#blueprint jasmine

[gctawaygirl]

open starter : slightly older m muse : jasmine baker (23, heterosexual) plot : abandoned by her friends at the club, jasmine is hit on by some creeps and is rescued by a scary-looking older guy (who's actually a teddy bear) who pretends to be her boyfriend and they end up going home together (either to hook up or bc he walks her home)

jasmine didn't know why she did this. every time she went out with her friends, she ended up sitting by herself. she was happy to drink a little and dance with them but when they started dancing with prospective partners for the night, she stuck out like a sore thumb and ended up at the bar by herself. maybe she needed to get new friends... as she sipped on her drink, a man came up to her with a strange smile on his face, "hey sweet thing," he greeted and jasmine's entire body tensed up. "sorry, i'm not interested," she replied but this guy seemed persistent.

[fima11]

Meet Soma and Rajah. [twst au]

yeah I named the kid after kalim's literal blueprint from black butler and the tiger after jasmine's one because it makes a lot of sense.

more under the cut!

He is Kalim's son. I once talked to a friend about Kalim and they said he'd probably be the first to marry and have kids affer graduating NRC so I gave it a thought... long ago in jamikali hcs post I mentioned possibility of Soma's existence in one of AUs so here he is.

Here would be a giant maxi fanfic if I really wrote the whole lore, so I'll just let you assume things about it! (it's not mpreg)

Soma is incredibly stubborn 16 years old young man with a strong sense of justice, sometimes it's almost ridiculous. He is book-smart, ambitious, but sometimes incredibly gullible and oblivious. Like here.

He also has a cool "uncle" he takes after and respects a lot. "Uncle" kinda uses him as a punching bag, but it motivates Soma to become stronger.

It's been a year since I created him btw 😭 but it is how it is.

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ “She loves what makes her suffer.”

— or, Damian's habibti who's is allergic to flowers, and Damian Wayne commits an act of devotion anyway

She loves flowers.

She says it like a confession, every time.

“I know they make me sneeze,” she’ll murmur, eyes watering, “but look at this one. Isn’t she so pretty?”

She’ll cradle a daisy like a holy relic. Brush her fingers reverently across petals in the florist shop window, sighing like she’s greeting old friends. Her voice goes soft around the names of them — freesia, peony, jasmine. Like each one is a poem she’s memorized in another life.

And then she’ll sneeze.

Violently.

Five times in a row.

Damian once watched her nearly pass out because she insisted on keeping a bouquet of lilacs in her room for “vibe purposes.” Alfred had to intervene.

It makes no logical sense.

Why would someone adore something that actively harms them?

He tells her so.

“You know you’re allergic,” he says one day, watching her hold a wildflower with tears in her eyes and blotchy cheeks.

She beams. “But they’re so hopeful, Damian. Like tiny living declarations of beauty for no reason.”

He squints. “That’s irrational.”

“That’s romantic.”

“They make your throat close.”

“They make my heart open.”

He almost chokes on the sheer emotional recklessness of it.

That night, Damian goes to the greenhouse behind the Manor.

The one Cass tends to like it’s her sanctuary.

He enters with surgical gloves and no expectations.

He leaves three hours later, covered in dirt, vaguely pissed off, and carrying a seed catalogue.

Two weeks pass.

She doesn’t hear much from him — patrols, League interference, Bat drama. She doesn’t push. He’s not much of a texter, anyway. But when she rounds the corner into the Wayne Manor west wing one afternoon, Alfred gently guides her to a door she’s never seen before.

“Master Damian asked me to escort you,” the old man says with a subtle smile.

“…To a horror movie set?”

Alfred simply opens the door.

Inside — is a room.

Not large. Not ornate.

But it glows.

The walls are covered in soft white drapes. Fairy lights snake across the ceiling in warm lines. A low wooden bench sits in the center, surrounded by pots of—

“Wait,” she breathes.

There are flowers.

Everywhere.

Lilies. Marigolds. Poppies. Violets. Not a single one real — but perfect. Crafted from fabric, glass, paper, even delicate origami. Each one clearly made by hand. Folded and cut and painted with so much care her knees go weak.

