’m just a knock away.”

“thank you. you said something about other people leaving here?”

“oh, yes! moblit lives on the third floor, he’s a nice and quiet guy. zoe lives right across from you, she’s a little feisty, i guess.”

“and next door?”

you swore paulette’s face dropped when you asked.

“oh, that would be levi, my nephew. he’s a bit…reserved.” was all paulette said about your mysterious neighbour before leaving you to unpack.

you fell on the bouncy mattress and let out a content sigh. the ceiling above you had a cracked lavender and lilac tapestry with golden swirls. the walls matched it perfectly, and the curtains, though faded, were a beige to match the wood of the furniture.

why unpack now? the sun was setting and a deep purple hue played on your stretched legs. you grabbed your purse and headed for the terrace, but your journey was cut short by a loud screech.

“levi, give me my key!”

“i don’t have your key, you lost it, you idiot.” the manly voice came from next door, you noticed. you decided to step out carefully.

a tall woman turned to look at you through round glasses.

“bonsoir! we didn’t know you were coming tonight!”

“hi! zoe, right? i’m y/n.” you took a few steps back when the brunette attacked you with a warm, tight hug.

“pleasure! are you heading for the terrace? that’s the first thing i did when i came here too.”

“seems like a cozy place for a cigarette.”

“you read my mind.” she turned to your other neighbour’s door again. “levi, sors de ta chambre!” come out of your room, your high school french classes came to your rescue.

as you waited for the mysterious neighbour, you inspected zoe. her rich, chocolate-brown hair cascading down her shoulders, framed her face and round golden glasses. she wore a flowing, forest green and brown maxi dress with intricate patterns that catch the eye. completing her ensemble, she adorned herself with eclectic accessories. a collection of beaded bracelets adorned her wrists, each one telling a story of its own. around her neck hung two pendants, a round blue evil eye, and a wooden symbol of piece. her ears were filled with gold studs and the picture ended with pink delicate feather-shaped earrings, whispering a hint of whimsy.

“hange, i just came home. what could you possibly-”

“we have a new neighbour, levi. remember?” zoe motioned at you with her head and a smile, obviously not caring that she was interrupting the man’s personal time.

“okay?”

wow. rude.

“so, you should come to the terrace for a smoke. maintenant.” now.

you expected the man to slam the door in her face, but he stepped back in to grab his jacket, and came back out.

levi stood at average height, with sleek black hair reaching his nape, a fresh undercut showing underneath and a few strands shaping his face and accentuating his piercing gray eyes. he was wearing a fitted maroon t-shirt and dark gray jeans, the look finishing with all black vans and the black leather jacket in his hand. you noticed a tattoo hiding under the sleeve of his shirt. interesting.

“hi, i’m y/n. it's so nice to-”

“levi. pleasure.”

“for fuck’s sake.”

“what? i said pleasure.”

"okay,sure. go make us some tea. y/n, how do you drink yours?" you looked between the pair. why did it feel like they were about to judge whatever you said next?

"oh, i don't really like..." you trailed off because levi had only rolled his eyes at you before storming down the stairs, mumbling in french. you followed zoe to the top floor. a pair of white french doors opened to a spacious terrace, with a set of wicker couches, cozy floor pillows and a tarp-covered bar. all kinds of flowers filled the corners and a vegetable garden took up most of the space on the left.

"you'll have to forgive levi. he's a bit..."

"uptight?" zoe snorted at your comment, and you had a feeling she agreed.

"passionate about tea. he's going to bring you a cup anyway. levi has a recipe for every kind of person, and he's certain he can make everyone like it."

you took out a pack of marlboro golds and offered one to zoe. she politely declined, opening a leather pocket of tobacco to roll her own cigarette.

"so, what brings you to paris?"

i had to run away from everything and everyone in my life.

"oh, it was just time for a change. i had enough money saved up, so i thought why not?" zoe lied down on the couch opposite you and nodded in acknowledgement. "what about you? have you lived here long?"

"levi and i were born and raised in lyon. we moved here around seven years ago, for college."

"what did you study?"

architecture.

"the plan was liberal arts, but i changed to architecture my second year."

bingo.

"i never finished college. i was a history and archaeology major, but it never really...spoke to me, you know?" you put the cigarette out on the clay ashtray on the table, "so, i attended a few barista and bartending seminars, and i actually fell in love with it."

"you don't say...have you got a job yet? i'm pretty sure the café down the street is looking for someone." you could faintly see the shop zoe was talking about in the distance.

