#revive boutique

[withbutterflywings]

this game was rad, I may do a comeback

(@kapustainu at the left, sorry for exposing your past xx)

me at the right

[2014alloveragain]

[lexotanmerlin]

Lex # 4787

♥Hair: Wasabi // Nocturne Hair – Absolute Pack by MissAllSunday Lemon & Rouge Darcy @Uber ♥Head: LeLUTKA Avalon Head 3.1 by jaden.nova ♥Eyes: IKON Charm Eyes – Brown by Ikon Innovia ♥Body: Maitreya Mesh Body – Lara by Onyx LeShelle ♥Skin: 7 Deadly s[K]ins – DIOR skins by Izara Zuta ♥Veins: Izzie’s – Body Veins & Cellulite (combined) by Izzie Button ♥Tattoo: Fewness – Your Sign – Cancer by Fewn…

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.” 

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn��t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

[fannyrosie]

What do you mean, "I am overdressed for the beach"?

Today's little local history lesson that you won't find on any of the Village des écluses or Pointe-des-Cascades websites:

From 1900 to 1959, the Soulanges canal was where most boats would pass through to navigate the Saint-Laurent river in the area South-West of Montreal. At Pointe-des-Cascades, right next to the canal, there was an industrial site where all the maintenance materials for the canal were being built and stored, but when the canal closed in 1959, that site was left abandoned. In 1986, the site got revived, and the industrial buildings were repurposed as a summer theatre, restaurant and boutiques, and the riverside, as a small beach. However, the site was abandoned once again in the late 2010s, only to be picked up again by a new team wanting to restore the 80s resort it once was.

So, how is my 1980's does 1910's nautical outfit? I have also added a picture of my brother and I on that day, two pictures at Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue at sunset (with my sister and a different hat) and a picture of the abandoned "Hotel" (which was never a hotel) at Village des écluses, taken in April, on my Instagram post.

Outfit rundown Skirt: vintage Pink House Top: old Axes Femme Hat: vintage Shoes: old Queen Bee Parasol/umbrella (served both purposes that day): Alice and the Pirates Navy cat stamp brooch: Via Carousel All other jewellery: vintage

[deadmotelsusa]

The Magic Beach Motel dates back to 1951.

In 2010, it was damaged by a fire and closed until 2012. When it reopened, it was fully restored to its original art deco glory — complete with pink flamingos, neon lights, a massive clock and the iconic Magic Beach Motel sign. A business beloved by locals and visitors alike.

So in December 2021, the Vilano Beach community and motel enthusiast were shocked to learn that the Magic Beach was at risk of demolition. A developer called Key International had planned to replace it with a much larger hotel, restaurant, and retail center.

After a public outcry, the St. Johns County commissioners stepped in and denied the development plans, stating that the motel was culturally significant.

In 2022, the motel was sold to new owners — a boutique hotel management company — who said that they have no plans at this time to change the iconic vintage motel, aside from some general repairs and renovations. For a minute, I really thought it would be added to my list of dead motels — but thankfully, it can be featured as a motel revival instead.

[shifting---patterns]

How Post-Punk Influenced Nowadays Fashion

It's been a long time since Malcolm McLaren opened his boutique "Sex" in the 1970s, and Vivienne Westwood equipped the Sex Pistols with their iconic outfits and sent them out onto King's Road. The approach back then was: "Being anti at all costs, against the establishment." Eventually, it turned into "Do It Yourself." It was fashionable because it tried not to be fashionable.

A few years later, members of Joy Division met at a Sex Pistols show in 1976 and started as a punk band. However, it soon evolved into something entirely different. When you listen to old Joy Division songs like "Warsaw" you can clearly hear the punk rock influences, but the band quickly started to deviate from the common motifs of the genre.

The music slowed down. The noisy guitar sound of punk was subdued to appear more intriguing, and Ian Curtis's existentialist lyrics, influenced by authors like Fyodor Dostoevsky, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Franz Kafka, focused not on chaos, rebellion, and hedonism but reflected his fears, physical sufferings, and the absurdity in the face of the zeitgeist and social influences of the 1970s and 1980s, marked by changes and political uncertainty, forced Joy Division to experiment.

They created not only something musically unique but also something aesthetic. For example, with their monochromatic designs on their album covers for "Unknown Pleasures," which is probably the third best-selling T-shirt in fast fashion stores, alongside Nirvana and the Ramones T-shirts. Joy Division ended in 1980 after Ian Curtis hung himself in his kitchen. They not only helped shape the sub-genre "Post-Punk" but were also the unofficial soundtrack of existentialism. The soundtrack that made Joy Division's music feel so genuine. Because it was genuine.

Of course, in the 1960s, there were artists who processed existential themes in their lyrics. A good example would be Lou Reed of The Velvet Underground, who, heavily influenced by literature, dealt with many serious topics in his lyrics. However, it wasn't just their music; it was also their appearance that defined Joy Division. On stage, in promo pictures, and in interviews.

Ill-fitting shirts from army surplus stores, old man's pants, a few pair of derbies, big raincoats. Everything that was atypical for the punk movement, and many other artists, including The Cure, The Smiths, Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees, Bauhaus, Alien Sex Friend or Sisters Of Mercy, went in the same direction: Through a dark, introspective, sometimes minimalist, but avant-garde aesthetic, they set themselves apart from punk and society, and looking at bands from the Post-Punk Revival from the 2000s like Interpol, Iceage, Molchat Doma, Boy Harsher, or Cold Cave, it quickly becomes apparent that this aesthetic has proven itself for almost 50 years.

This trend was, of course, not only an inspiration for musicians but also for artists, fashion designers, architects, and many more.