She touches one. Petals like satin. No pollen. No sneezing.

There’s a small tag attached to the nearest pot.

“They won't hurt you. But they’re still yours.” — D.W.

She spins around— And he’s there. In the doorway. Arms folded. Face impassive.

“I had to study seven different origami guides,” he mutters, clearly embarrassed. “And burn the tips of my fingers with glue four times.”

“You made these?”

He shrugs.

Her heart squeezes like a vice.

“You made these.”

“I logically deduced that the artificial replicas were the safest way to approximate the aesthetic effect without the accompanying allergic reaction.”

“Damian.”

His jaw twitches.

She crosses the room slowly, stopping just in front of him.

“I love them.”

“I know.”

“No, like—this is insane. You folded an entire bouquet of calla lilies.”

“I had blueprints. Cass helped with the iris. Hers looked better.”

She cups his face before he can duck away. Holds it in her hands like something sacred.

“Say it again.”

“…Cass helped with the—?”

“No. The other thing.”

His throat bobs. He looks away.

“I know,” he says again. Quieter this time. “I know you love them. I wanted you to have something beautiful that doesn’t punish you for wanting it.”

Her eyes sting. (Not from allergies this time.)

“Damian.”

He finally looks at her.

And then—

She kisses him.

Soft. Certain. Like pressing her lips to the quietest part of his soul.

Later, the Batfam finds out.

Because of course they do.

Jason walks in and sees the room. Stops dead. Blinks. “Yo, who built an allergy-safe fairy cottage in here?”

Stephanie gasps so hard she chokes. “Did Damian Wayne do a Pinterest project?!”

Tim silently walks in, takes one look, and walks right back out. “I can’t. I’m gonna cry. I have midterms. I can’t process this.”

Dick just grins. Grins.

“Little D made a flower garden for his girl. Guys. He’s in love.” He turns to Damian, who looks like he’d rather spontaneously combust. “Tell me you at least kissed her in here.”

Damian doesn’t answer.

But She walks in wearing a flower clip in her curls made from folded gold paper, smiling like she carries the sun in her chest.

So yeah.

They know.

The room stays.

Sometimes Cass sits in there and folds more blooms. Sometimes she brings music and sings while paints new petals.

Sometimes Damian just… sits in silence. Watching the light shift across the room he built for a girl who loves the very thing that makes her suffer.

He doesn’t believe in many things.

But he believes in her.

And now— She has flowers that never make her cry. Only smile.

And that’s all he ever wanted.

writing this while listening Sombr on repeat is crazy LOL Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) reblogs,comments and likes are appreciated! ©𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐,𝑹𝒐𝒓𝒚🐚 —-do not copy, repost, plagiarize,translate or feed any of my work into ai. I work hard to give quality content.

[goldfades]

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 & 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖𝐄 ' 𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐓 ☆ DONCIC⁷⁷ (ev's 6k celly!)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.1k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and luka were never supposed to be the blueprint. you are both fan favorites — technical fouls, postgame quotes, highlight reel meltdowns. that’s how it started. a mutual respect forged in chaos. now? you’ve got a toddler who won’t wear shoes, sunscreen in your eye and a suitcase full of tiny swimsuits that no one’s wearing.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | toddler tantrums, descriptions of parenthood (duh), nothing else!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i was thinking about what to name their little toddler daughter and i was like... huh, mandy is such a cute name!! then i realized maybe, i think it's bc i've been watching slushy noobz for the last week (like constantly, it's so bad) and i didn't even put two and two together until right now!! LOL

You never thought you'd be the kind of person who packed three kinds of baby sunscreen and still forgot the one your daughter actually liked. You never thought Luka Dončić would be the kind of person who read the ingredients on organic juice boxes like it was a game film breakdown, either but here you both are.

A beach resort. Croatia. Off-season. Your first real vacation as a family of three.

It’s supposed to be relaxing. That’s what everyone keeps saying when they see the photos you’re remembering to post — the glossy sunset shots, Luka’s hand curled around Mandy’s little foot, your oversized sunglasses hiding the circles under your eyes. But behind the scenes, it’s chaos. A slow-burning, sun-drenched, sticky-skin kind of chaos.