"oh, i already found something nearby. i'm starting tomorrow."

"thats brilliant, i'll have to-oh, levi, you're here!" levi stepped out to the terrace, skillfully holding up a tray with three cups. he placed an intricate one in front of you; it was a midnight purple, square mug with engraved golden stars and constellations all over. you held the steaming mug and smiled gratefully at levi. you could smell raspberry, apple and-

"tell her what it is!" zoe jumped up and down excitedly, spilling some of the hot liquid on her dress and phone. "putain." she exclaimed and wiped her phone screen on the couch pillow.

"it's black tea with raspberry syrup, apple, lemon and rhubarb."

"excellent choice of a cup too." zoe poked his side with her elbow. "what's mine, shortie?"

"it's piss." you snorted into your cup, blowing some of the liquid on your lap. you hissed and wiped it away quickly, looking up at the bickering pair.

you brought the cup to your lips, tasting it carefully. you almost winced; it was the sourest tea imaginable, and if not for the syrup, it would be bitter too. you had to admit, you got used to it after a couple of sips, and you liked it enough to keep drinking.

"did levi magically change your opinion on tea?"

"this is really nice," you looked up at levi. his gray eyes didn't leave yours as he took a sip of his own tea, "but i'm a coffee person. sorry." you smiled softly.

"if you like bean water, sure." he scoffed.

"as opposed to leaf water?" you retorted.

why the fuck is he holding the cup like that? show-off.

zoe looked between the two of you, grinning. the comfortable silence was cut short by two message notifications. you and levi took your phones out at the same time.

-you have been added to Le Café Belle Époque’s group chat

-unknown number has been added to Le Café Belle Époque’s group chat

you and levi slowly looked up at each other.

“you’re the new barista?” he scoffed.

“you…work there too?” you looked at the members of the group chat. indeed, a picture of levi sat by an unsaved number on your phone. zoe peeked over levi’s shoulder to look at his texts.

"aha! this is very exciting, n'est-ce pas?"

you had seven different words in mind to describe this, and exciting was not one of them.

waking up in your new bed, in your little room in the heart of paris, felt like waking up in a disney movie. birds were chirping outside of your window, and a few stray sunrays hit the wooden floor. with a stretch of your arms and a yawn, you looked around at the sea of boxes and suitcases. you really needed to unpack.

after searching for your summer clothes, you finally opted for a pair of white jean shorts, a flowy muted-olive shirt with thin straps and your favorite brown sandals, that strapped around your feet and ankles. you brushed your teeth and hair, and placed mascara on your eyelashes carefully. a warm-toned lipstick finished your look, and you started your voyage to the kitchen with a box in your hands.

damn you paris, with your steep staircases, you tried looking over the box to watch your step, but it was impossible.

"woah, let me help with that." you were met with a pair of dark brown eyes behind rectange glasses.

"thanks." you accepted the offer and walked behind the strange man.

"where are we heading?"

"kitchen."

the man finally set the box down on the round kitchen table, slapping the top of it.

"moblit berner. it's nice to meet you, y/n."

"how did you...?" you shook his hand with furrowed brows. moblit was wearing a well-pressed, tailored navy blue suit, a light blue dress shirt underneath and leather oxfords.

"zoe told me all about you last night. i apologize for the late introduction, but i came home after midnight." he watched as you took a polished red, vintage looking espresso machine out, placing it on the counter right by the outlet. "retro. does, uh, does levi know about the new addition to the kitchen?" moblit laughed awkwardly. you unrolled the cups you had wrapped in paper in your box and gave them a quick rinse, before setting them on top of the machine.

"i couldn't care less. paulette told me i can keep this here." you shrugged and filled the water tank. "want some coffee?"

"yes, please. the only drinks in this house all these years have been tea and alcohol." you pressed ground-up espresso in the group, and waited for the machine to warm up.

"what kind of coffee?"

"surprise me. i like it sweet, with a lot of milk. there's some almond milk in the fridge, so please use that." moblit sat down and lit a cigarette. you inspected levi's selection of syrups, powders and leaves.

"you don't think he'll mind, do you?" you held up a bottle of lavender syrup.

"it will be our little secret. better safe than sorry." you nodded and poured the syrup in the milk, frothing it while the espresso poured into a cup.

"so, where do you work, moblit?"

"i'm a reporter for libération, a news-"

"left-leaning newspaper, i know. i loved that piece on macron, the one comparing the marches to the french revolution?" you placed the cup in front of moblit, who accepted with a grateful smile.