One designer that immediately comes to mind is Antwerp-Six member Ann Demeulemeester from Belgium, whose influences clearly evoke artists like Siouxsie Sioux or Patti Smith but also the playful goth look of the 1980s era by Rei Kawakubo (Comme Des Garcons) or Japan's goth father himself: Yohji Yamamoto.

Her story begins in Antwerp, where she initially studied at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts and quickly got to know the other Antwerp-Six members. She and the Antwerp Six presented their collections at Fashion Week and quickly became highly esteemed designers, now considered among the greatest designers of all time. Many of Ann's collections featured songs by Patti Smith, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, or The Velvet Underground.

This alone shows the influence of Post-Punk on Ann Demeulemeester's designs. Her asymmetrical cuts and draperies, her monochromatic, Kawakubo and Yamamoto-inspired, mainly black designs were groundbreaking, bringing avant-garde ideas in a consumable form to the people.

Another noteworthy designer from Antwerp is Raf Simons and his collections. Raf Simons grew up in the 1980s and was deeply rooted in the punk and goth subculture, whose influence can be traced in many of his collections or directly referenced by Raf himself. Notable are his A/W96 collection, which includes all-black looks with jet-black dyed hair and long black overcoats, his A/W99 collection with direct Joy Division references, black cloaks, and Gothic looks on the runway.

Raf's most famous collection A/W02-03 Riot Riot Riot! A coveted collection featuring cutoff and distressed hoodies, repurposed military garments, and loaded with punk references through patches. Among them, a bomber jacket with a patch depicting the self-harming Richey James Edwards of the Manic Street Preachers.

Obviously, his A/W03-04 Closer collection with a direct collaboration with Peter Saville, the graphic designer of Factory Records, featuring iconic graphics from Joy Division, New Order, and more.

These two examples of designers actively influenced by this culture are just a fraction. These designers were punks or goths themselves. People influenced by the postmodern identity of the time and post-Soviet tradition. Post-Punk fashion embodies the music of the time it emerged and aligns with deeper considerations. So, it didn't take long for the entire fashion world to embrace this style, partly because "Gothic" and "Punk" became more mainstream, and partly because its aesthetic components were easy to design due to their often penetrating monochromatic minimalism.

Not only goths or avant-garde designers like Ann Demeulemeester, Martin Margiela or Rick Owens, deeply connected to the style and subculture of that time, but also luxury designers like Prada, Balenciaga or Bottega Veneta are incorporating it.

The look is romantic, dark, longing for death, partly edgy, partly overloaded. All aspects that exude a constant attraction from the clothing, as people are often drawn to "the other," sometimes even "the forbidden." The look can also be easily detached from the actual Post-Punk/Goth culture - something postmodernity excels at. The style of the Gothic culture can be perfectly broken down into its individual parts and used as a kind of aesthetic sandbox. Here a thick heavy chain, there's a choker, here big long earrings, add a pair of black high combat boots, a slim-fitted mesh shirt, and preferably paint the nails, and you're done. All things that houses like Prada, Marni, Bottega Veneta, for example, have done right.

What we see today in the Post-Punk-influenced style and what we interpret as avant-garde should actually be considered a modern tradition. Post-Punk fashion embodies the music and the spirit of the time it emerged and aligns with deeper existential discourses. The design language and atmosphere of that time are now used by traditional fashion houses to incorporate young designers into their ranks and increase their relevance, merely fulfilling their quota to be considered part of the traditional fashion pipeline of LV, Dior, Gucci, and Balenciaga. The avant-garde cannot be seen as so established. The rapid growth these companies have undergone to make billions and the inheritance method of finding a designer to take over the house are enough to profile themselves as industry magnates.

In a world where fashion constantly reinvents itself, the enduring legacy of post-punk culture persists as a modern tradition. From the raw, rebellious sounds of bands like Joy Division to the avant-garde designs of Ann Demeulemeester and Raf Simons, the essence of post-punk continues to captivate hearts and minds. As luxury fashion houses seamlessly incorporate this style, it's vital to recognize the roots and the countercultural spirit that birthed it.

The romantic, dark allure, the edgy overtones – they all beckon, inviting us to explore "the other," even the forbidden. Yet, amidst the mainstream adoption, a call echoes for authenticity. True avant-gardists, whether musicians or designers, carve their paths, declaring, "This is our thing." The new avant-garde emerges not just from runways but from the pulsating hearts of those deeply rooted in their subcultures.

In a world dominated by industry magnates, the journey of post-punk fashion from the underground to luxury houses is a testament to its enduring power. As we witness the evolution, let us celebrate the genuine, the authentic, and the countercultural voices shaping the new avant-garde.

So, whether draped in asymmetrical cuts or sporting a rebellious attitude, the message is clear: The post-punk spirit lives on, and the next wave of avant-garde creators is ready to make their mark, confidently declaring, "This is our thing."

Davis Jahn

[satoshi-mochida]

Croc: Legend of the Gobbos remaster announced for consoles, PC alongside Argonaut Games revival - Gematsu

Argonaut Games, a British game developer founded in 1982 by Jez San and closed down in October 2004, has announced its revival alongside a remastered version of Croc: Legend of the Gobbos due out for “all the current consoles” and PC in 2024.

Known for titles like Starglider, Starglider 2, Star Fox, Croc: Legend of the Gobbos, and Croc 2, Argonaut Games released its last game in 2004, and is now making a comeback as a boutique publisher with a planned slate of classic Argonauts Games intellectual property and “exciting new titles” for both current and retro game platforms.