Mandy screamed for twenty solid minutes on the flight because the apple juice was “wrong.” Luka forgot the stroller in the car back at the airport. You tripped over a floating unicorn raft at check-in then got sunscreen in your eye within the first ten minutes of stepping foot on the sand.

You and Luka were never supposed to be the blueprint.

People loved you because you weren’t tidy. You were loud. Messy. The postgame interview where you dropped the f-bomb twice before walking off. Luka’s seventh technical of the season, earned because a ref “looked at you funny.” Fans joked that your love language was mutually assured ejection. And they weren’t wrong.

But here you are now. Married. A baby. Vacationing.

You’re in a rented villa that smells like jasmine and ocean salt. There are six different flavors of baby snacks scattered across the kitchen table, a stack of swim diapers on the counter and Luka snoring softly into the couch cushions while Mandy smears watermelon across his shoulder.

You rub your eyes and feel the grain of dried sunscreen around your lashes. Your back hurts from carrying a wriggly toddler to and from the pool. The swimsuit you picked out for yourself has never seen water.

And still — still, when Mandy laughs so hard at the waves crashing over her toes that she hiccups when Luka wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your temple like it’s just the two of you again, you get this rush in your chest. A weightless, dizzy kind of warmth.

You're doing it. Not perfectly. Not quietly. But still, you’re doing it.

“Okay, Mandy,” you say, crouched at the foot of the bed, holding up two swimsuits like you're conducting a very high-stakes negotiation. “Pink strawberries or blue dolphins? You pick.”

Your daughter stares at you like you’ve just asked her to explain quantum physics. Her curls are slightly damp from the shower, cheeks flushed from a post-nap meltdown that involved exactly zero explanation and ended in a mutual timeout, for all parties involved. Including Luka, who’s currently rummaging through a suitcase in the corner, muttering to himself in Slovenian.

“I don’t like blue dolphins,” Mandy finally announces, pointing dramatically at the strawberry suit.

You nod like this is a major breakthrough in diplomacy. “Perfect. Strawberries it is.”

“But I wanted the blue one.”

You blink. “Okay… you just said-”

“I wanted the other blue one.”

You don’t know what other blue one she’s referring to but it doesn’t matter. She’s now walking away from you completely naked, a gummy snack in one hand and an invisible grudge in the other.

Luka groans from somewhere inside the closet. “Where is the damn sunscreen with the purple cap? She only lets me use that one now.”

“She threw it in the toilet yesterday.”

“She what?”

You stand up slowly, hands on your hips and breathe through your nose. You remind yourself you are on vacation. You remind yourself you chose this. You also remind yourself that if you don’t laugh, you might start screaming into the decorative driftwood centerpiece.

Luka turns around, holding up a pair of tiny sandals triumphantly. “At least I found her shoes.”

You glance over at Mandy, who is now under the bed, humming something suspiciously off-key, still very much naked.

“She’s not going to wear them.”

“She wore them yesterday.”

“She wore one,” you clarify. “Then she threw the other into the ocean like a message in a bottle.”

Luka sighs, setting the shoes down next to her outfit anyway. “Do you think if I bribe her with ice cream-”

“She already had ice cream today.”

“It was sorbet.”

You give him a look. He gives you that boyish half-grin that makes your stomach flip even after all this time. “Different texture,” he says, shrugging. “Doesn’t count.”

You're about to argue when Mandy reemerges from under the bed, dramatically crawling out on her hands and knees like a sitcom burglar. She looks up at both of you, wide-eyed and suspicious.

“I need the popsicle swimsuit,” she declares. “Not strawberries. Not dolphins. Only popsicles.”

“There is no popsicle swimsuit,” you say gently. “That was at home, remember?”

Her lip trembles. Luka, sensing disaster, jumps in.

“How about the strawberry one and we draw popsicles on it later?”

Mandy squints at him, considering. “With marker?”

Luka nods solemnly. “With whatever you want, princess.”

That earns him a slow, very adult nod of approval. “Okay.”

You hold your breath as she walks over and lets you dress her without incident. Luka meets your eyes behind her back, mouth open like he can’t believe it either.