"i wrote that one."

"of course! i thought your name sounded familiar." you chuckled and turned to make your own iced coffee.

"will we be seeing you at the café tonight?"

“i don’t know if i’m working a full shift yet. i’m only going to meet the managers and get an idea of the bar.”

“well, you’ve met one of them already.”

“levi’s a manager?” you rolled your eyes and sipped on your coffee.

“assistant. but he basically runs the place, he’s in charge of the menu, prices, schedule…” moblit grinned. “except for the new hires.”

“guess that’s why he was so surprised yesterday.”

“surprised is an understatement.”

“huh? wait, what did he say?” your eyebrow perked up. moblit just shook his head and got up to leave.

“thanks for the coffee, y/n. see you tonight!” defeated, you sat back on your chair. you slid it closer to the window and opened it wide. a warm breeze hit your face, and you smiled contently.

the rest of your day was spent unpacking, finding a space for every one of your knick-knacks and clutter. you managed to fit all of your books on the three shelves, finishing the image with some fairy lights hanging over them. most of your clothes fit in the dresser, but the rest were left in the suitcase. you really needed to buy some storage boxes soon.

it was now 2:30 in the afternoon, and after taking a warm shower, you desperately needed to eat. you sat on your bed, a towel wrapped around your hair, and pulled your phone out to search for a place to eat.

knock knock.

“come in.” you yelled out and looked behind your phone. zoe came in, looking around your room. she looked different; a tight bun sat at the bottom of her head and a classy white pantsuit hugged her body, before flaring down her calves.

“wow, nicely done. it took me two years to unpack when i got here…hey, what time do you leave for work?”

“i have to be there at six.”

“great! want to grab a bite with me? i’ll even throw in a little tour of our neighbourhood if you make me some coffee later.”

“deal.”

zoe brought you to a small, family owned restaurant cornering a main street. you watched as people walked, playing a guessing game of who was coming back from work, who was late for lunch, who had just had a fight with their partner. people-watching was a favourite of yours. it made you remember you weren’t alone in the world, that other people too had issues and feelings.

“do you eat meat, y/n? they make killer steaks here.”

“oh, i love a good steak.”

“excellent! how about i order for you?”

“yes, please.”

the waiter came to the table soon after, leaving a complimentary basket of warm bread and a butter spread.

“we’ll have two of your bavette à l’échalote, a portion of fries for the table and…two glasses of malbec please.” zoe handed the menu to the waiter and quickly attacked the bread.

“this is my favourite restaurant. it has been in the renard family for almost a century, and their recipes are practically unchanged. now, if you kindly look up, you will see my office on the top floor. i have a kicking view of the notre dame, which is…five minutes from here.” she pointed down the main road. you listened as she explained the secrets of the neighbourhood, the quirky owner of the office building, the drama between the two restaurants opposite each other.

you were so hungry when the dishes finally arrived in front of you, but you let hange do a demonstration of the dish.

“so, skirt steak. they cut it up in pieces so you can pour the sauce between them,” she spooned the golden, buttery sauce over your steak, “and i like to add it to the roasted vegetables too.” she poured the rest of it over the vegetables on the side. “and the rest you use to dip your fries!” she said excitedly, leaving the dip bowl next to the warm salted fries.

“bon appétit.” you raised the glass of red wine, clinking it with zoe’s.

after the delightful lunch, you leaned back on your chair, full and ready to go. you and zoe smoked two cigarettes each over one more glass of wine, before leaving for the café.

“are you nervous?”

“not really, i’ve done this too many times.”

“i would be. levi hates training new people.”

“good thing i don’t need training then.” you giggled and entered the café. a warm smell of cinnamon hit you, and the jazz music created a warm atmosphere around vintage furniture, a sleek dark blue bar with a marble top and the alcohol selection of your dreams.

“you’re late.” levi appeared behind the counter, startling you. you checked the clock on your phone.

“i’m 15 minutes early.”

“that’s still 5 minutes late.” he crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at you. “are you coming in here or what?”

you sighed and walked around the counter. the first thing you did was wash your hands thoroughly. levi appreciated that, but only gave a nod of approval as he walked you through the bar.

“you will be on evening shift for the time being, so here’s the old drinks menu. you’re free to change everything, except for the classic cocktails.”

“great! the last bar i was working, i experimented with tea-based cocktails, so i would like to add that. am i okay to stay after closing and use the bar for practice?”