Its first title is the remastered version of Croc: Legend of the Gobbos, which first launched for the original PlayStation in September 1997. Here is an overview of the remastered release, via Argonaut Games:

Croc: Legend of the Gobbos, Argonaut’s 1997 multi-million-selling hit, features Croc, a lovable crocodile who embarks on a quest to rescue the Gobbos from the clutches of the evil Baron Dante. The game’s charm and creativity made it an instant classic, and the remaster promises to bring the beloved game to a new generation of gamers with enhanced high-definition graphics, updated modern control mechanics, and a nostalgic, fun, and authentic gameplay experience that will be sure to ignite the imagination of players and remind them why they fell in love with video games in the first place. Additionally, retro-gaming fans will be excited to learn that the remaster includes the Crocipedia, an extensive and meticulously curated digital museum containing long-lost development assets such as game design documents, concept art, animation tests, team member interviews, and much more. “I worked closely with Jez on the design and production of Starglider, Argonaut’s first big hit back in 1986, so to take up the mantle of relaunching Argonaut Games nearly four decades later brings me full circle, and we have further exciting announcements in the pipeline in the coming months,” said Argonaut Games co-CEO Gary Sheinwald in a press release. Argonaut Games co-CEO Mike Arkin added, “We wanted to honor the original game’s legacy while introducing it to a new audience. The HD remaster allows us to do just that. It’s been a labor of love for our team, and we can’t wait to share it with players on all the current consoles and PC later this year.” Original Argonaut Games founder Jez San said, “I’m thrilled to see the Argonaut name back after 20 years away. Argonaut was always about pushing the boundaries of what’s possible in gaming, and I’m excited to see how the relaunched Argonaut Games builds on that legacy, starting with the Croc: Legend of the Gobbos remaster.”

Watch the announcement teaser trailer for Croc: Legend of the Gobbos below. View the first screenshots at the gallery.

Announce Teaser Trailer

[rose-and-thorn-fanfics]

Shopping Spree With Dio (Dio Brando x Self Insert Fanfic) JJBA—but make it at a Mall in California.

“You’ve worn that outfit twice this week.” Dio pointed out as I got dressed for the day. He swirled his drink in his wine glass as he observed me from the armchair by my closet.

“I washed it in between though. Is that… not good?” I asked.

“Not good? Tsk tsk. I can’t have you looking like I don’t spoil you rotten, my sweet girl.” Dio scoffed.

“Dio, you already got me all that jewelry from the museum. Most of it wasn’t even from the gift shop. I doubt people think I’m deprived living with a stingy boyfriend.”

“Josephine de Beauharnais had immaculate taste in white sapphire and ruby jewelry. I think you’ll find those pieces will suit you well.” Dio smirked.

“Shameless.” I said playfully. “I do admit I like her tiara.”

“That’s my girl.” He replied, getting up and standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders.

“It’s a shame I have nothing to go with it for the party tomorrow night.” I sighed, leaning back into Dio a bit so I could feel the comfort of his body pressed up against mine.

“That’s it. We are going out. Where is the nearest clothing boutique?” Dio demanded.

I laughed. “The mall? It’s ten minutes away.” Dio was already dragging me out the door and pushing me firmly into the passenger seat of his sports car. I braced myself, knowing full well Dio Brando only drove one way: fast. It wasn’t road rage. My man just had no patience for red lights.

He blasted Children of the Grave by Black Sabbath through the car speakers as we drove through several red lights and a grassy park. I shouted directions at him, only somewhat calm because… well… if we crashed I had a feeling he’d find a way to revive me.

We arrived in half the drive time in front of the mall. He even slowed the car enough to make parking on the sidewalk less abrupt. I sighed, disoriented.

“I’m a bit dizzy, Dio-sama.” I said, clutching my head.

He nodded sympathetically, getting out of the car and unbuckling me. He scooped me up and carried me through the entrance to the Mall. I leaned my head against his shoulder, enjoying how easily he lifted me. I wasn’t used to getting this treatment without complaints from my date as a plus-sized girl, but Dio wasn’t exactly your average boyfriend. I could feel his biceps taught with strength.

If Dio noticed the strange looks we were getting, he didn’t show it. I mean, towering god-like radiant vampire in gold and leather takes normal looking human girl shopping. I blushed with a sense of pride, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world to have a boyfriend so shamelessly into me.

He stopped in front of Forever 21, setting me back on my feet now that I felt better. “Let’s try this shop first.”

“Ok!” I replied, eyeing a pretty burgundy dress i saw on one of the racks as we entered.

I sorted through the sizes, finding their largest size. I held it up to my body. But I couldn’t be sure it would fit me right without trying it on. Dio watched me intently, occasionally commenting on which color crop top he thought would look best with my eyes.

I loved his input. Dio was never wrong when it came to fashion advice. And he also liked that I had my personal preferences.

I went into the dressing room to try on the clothes we had selected. It was only a matter of minutes before I heard Dio’s voice outside the door.

“Mind if I join?” He asked, the smooth timbre of his voice instantly identifiable to me. I sighed, not bothering to ask how he got past the employees. Opening the dressing room door, he stepped inside. After trying on several dresses I soon realized that their largest size didn’t fit me. I frowned, frustrated and on the verge of tears as I tried to zip up the leopard print dress I had selected. It was the final piece of clothing I had left to try. Tears streamed down my round cheeks as I gave up on zipping up the dress.

Dio noticed immediately and pinned me up against the dressing room wall. His gaze was intense and he was inches from my face. “They don’t have your size?” He asked.

I nodded, turning red with embarrassment.

“What a shame.”

“I guess I just wish it was easier to find clothes…. Am I really that overweight?”