She lets you slide on the suit. Arms. Legs. Snap. No complaints. The shoes, however, are still a no.

“Feet need to be free,” Mandy says seriously, holding up one finger like she's about to start a TED talk. “Feet get hot.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Nod. “Okay, fine. No shoes.”

She runs off again, still barefoot but at least this time, she’s dressed. Luka collapses onto the edge of the bed like he’s just finished a five-set playoff game.

“You know,” he says, “I used to think playing against Draymond was hard.”

You snort. “Draymond doesn’t scream for apple juice at 2AM and then throw it when it’s too cold.”

Luka leans over, pulls you into a quick, salty kiss. You both smell like sunscreen and baby wipes and something vaguely tropical, and somehow, it’s still the best kiss you’ve had all week.

“She’s kinda cute, though,” he mumbles against your cheek. “Even if she’s a terrorist.”

You laugh. “She gets it from me.”

“She gets everything from you.”

You smile, watching Mandy press her face to the window, fogging it up with her breath as she waits for the beach.

And then you both hear her yell: “I NEED MY FLOATIE THAT LOOKS LIKE A DUCK. NOT THE FROG. THE DUCK.”

Luka groans. “Oh my god. I left the duck in the rental car.”

You close your eyes, already grabbing the keys. “I’ll get it.”

“No, no. I’ll go.”

“She’ll yell at whoever stays.”

You both look at each other. Then at Mandy.

Rock, paper, scissors it is.

Vacation. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.

The car ride to the beach is exactly what you expected it to be, which is to say: hell.

You’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, window cracked, and your left hand pressed flat against your temple like it’s the only thing holding your sanity in place. Mandy is in her car seat behind you, full-volume, screaming about god-knows-what with tears she’s not even wiping anymore because she’s too busy flailing her feet like she’s auditioning for a mosh pit.

“Mandy!” you try. Calm. Authoritative. Hanging on by a thread. “What is it, baby? What’s wrong?”

“THE SUN!”

Luka’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “The sun?”

“IT’S LOOKING AT ME!”

You blink. You turn toward her. “You’re mad at the sun?”

“YESSSSSS!” she wails, kicking the back of Luka’s seat for emphasis. “IT’S TOO BRIGHT! I DON’T LIKE WHEN IT LOOKS AT ME!”

“Okay,” you say slowly, hand now gripping the edge of your seat. “We talked about this, remember? The sun has to be out during the day. It’s how we can see. And… you’re wearing sunglasses.”

“I HATE SUNGLASSES!”

She rips them off. Throws them. You don’t even flinch when they bounce off the back of your seat and clatter to the floor. Luka, bless his patient heart, just turns up the air conditioning and keeps driving.

“She didn’t nap long enough,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “That’s what this is.”

“She’s overstimulated,” Luka agrees. “Too much sugar. Too much sun. Too much freedom. She’s gone feral.”

“Don’t say feral.”

“She bit me earlier.”

You snort. You can’t help it. “Okay, yeah. That’s true.”

The screams continue. A mix of sun-hating, snack-requesting, leg-itching nonsense that no toddler dictionary could ever fully translate and it doesn’t stop, not even when you pull into the parking lot. Not when you unbuckle her. Not when you offer to carry her. Not even when you hand her the godforsaken duck floatie that Luka went back for and which is now the only thing keeping you from turning the car around and spending the day hiding under hotel pillows.

She wails and thrashes and wriggles in your arms as you stomp toward the beach. Luka has the cooler strapped across his back, the beach bag in one hand and the towels slung over his shoulder, looking like a sherpa who made a very romantic mistake two years ago and is now carrying the weight of it in literal pounds.

Your swimsuit is already sticking uncomfortably to your back. Your thighs are chafing. You haven’t eaten since breakfast. And now your toddler is crying because the sand is “wrong.”

You stop halfway down the path and just stare at the water, eyes glassy.

“Babe,” Luka says softly. “You okay?”

You inhale through your nose. "No."

He leans in. Kisses the top of your head. “We’re almost there. Five more minutes.”

“She’s not gonna last five more minutes. She’s gonna spontaneously combust.”