“tea-based!” zoe exclaimed. you had almost forgotten she was there.

“tea-based.” levi repeated and you had a feeling he would explode then and there.

“ha! his eye is twitching! good one, y/n.”

“anyway, i’m adding that. i also want to make some additions to the coffee menu.” you looked over to the tea corner. “can i use the powders and syrups?”

“you’re going to add flowers and fruit in coffee?”

“is there a problem?” you didn’t even turn around to look at levi. instead, you took a pen and paper and noted down changes for the coffee menu.

“anyway. you can check the prices here, since it’s still the start. the waitresses will help you with anything else, so…”

“so?”

“show me what you got, rookie.” levi leaned back on the counter, with a challenging grin. rookie my ass, who does this guy think he is?

“ooh, ooh! make me an iced coffee, and use like, all the syrups you can.” zoe slammed her hand on the counter.

“you got it.” you prepared two shots of espresso. while that was pouring, you took a shaker, pouring coconut milk, a tablespoon of elderflower syrup and one of vanilla syrup over ice. you shook it around masterfully, making a show for zoe and levi. when the espresso was done, you mixed in a teaspoon of sugar. taking a tall glass, you filled it to the middle with ice and added the milk mixture. you poured the espresso over it, mixing it with a tall spoon carefully.

“whipped cream?” you asked and levi pointed at the fridge under the sink. you spotted a bowl of edible flowers and grabbed it as well. you placed a coaster in front of hange and the glass, spooning some of the handmade cream on top. you took the pinching tool and added three small flowers over the cream.

“et voilà!”

zoe clapped excitedly, accepting the long straw you handed her. she took a big sip, closing her eyes in delight.

“y/n, this is the best thing that has ever been in my mouth.” she wiggled around on the stool.

“i feel offended.” moblit appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around zoe and leaving a kiss on her temple.

huh, i guess they’re dating, you thought.

the café wasn’t really busy, so you spent the next hour making different coffees and teas, for levi to ensure you know what you’re doing. zoe had insisted to drink all of them, so you wouldn’t have to throw them away.

“hange, you’ll spend a week in the toilet if you drink all of those.” levi tried taking the cups away, but zoe guarded them in front of her.

“the toilet happens to be my happy place. maybe i want to stay there for a week.” she made sure to drink a sip from all of them, just to spite levi.

“if you cleaned once in a while, it would be a safe place too.” you chuckled at levi’s remark.

a wave of customers rushed in, and the waiters sent order after order. it was a hectic hour and a half, but by nine o’clock, you had time to clean up the machine and your counter.

“okay, welcome to the team, i guess.” levi shoved a golden name tag and a black half-apron in your arms.

“wow, warm welcome.”

“watch it.” levi grabbed his stuff and walked around the bar. he turned to zoe. “i have to pick petra up from work, do you guys want to do something later?”

“just come back here! we can all try the new cocktail menu.” hange pushed him to the door before he could decline and came back to the bar.

“can i take these away now?” you pointed at the sea of cups and glasses in front of her.

“please do. i feel like i’m going to explode.”

“you really like to get on his nerves, don’t you?” you laughed as she nodded furiously.

“zoe has to make levi have a nervous breakdown at least once a week.” moblit commented. after everything was cleaned, you could finally calm down and work on the cocktail menu. you spotted a small blackboard sitting behind the fridge. you grabbed it and the packet of chalks and handed it to moblit.

“you look like you have nice handwriting. please write these names down for me.”

“what’s in it for me?”

“pick one and i’ll make it for you. on the house.” you grinned as moblit wrote the menu down. zoe made sure to include a few doodles of flowers and a smiley face before setting it on top of the bar, where everyone could spot it.

it was midnight when you had to cut zoe off alcohol and levi walked in, hand in hand with a petite brunette. the girl had a sleek bob with short bangs, and wore a silk pink dress that hugged her waist and thighs. an oversized brown leather jacket, a pink leather crossbody bag and brown combat boots finished the look. her makeup was the perfect mix of edgy and sweet, with a smoky eye, red cheeks and a nude lipstick. the girl greeted zoe with a hug, wincing when the strong smell of gin hit her.

“control your woman, moblit.” she joked and kissed both his cheeks before sitting down. levi took her jacket along with his and handed them to you to place behind the counter. “so, you’re y/n. a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. i’m petra.”

“pleasure.” you smiled as you served two drinks on the sidebar.

“see, she looks just fine.” levi rolled his eyes at the girl. “levi was under the impression that you would crack under the pressure and run off.”