Dio’s eyes blazed amber red, narrowing as he realized what I was saying. “You’re goddess shaped. Stop crying and start making out with me.” He commanded.

My eyes widened, initially shocked by hearing him say such a high compliment. Then, remembering his demands, i closed me eyes, savoring the feeling of his sinfully delicious lips kissing my neck. I tore at his shirt and he ripped off the dress that was too small for me with ease. Making out this time felt more real, my doubts about my own body’s worthiness fading away as Dio caressed it, grinding up against me with ravenous sexuality.

“Ohhhhh god… yes!” I cried, as he knelt, licking my nipples and digging his long nails into my thighs. Dio paused, grinning at my obvious excitement.

Only then did I realize there was rapid knocking on the door of the dressing room. “What’s going on in there?!” An employees voice said sternly.

Dio looked annoyed, and glanced at me with a silent question of whether or not he should dispose of this nuisance. I shook my head vigorously. He sighed, looking mildly disappointed that he couldn’t crush their skull with his hands.

“This is a clothing shop, not a place for prostitution.” The employee continued.

I frowned, grabbing my clothes I had arrived in and getting dressed reluctantly. Once I was fully dressed, Dio opened the door, coming face to face with a very cross man.

“Are you calling my woman a whore?” He said, arching an eyebrow.

Upon seeing Lord Dio, the man backed away nervously. “I uhhh. I wasn’t really— I didn’t mean.”

Dio shot me another glance before I gave him the “go-ahead” shrug.

One swift kick in the groin and the employee went down, doubling over and coughing up blood. Dio picked me up bridal style again, stepping over the wheezing man, and carrying me out into the main rooms in Forever 21.

Lord Dio marched up to the checkout and placed me on the counter in front of the cashier woman. “Provide suitable clothes that fit this girl or meet an unpleasant end!” He demanded.

The woman looked at me, then at Dio, then back at me. “Let me go talk to my manager… uhhh… just wait here.” She said, frowning.

After ten minutes of waiting, I could tell Dio was growing impatient. I distracted him for another ten minutes (yes, my tits were involved). But when the clock hit the 1:00pm. mark, Dio Brando had waited long enough, and saw through to his promise. Hell hath no fury like my boyfriend.

If we got weird looks going into Forever 21, leaving it in shambles full of zombies got us a different kind of reaction. I didn’t mind. I may not have gotten the dress I wanted in my size, but I had lost a part of me that was always questioning whether Dio saw me as unworthy because of my plump features. He saw me as beautiful, and worthy, in ways I had never seen myself. That’s when I knew I’d never leave his side.

Thanks for reading! Reblog if you enjoyed this very self indulgent fic!

Tagging: @chaos-4baby for encouraging me!

[razzberriezz]

Hello everyone!

It's been some time since my last post, but with Fashion Dreamer coming out soon, I thought it was time to revive this blog. If any of you were around way back when, you might remember Aesthetica, a fan project that was meant to be a spin-off of Nuances, the in-game fashion magazine for the original game and Trendsetters/New Style Boutique. Before the imminent release of Fashion Dreamer, I wanted to make a special homage to the Style Savvy series of games - and that's how this final issue of Aesthetica came to be!

Bask in nostalgia or indulge your curiosity as we look through all four games in the series! You can download the zine here (pdf format) or view it on GDrive here! Once again, thank you very much to the community for making this possible, and I hope to see you in the virtual world soon! :D

Featured Links Rose Garden, a Rosiemilla fanmade VN by sevendaysfriend/rosiemillas Aesthetica, a fan project headed by razzberriezz - Issue 1 || Issue 2 || Issue 3 || Issue 4 Style Savvy Challenge Compilation - may be very outdated!

[sirfrogsworth]

Some of you may remember me mentioning my quest to get black cherry soda and several shipments ending in tragic bottle breakage. I have been seriously craving this soda for nearly a month now.

I contacted Boylan and accused them of shoddy shipping.

They very politely informed me it was not their shoddy shipping store on Amazon.

After some additional Amazon analysis, I felt foolish about my inaccurate accusations.

They informed me there were no local distributors of Boylan brand bottled black cherry beverages. They said they had no control over Amazon shipments and recommended I order directly from them. That would make this already pretty pricey pop about $15 more expensive after shipping and tax.

I had nearly given up.

After the $220 pizza and the $250 battery replacement and an almost assured account overdraw in my future, I'd have to wait at least until next month to satisfy my soda craving.

But when I went to my local Schnucks grocery store last night I decided to check the soda aisle to see if there were any alternatives.

My first find was Schnucks' own generic brand black cherry soda.

I have to say, that is a cute label for a generic store brand product.

After some research, I discovered this is a rebrand of a classic Vess soda. I like Vess soda! They make a wonderful cream soda concoction that my grandma used to buy whenever I would visit on the weekends. And I specifically told my mom never to buy cream soda for home because then it wouldn't be special when I had it at my grandma's house.

Sadly, I was unaware it was Vess-in-disguise and I was not trusting of a generic store-branded soda. Sometimes these low-cost rebranded items can be good, but it is always a crapshoot. I mean, their generic peas are 70 cents cheaper than Green Giant, but they are also mushy as heck. So based on my previous peas experience, there was a good chance it would taste more like black cherry cough syrup than soda.

I didn't know it was Vess, okay?

REMEMBER THE PEAS, PLEASE!

I fell into a soda research rabbit hole. Vess was acquired by a company called Cott Beverages in 1994. And Cott was then acquired by a company called Refresco in 2018. And Refresco partnered with Coca-Cola and is now their main manufacturer in the United States.

So I guess it is actually a Refresco Cott Vess Schnucks brand black cherry soda in partnership with Coca-Cola.

