first time you put on pretty lingerie Yuuji just stares at you, covering the bottom of his face with his hand while his entire body flushes a shade of red. he is so gentle with it, tracing the thin fabric with the tips of his callused hands, and peeking up at you so often that you have to nod at him to reassure him what he is doing is alright. he keeps it on for as long as he can because he loves it so much, and the second he (very gently) pulls the lacy undergarments off of you, he is thinking about how much money he is about to spend to buy you the prettiest sets :/

Apparently ‘Crowley gets mistaken for a sex worker’ is a sub genre now and I am here for all of it from the heartbreaking to the hilarious and especially if it involves Mr Brown of Brown’s World of Carpets vying for Aziraphale’s attention. (And this fic where Mr Brown thinks Crowley is in the mafia is great too.) Give me more please internets!

Yes to all of this.

Though I do agree with her that the new SaTC show is trash 😂

formal dress 1 or 2

eli told me to get you on a leash btw - 🪓🖤

FREAK ON A LEASH? KORN REFFERANXS!!!!!!!!

but like deadass tho what the bust show me

Whaddya mean I have to ink before I can color?

Or Black (Pascal Morabito)

The joys of the cinema are legion; surprises of all sizes abound. I like mine on the wee side -- under five foot six -- and green-eyed, thank you kindly.

In the 1998 Scottish indie film An Urban Ghost Story, a family living in a Glasgow housing project copes with two unwanted entities: the poltergeist that haunts their tiny flat, and the loan shark who menaces them for monies owed. The latter is played by Scottish actor Billy Boyd, best known as Pippin Took in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings. If you have only ever seen him as a harmless little hobbit, Boyd's performance here will chill you in an unexpectedly big way.

Tersely described in the screenplay as "a small young man in an expensive suit", the Shark is a titan of rage held in check only by impeccable bespoke tailoring. His personal deficiencies (he's short, he stutters, he can't seem to shake this vexing head cold) are balanced by an inimitable fashion sense and a comprehensive lack of human emotion which renders him the ideal man for this line of work.

And that voice! Soft, compelling, caressing the ear like a freshly-honed straight razor sheathed in velvet… Even as the Shark instructs his henchmen to "chuck the wee bitch off the fucking balcony", I'm transfixed. What poltergeist on earth could possibly outdo the menace of this tightly-wound little man?

None. It takes a perfume to get the job done.

While reaching for metaphors to describe Or Black, I found that the Shark kept coming to mind. Far bigger heavies abound in cinematic iconography -- Anton Chigurh (No Country for Old Men), Victor the Cleaner (La Femme Nikita), Beatrix Kiddo (Kill Bill), almost all of the Inglorious Basterds. But only the Shark -- remote, concentrated, unreadable -- seemed fit to personify this saturnine scent.

In their common use of scent elements such as bergamot and oakmoss, chypres and fougères straddle the same fence-- but the side on which they choose to touch ground makes all the difference. On one side, it's the enchanted forest, moist and cool and dappled with dew; on the other, harsh and arid badlands stretching as far as the eye can see. If Or Black had wished to take up residence in the former territory, it might have incorporated some soothing lavender or verdant spruce. Instead, it opts for black leather, drier-than-dry vetiver and sage, and an oakmoss so bitter and caustic it practically dessicates one's sinuses to powder. After a good long stretch of this -- during which the less hearty may find themselves begging for mercy -- a smooth, shaving-soap tonka accord with vanillic overtones provides a kind of consolation prize.

The Or Black man may be a distant cousin of that masterpiece of iconoclasm, the Yatagan man-- only smooth-shaven and obsessively clean. Rather than inhabit the sere desert, it inhabits him, deep inside where his soul used to be. His weapon is a sardonic smile-- or, even more powerful, the calculated withholding of it. Yet for all he leaves one feeling bruised and ill-used, one cannot help but come back for more.

Why? Perhaps it's that eternal, perverse infatuation so succinctly captured by Sylvia Plath: Every woman adores a Fascist/The boot in the face, the brute/Brute heart of a brute like you.

Scent Elements: Bergamot, black pepper, leather, sage, benzoin, labdanum, vetiver, amber, tonka bean, musk, oakmoss

now i gotta upend my wardrobe for something that is apothocary-esque...

Should I paint my nails bright red, amaranth red, or vampire red?

sgsjdgsjd thank you for humoring me 💞

I had to Google amaranth red and the internet doesn't seem able to make up their mind about what kind of hue is it. If it's this then that by all means

otherwise the only answer is vampire red ofc😌

that seed poll reminded me of a very specific louis in 2014 that now i need to find it for my peace of mind

girl wake up new genders just dropped

I can’t believe they never gave us purple silks

I've never played a more perfect card in the 10 years I've been playing this game

really love dynamics that are like 'it honestly doesn't matter if you view them as romantic or platonic, the point is that they love each other. the type of love is inconsequential, all that matters is that it's there'. gotta be one of my favorite genders.