“levi should know that i have been doing this for four years. i’m not that easy to crack.” you placed two coasters and two glasses of water in front of them.

“what are you having?”

“i want…to try one of those famous cocktails.” she pointed at the blackboard.

“famous?” you furrowed your brows.

“oh, levi talked my ear off for hours about them. you’ll have to forgive him. his old age won’t let him accept change and evolution.” she kissed his cheek after the comment, but he only sighed. “anyway, i’ll have the earl grey martini. amour?” she turned to levi, who barely looked at her.

“whiskey sour.”

“one chamomile whiskey sour coming up!”

“i said, whiskey sour.” zoe, moblit and petra were stuck looking between the two of you. you guessed levi wasn’t known for his temper. but, oh, you wanted to crack him so bad. it was so satisfying seeing his neck and ears turn red with annoyance.

“i heard you.” you hummed as you made the brunette’s cocktail in a dainty martini glass.

“so, make that.”

“but i already steeped the chamomile. it would be a waste of perfect tea.” you pouted as you poured the tea over ice. you flipped a short glass over and placed it on the bartop. a strainer on top, you poured the contents in, sliding it to the ravenette.

“just try it, cheri.”

levi brought the glass to his lips in the same stupid way he held onto that cup of tea yesterday. his gray piercing eyes never left yours, and you grinned when his expression fell. he liked it. the fucker liked it, because he took another, full sip, before sliding the glass back to you.

"i asked for a whiskey sour.” this was revenge because you didn’t like his stupid tea. you mumbled something he couldn’t hear over the music, as you made a new cocktail for him.

despite levi's eyes burning holes in you for what felt like hours, the night was going well. you got to know petra and moblit better, work was flowing nicely and a full jar of tips sat on the counter. guess people liked the new, not grumpy, bartender.

taglist: @belovedackerman @bibemiiu @thisisketchy @ch-4-s-3 @kingfleury

[gemsofgreece]

Wishing a smooth Olympic hosting to France!

Overall very solid ceremony, the weather was definitely not feeling it, which makes me worry a little about the performance of the athletes in the following days after getting THAT drenched... On the positive side, the entire last act from the hooded rider horse-sailing the Seine onwards, the segment with the Notre Dame and the medal making, the clever performance of the French National Anthem, most of the music choices, the Olympic Hot Air Balloon ablaze, the Eiffel light rave and Celine Dion's majestic performance. I am all for Lady Gaga actually but on this day Celine wiped her out and it was great to see her in good health and good spirits.

Now, on the less ideal stuff, there should be a little better preparation for adverse weather (movable roofs and tents for emergency???), first part of the show didn't really have any Olympic essence about it, poor camera work, too much boat back and forth, it was a little messy, olympic flag upside down!?!?!?!, the dance and fashion segments, although needed, they kinda dragged pointlessly and to be honest the first dancing groups looked like they practiced their routine exactly ten minutes before the ceremony started.

Since I said camera work; everyone in Greece is laughing about the fact that FIBA, Greece and Paris were raving about Giannis Antetokounmpo being the Greek flagbearer who would therefore open the parade and somehow French director managed to miss the 2.10m dude entirely behind the blue banner.

Giannis Wazowski

I also had a big clown / Karen moment because I thought the French betrayed us and casually chose to not hoist our flag and sing the anthem but then I googled it and found out this happens in the closing ceremony, sorry, okay in fact I haven't been watching the ceremonies all that closely in the past and I got confused! So... I'll be waiting... because so far from the few ones I have seen the best anthem performance has been in the Winter Olympics of Vancouver 2010.

As for the Olympic anthem performed this night, fun fact: it is a Greek composition by Spyros Samaras with lyrics written by poet Kostis Palamas. The anthem was composed for the first Modern Olympics in Athens 1896. Initially, every host country was assigned to compose its own Olympic anthem which soon proved too much of a hassle. In 1936, an anthem composed by Richard Strauss was chosen as the supposedly permanent one. In 1954 it was switched to an anthem composed by Polish Michal Spisak. In 1958 the International Olympic Committee voted for the original anthem of Samaras and Palamas to be the official Olympic anthem and it is the one that is performed ever since, although sometimes host countries translate the lyrics to their own language. In Paris this year I could honestly not pick up much of what they were singing but their first line was definitely "Ἀγιο Πνεύμα αθάνατο" (áyio pnévma athánato, = Holy Spirit Immortal) so apparently they sang the original.