Capitalism is fucking weird, dude.

So the possible cough syrup RefresCoVesScnhucks was in my cart. I was considering taking the risk.

But then I noticed... the Fitz's section.

A locally owned and operated boutique soda bottler.

*heavenly music*

And do you know who owns Fitz's?

Mr. Alfred J. Fitz! (I don't actually know his first name or middle initial.)

Who founded Fitz's in 1947 as a drive-in restaurant based around his popular secret root beer recipe.

That's right. Fitz's was not enveloped by an incestuous line of conglomerates successively eating each other.

And because of that, they went out of business in 1976. The soda biz is rough if you don't have a multinational manufacturing and distribution network.

But then Fitz's was revived in 1993 by two plucky entrepreneurs who were determined to rebuild the brand using the original secret root beer recipe from Mr. Alfred J. Fitz.

Small business wins the day!

And then they sold out to The Westgate Group in late 1999.

Which then sold it again to Clayton Capital Partners in 2003.

Will capitalism please stop fucking with soda?

But then one of those plucky entrepreneurs thought the brand was being damaged by soulless investment firms and bought back Fitz's. He restored it to glory and I'm sure he will never sell it again*. He is intent on maintaining the Fitz's tradition and image as a beloved St. Louis small business that culturally enriches our famed Delmar Loop with vintage soda bottling techniques customers can watch when they visit the Fitz's restaurant. Neat!

*Unless RefresCoVesScnhucks offers him a bunch of money.

I can't believe I forgot about Fitz's. I used their root beer as a subject for one of my favorite product photos.

To make a long story as long as humanly possible my god why are you even still reading this...

...wouldn't you know it, Fitz's makes black cherry soda!

It is delicious.

Craving accomplished.

[visit-new-york]

Crosby and Broome Street

Crosby St & Broome St New York, NY 10012

Unveiling the Splendor of Crosby Street & Broome Street.

In the heart of Manhattan's SoHo district lies an enchanting convergence of history, artistry, culinary excellence, and urban allure – the iconic intersection of Crosby Street and Broome Street. These two thoroughfares, each with its unique character, weave a narrative that transcends time, revealing the captivating evolution of a neighborhood that has blossomed into a haven for creativity, luxury, and vibrant community life. Embark on a captivating journey as we delve into the intricate details that define Crosby Street and Broome Street in SoHo, transforming them into a destination unlike any other.

A Stroll Through Time and Architecture

Crosby Street, a narrow cobblestone path, invites visitors to step back in time. Its cast-iron facades, remnants of the neighborhood's industrial origins, have been artfully repurposed into galleries, boutiques, and residences. The very buildings that once housed factories now stand as testaments to SoHo's ability to seamlessly fuse history with modernity, each cast-iron detail whispering stories of the past while embracing the future.

Intersecting Crosby Street, Broome Street adds another layer to the architectural panorama. Amid the luxury boutiques and contemporary structures, the Old St. Patrick's Cathedral stands tall, its Gothic Revival architecture an eloquent reminder of the immigrant history that helped shape the neighborhood. The streets serve as a living embodiment of how a community can pay homage to its roots while embracing change.

Artistic Expression and Creativity

Crosby Street's artistic soul continues to thrive through a fresh blend of pop-up exhibitions, murals, and interactive installations. The street itself has become an ever-changing canvas, a vibrant symphony of colors and shapes that captivate passersby and engage the imagination. It stands as a testament to the power of art to transcend conventional boundaries and inhabit the very essence of a neighborhood.

Broome Street's creative vitality is equally vibrant, boasting galleries, studios, and performance spaces. These intimate theaters provide a stage for emerging artists, musicians, and actors to share their talents, breathing life into the neighborhood's commitment to nurturing artistic expression in all its forms.

Culinary Odyssey and Pleasures

The culinary offerings on Crosby and Broome Streets present a feast for the senses, a tantalizing fusion of cultures and cuisines that reflect New York City's global character. From cozy cafes to upscale dining establishments, these streets offer a culinary symphony that celebrates diversity and innovation. Each dish and cup of coffee is a testament to the culinary artists who infuse their creations with a passion that mirrors the vibrant spirit of the neighborhood.

Retail Therapy and Luxury Lanes

For the discerning shopper, Crosby and Broome Streets emerge as a haven of luxury and style. The boutiques and flagship stores of luxury brands create an ambiance of refined elegance, where the latest trends and timeless fashion converge. The windows serve as a visual masterpiece, drawing in fashion enthusiasts and blending artistic expression with the world of commerce.

Community and Cultural Fusion

Beyond the aesthetics and commercial offerings, Crosby Street and Broome Street thrive as hubs of community engagement and cultural fusion. Throughout the year, these streets come alive with a myriad of events that unite residents and visitors, fostering a sense of belonging and shared identity. Art walks, street fairs, and seasonal celebrations fill the air with excitement, allowing individuals to immerse themselves in the neighborhood's vibrant tapestry.

Local artisans and craftsmen also find their home along these streets, offering a glimpse into the ingenuity and entrepreneurial spirit that define the SoHo community. From handmade crafts to vintage treasures, these local establishments contribute to a sense of authenticity that resonates with those who seek to uncover the heart of the neighborhood.

Residential Enclaves and Urban Sanctuaries

Crosby Street and Broome Street are not just destinations for exploration; they also embrace a vibrant residential community that calls SoHo home. Living on these storied streets offers a unique blend of urban sophistication and neighborhood charm. Residents find themselves at the nexus of luxury and convenience, with high-end boutiques and dining establishments just steps away from their front doors.

These streets, with their cobblestone pathways and historic facades, serve as urban sanctuaries where residents can escape the bustling city and find respite within a community that values both creativity and connectivity. The sense of camaraderie that emerges among those who reside on Crosby and Broome Streets is a testament to the enduring allure of this remarkable neighborhood.

Conclusion: A Continuum of Splendor

In the heart of SoHo, Crosby Street and Broome Street stand as sentinels of a neighborhood that has gracefully evolved while preserving its character and heritage. These streets are not isolated entities; they are part of a continuum that weaves the past, present, and future into a seamless tapestry of experiences. From the cast-iron architecture that whispers tales of industrial prowess to the vibrant artistry that defines its modern incarnation, this intersection beckons travelers and locals alike to embrace the charm, creativity, and community that define SoHo's essence.

As you traverse the enchanting landscape of Crosby Street and Broome Street, you're embarking on an exploration of the soul of New York City itself. Through its art, architecture, culinary delights, and dynamic community, this iconic intersection embodies the spirit of a city that is both a canvas and a masterpiece – a city that thrives on innovation while honoring its storied past. SoHo's odyssey continues, and at the crossroads of Crosby and Broome, its timeless allure is more captivating than ever before.

[victusinveritas]

Summer 1962. Rio de Janeiro. At the Veloso Bar, a block from the beach at Ipanema, two friends—the composer Antonio Carlos Jobim and the poet Vinícius de Moraes—are drinking Brahma beer and musing about their latest song collaboration.

The duo favor the place for the good brew and the even better girl-watching opportunities. Though both are married men, they’re not above a little ogling. Especially when it comes to a neighborhood girl nicknamed Helô. Eighteen-year-old Heloisa Eneida Menezes Pais Pinto is a Carioca—a native of Rio. She’s tall and tan, with emerald green eyes and long, dark wavy hair. They’ve seen her passing by, as she’s heading to the beach or coming home from school. She has a way of walking that de Moraes calls “sheer poetry.”

Legend has it that Jobim and de Moraes were so inspired by this shapely coed, they wrote a song for her right on the bar napkins. It’s a good story, but it’s not quite true.

While Helô inspired the song, it was another Carioca who carried it beyond Rio. Astrud Gilberto was just the wife of singing star João Gilberto when she entered a NYC studio in March 1963. João and Jobim were making a record with tenor saxman Stan Getz. The idea of cutting a verse on “Ipanema” in English came up, and Astrud was the only one of the Brazilians who spoke more than phrasebook English.

Astrud’s child-like vocal, devoid of vibrato and singerly mannerisms, was the perfect foil for her husband’s soft bumblebee voice. Jobim tinkled piano. Getz blew a creamy smooth tenor. Four minutes of magic went to tape.

A year later, the song was casting its quiet spell of sea and sand on the charts, washing past the Beatles’ “I Want To Hold Your Hand.” It peaked in mid-June at No. 5, selling over two million copies.

“The Girl From Ipanema” went on to become the second-most recorded popular song in history, behind “Yesterday.” Covered by an A-Z gamut of performers, it’s become the ultimate cliché of elevator music—shorthand for the entire lounge revival of the ’90s.

Over the years, Helô Pinheiro (her married name) enjoyed country-wide fame, ranking with Pelé as one of the goodwill ambassadors of Brazil. She never settled on an occupation, dabbling in acting, then running a modeling agency. In 1987, she posed nude for Playboy (and again in 2003, with her daughter Ticiane). In 2001, Helô opened the Girl From Ipanema clothing boutique in a Rio shopping center.

Shortly after, the heirs of Jobim (who died in 1994) and de Moraes (who died in 1980) filed a lawsuit, claiming Helô was only inadvertently involved in the song’s creation and didn’t have the right to use it for commercial purposes.

Helô says, “I never made a cent from ‘The Girl From Ipanema,’ nor do I claim that I should. Yet now that I’m using a legally registered trademark, they want to prohibit me from being the girl from Ipanema. I’m sure that Antonio and Vinícius would never question the use of the name.”

After much ugliness in and out of court, Helô was able to keep the name for her boutique. Today, she reflects on the early ’60s in Ipanema with nostalgia. “I like the time when everything was prettier because of love, as it says in the Portuguese version of the song. I am still touched when somebody plays the song in my honor.”

—By Bill DeMain

Image: As a teenager, Helo Pinheiro was a regular on Rio's Ipanema Beach

[midnight-scrivener]

Didn't want to derail this post too much bc funny posts should be allowed to stay that way, but I really think OP is onto something here tbh!!! Malls (in usamerica) are full of high end brands and luxury items. No one goes to a mall because they NEED what's there. Malls are dying precisely because there's no place in a big mall for basic quality-of-life shit. The thing about blacksmiths and alehouses and apothecaries and peddlers is that they all existed to meet real, practical needs. They brought people into town for a reason, and then if those people bought a little treat while they were there, or stopped and chatted with someone, or had another little human experience, that was all an added bonus.

In Central Florida, the two major malls are sprawling expanses of Armani and Gucci boutiques, high end clothing and dining experiences. The Florida Mall has a straight up brick-and-mortar Tesla store in the middle of it (that I've never seen anyone go inside). There's no room for little human experiences. If you have to go, you're not exploring. You get the rare item you need and get out. Malls are labyrinths of globalized corporate excess, and in the world those same corporations have built, no one can afford to be excessive anymore. Malls are starving because there's no longer a comfortable middle class upon which they may glut themselves.

A positive alternative to this is a revived mall by my house: its department stores are shuttered (the corpse of a JC Penny WILL be possessed by Spirit Halloween this month), the cinema hangs on by airing international films and special events, and the storefronts that were once chain shops and the same textureless, featureless shopping mall fare have been replaced by local small businesses. There's a vintage consignment shop and a board game store that holds weekly community gaming events. A gutted sears has become a brewery and arcade (an alehouse?). BUT there's also a small grocery corner store (a peddler?). There's a daycare. There are maintenance and construction firms (blacksmiths?). There's a music school. There's a drug store (an apothecary?). The mall itself hosts walking events and parties and scavenger hunts that encourage people to come in and wander and engage with their community.

So yeah I think OP is hitting up on something real here. People who come for quality of life shit will stay and start finding each other. The way to make malls live again is to allow them to grow what feels real and right, instead of forcing them to seed this hollow, homogenized isolation.

[mysticraven20]

To Feel You Breathe

For @bohemianrhapsody711 number 4 of @kisspromptsforthelovesquare - "I thought I lost you" kiss.

Bringing this from the archives (Inspired by the Hunger Games)

Ladybug’s feet tangled around themselves and caused her to stumble over the rooftop. The toe of one foot collided hard with the heel of the other as she unceremoniously hopped in order to keep her stability. 

The sudden weight shift had her colliding hard with the chimney, clipping her shoulder and scraping it against the hard, rough brick. Her hand slapped onto the wall, pushing herself away before clutching her shoulder and carrying on. She had to keep moving. 

A red swirl of Ladybug’s continued to dance around in the sky, circulating over her head; a promise of revival, a promise of luck, a promise of hope. 

Her heart begged for the ‘Miraculous Ladybug’ to work the way it always did — rebuilding and reforming — as her mind reminded her about what was important.  She couldn’t stop and check everything was going to plan. Stopping would steal seconds away from her — precious seconds she didn’t have.

Paris began to put itself back together; growing and growing as buildings and monuments reposition themselves in their pride of place. Back to being important to the citizens of the city — but right now, none of these were important to her. 

She hadn’t bothered to stop to check on the victim, or speak to Alya and make her usual statement, as soon as the Lucky Charm was launched high up into the air, she ran – fast, and with intent. 

Taking a leap, she pushed herself from the rooftop landing straight onto the next; her feet never truly connected with the ground. She had tunnel vision; a one track in mind. 

She skidded to a halt, attempting to gain her bearings. She looked around, not entirely sure where she was. 

They’d started the fight in the 6th arrondissement. 

A glance down jolted something in her memory as she noticed the boutiques on street level. She recognised them straight away. The one on the corner was where she’d been browsing when the first fireball hit – smashing through the roof as though it was made of paper and causing the building to crumble quickly and efficiently. 

The Akuma had moved fast and struck hard — harder than she’d ever seen before — taking them on a tour of the city before she could finally conclude the fight near the Louvre. 

She couldn’t exactly remember where they were when it happened. The whole event felt like an out of body experience; her heart had become disjointed from her body as the Akuma’s hard hitting, soul destroying ray took everything out of her. 

Her eyes trailed the buildings in the east. Maybe, that had been the area. It definitely looked familiar – but so did an array of rooftops over Paris. Chimneys, rooftop gardens, walls — all an almost exact duplicate of each other.

Ladybug berated herself. She couldn’t remember where it had happened. All she could remember was the feeling of him disintegrating through her fingers as she tried to keep him conscious and with her. A slow, painful death orchestrated with loud, ear piercing screams. She’d held him tight and close; his body finally slipped through her fingers and faded away to nothingness – her own screams taking over the unfortunate symphony.

He had to be here. He had to be somewhere – here . She’d fixed it! That’s what she did.

Her eyes began to survey the area again, each breath catching hard in her throat with every beat of her heart. She stretched a hand up, clutching at her throat, at her chest – at anything – in hope it would help her breathe. Her airways tightening in reaction to the panic and the pain — labouring her breaths and causing her to claw at her throat.

The red above her head, abruptly, gave way to blue.

Normality.

An imposter against the storm brewing in her heart. 

Her feet began to move again, taking off in a feeble attempt of tracing her steps. The rooftop had to be near here. It just had to be.

Every single step caused a ricochet through her body, the pounding impacting in her head, as much as it was her heart. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Her feet tangled like a mess of wires, snaking around each other in a practised and impossible entanglement, tripping her up and causing her to lose balance. Next thing she knew, she was falling. An unexpected twist of cruelty which took her down onto her knees. She fell hard, her hands  catching her before her face hit the ground, a droplet of water landing beside her glove, the grief of her loss fully on display for all to see — evidence of her failure. 

And the storm finally reached its superlative.

She used her hands to push herself up, but her knees were uncooperative and sent her stumbling forward once again. She dropped back onto the rough surface of the rooftop, her knees agonising from the impact on hard concrete against her skin, a feeling usually foreign when she was in her super suit. 

A heavy rattling sob became an echo of melancholy vibrating between rooftops. She couldn’t go on anymore. She couldn’t. She was done. She couldn’t breathe.

The rooftop was suddenly being coated in droplets of her sorrow, tiny pieces of anguish effortlessly falling on the ground without a care for ruining something previously untouched.

“I’m sorry.” She let out a sob. “I’m so sorry!” 

Laying her head in her open palms, she took the moment to be less than super, to feel everything that came with the grief of losing him, of not being able to save him. The memories she’d thought so little of passed through her mind in a film noir way. Times she should have done more, times she’d chosen to do less, times she’d taken him for granted. She wiggled her fingers wishing she could remember how he felt, his smooth skin and soft hair. But she’d failed. The gloves had always been in her way of really feeling him.

She could hear his voice echoing in her mind, words she longed to hear and would do anything for him to say again. The sweet distant call of him talking to ‘his Lady’. 

“Kitty,” she whimpered, an arm wrapping around her stomach as she held herself tightly. “Kitty!” Her voice was broken, every repeat of the word sounding foreign to herself. Was that really her voice? 

“M’Lady.” 

She heard it again. Chat Noir’s voice was clear in her ears, so concise; she was amazed she could remember it so distinctly. 

“Oh, Bug.” It was there again, this time closer. 

He was calling to her. 

“Bugaboo, come on!” 

She felt something on her hand, grasping it tightly. It felt so real, as did the hot breath on her neck. Almost as if he was here — with her.

Ladybug looked up, straight into the eyes of Chat Noir; her partner crouched down opposite her. 

“Are you really here?” she sobbed. “Is it really you?” 

A black, clawed hand stretched to her cheek, fitting perfectly against her chin as a cool thumb brushed away the tears gliding effortlessly down her face. He began to shush her, moving closer and using his other hand to claw through her hair.

“Real or not real?” she whispered, Chat Noir once again wiping away the tears on her face. One corner of his lips tugged upwards in that way she adored so much. 

“Real. I’m here. I’m back! You saved me.” 

With a trembling hand, she reached up and stroked over his face, tracing every part she could touch. She dragged her fingers around the edge of his mask, over his nose and cheeks before feeling the contour of his chin. It was all there. He was there. She completed the round once more, etching every single detail into her mind — positive she’d never forget the feeling of him again.

Launching herself into his arms, Ladybug cuddled him tightly, the sobs ripping through her body as her hands moved over his body. Threading in his hair and clawing at his back, before finding a home on his beating heart. The repeated consistency evening out her own.  

“You’re real!” she repeated, trembling before moving her arms and pulling him in closer. “You were dead!” she whimpered, everything shaking as she cried out the pain. “I felt you die!” 

He held her just as tightly, burying his nose into her hair as she continued to shake in his arms. A grasp that didn’t ease. Real.

“I’m here! I’m back. You saved me. You always save me.”

“You stopped breathing!” she said, gasping for her own breath as she continued to try and crawl at his skin. He was here. Her partner was here and she had never been more grateful for the power of the ladybugs. 

She continued to shake in his arms. 

He threaded his claws into her hair and gently loosened the ribbons freeing her hair and allowing him to massage her scalp. He placed his forehead against hers, brushing his nose delicately against hers.

“I’m breathing now. I’m here.” 

He moved forward and placed his lips against the corner of hers; a soft, electrifying kiss, which allowed the feeling of contentment to waterfall from her shoulders and release the tension she’d held so tightly. 

The night’s curtains began to draw, closing the brightness of day and leaving them with privacy amongst the stars, both interwoven as they soaked themself in the warmth of their love. 

“You love me?” Chat Noir whispered into Ladybug’s ear. “Real, or not real?” 

She pulled away from the hug, her hands clutching his and bringing them to her lips, a delicate kiss placed to each wrist. 

“Real.”

Leaning forward, she pressed her lips against him, the solid feel of life beneath her. She loved him. She needed him. She wanted him.

Time didn’t record how long they stayed there, huddled tightly on the rooftop as they found solace in one another. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, even days or months, but it didn’t matter, because she was here, safe in his arms. And when she was here, with him, she could finally breathe again.

[under-the-eye]

You won’t believe it– Adam and Penny are courting!

Damien, the boy from the Revival, came out from Willow Creek to ask about Penny. At first we were hesitant, seeing as his family are Sclerans, and we believe that Penny will require a strong, firm hand to guide, but he explained to us that as he’s gotten to know Penny, she has explained our beliefs to him, and he feels convicted to join the Irisite church! 

Johnathan and I were overjoyed. We’ve had our struggles with Penny in the past, especially with her accepting her role as a woman on the Watcher’s path, so we were so happy to hear that she’s been drawing people to the Gaze of the Watcher!

So we gave him our blessing, and to our delight, Penny was just as delighted as we are! Perhaps she has finally turned the corner in accepting who she is meant to be.

As I expected, Adam has begun courting Chastity Shearer. Since Isla and Zeke are engaged, the Shearers were glad to grant Adam permission to court their daughter, especially as he is such an example of Watcherful masculinity after being taught so well by Johnathan. We’re so happy for both of them! 

Meanwhile, wedding planning is going absolutely swimmingly. I took the girls to a wedding boutique on Magnolia Promenade. It’s run by a Scleran woman who caters to other Watcherful believers on the most important day of their lives– their wedding day.

Isla and Iris experimented with their hair and makeup until they found the exact look they wanted for their special days.

The shop carries many modest options for wedding gowns, thank the Watcher! So many wedding dresses these days follow the pattern of other worldly clothing, low quality and even lower standards! With the owner Catalina’s help, we found two gorgeous dresses for my girls.

Outside they even had an adorable little trailer flower shop where we bought their bouquets! I myself will make the wedding cakes.

Though it would make more sense age-wise to have Iris get married first, our home church had an opening sooner than the Windenburg Cathedral, where Iris wants to get married, and Isla is absolutely chomping at the bit to begin her married life. Luckily Zeke doesn’t mind her enthusiasm– in fact he seems enamored by the fact that she wants to pledge herself to him as quickly as possible. Watcher bless them!

Penny’s Secret Journal

Well, I’m finally courting. Damien from the revival said everything right, and my parents walked right into it. Isla and Iris will be getting married soon, but as soon as I’m 18 I’m going to start preparing for the eventual engagement. Hopefully mom and dad won’t fuss at me too much for my figure, but they probably will. I’ll play along, just enough so that they don’t suspect anything. 

The plan is working.