And then, of course — it happens. Right as you step onto the beach proper, right as your feet sink into the hot sand and the full heat of the sun wraps around you like a wet towel, Mandy just… stops crying.

She hiccups once. Looks around.

Then, as if none of the last thirty minutes happened, she lights up.

“Oh!” she gasps, pointing to the waves. “Look, mama! OCEAN!”

You blink. “Yes, babe. That’s the ocean.”

“It’s huge!” she yells, wriggling out of your arms. “I wanna go see it!”

And then she’s off, duck floatie under one arm, legs pumping, curls bouncing, squealing with laughter as she sprints across the sand like she’s never known a single bad thing in her life.

You and Luka just stand there. Staring. Silent.

Then you glance at each other. And burst out laughing.

It’s not even full-volume laughter. It’s the kind that escapes when you’ve been holding it in all day. When your brain has been in fight-or-flight and you finally get permission to exhale. You lean into him and rest your forehead on his shoulder, giggling so hard your knees feel wobbly.

“She’s crazy,” you whisper.

“She’s our kid.”

“God help us.”

“She’s perfect.”

You watch as Mandy runs up to the water, shrieks when it touches her toes, then runs back up the sand before turning around and doing it all over again. She's lost in it. Giddy. Wild. Untouchable.

And that’s the moment it hits you.

This — this — is what all of it’s about.

Not the pictures. Not the “relaxing” part. Not the perfectly curated family moments you see on social media. It’s the ugly, sweaty, scream-filled in-between that somehow leads to this: the smile on her face, the way Luka’s hand finds yours and squeezes, the way you both know this day will be burned into your memory not because it was perfect, but because it was yours.

You spread the towels. You settle down. Luka opens the cooler and hands you a cold drink. You lean back into him, legs tangled, your daughter shrieking happily in front of you like the beach was made just for her.

“She’s not wearing her hat,” you murmur.

“I’m picking my battles,” Luka replies, eyes closed, a peaceful grin on his face.

And for the first time all day, no one is crying. No one is screaming. No one is asking for the blue juice or the green spoon or the popsicle swimsuit that doesn’t exist. Just laughter, and waves, and sand sticking to your ankles.

You lean your head on Luka’s shoulder and feel his arm wrap around you instinctively, fingers brushing your elbow.

“We’re doing it,” he says softly.

You don’t answer right away. Just nod. Smile into the breeze.

Yeah. You’re doing it.

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[justinspoliticalcorner]

Margaret Sullivan at American Crisis:

Jamelle Bouie gets it. The New York Times columnist wrote something a few days ago that stood out to me because it was so directly stated and so horrifyingly correct. It began: “Even if anyone had elected Elon Musk to anything, the past week would still be one of the most serious examples of executive branch malfeasance in American history.” Bouie went on: “Musk has seized hold of critical levers of power and authority within the federal government, apparently enabling him to destroy federal agencies at will, barring congressional action or judicial pushback.” The piece was titled, “There is No Going Back.” Here’s a gift link. Read it in full and weep for what we’re losing, day by day. But Bouie’s sense of alarm, well founded as it is, is strangely rare in Big Journalism these days. Witness, for example, a piece last week by Jason Willick, a regular opinion columnist at the Washington Post, who wrote something titled “Save the panic over Trump’s ‘power grabs.’ It might be needed later.” Calm down, Willick counseled, mocking the idea that a coup is underway, and concludes that, instead of having what he calls a “meltdown,” everyone should just wait and see. Why? Because, he argues, casting Trump and Musk’s early moves as a constitutional crisis “will diminish the force of such warnings if they are needed.” Willick was appropriately blasted in the reader-comments section: “This sycophantic, willfully delusional apologia for the dismantling of the American republic and the shredding of the constitution … is contemptible sophistry of the very worst kind,” said one. Read Willick’s column, if you have the stomach, and judge for yourself; here’s a gift link. Overall, the tone in the major media is much more like Willick than Bouie. For example, the popular Times newsletter, The Morning, offered this tepid headline one day last week: “A Constitutional Crisis?” Then it considered the question from various angles, including only one quote from a lawmaker — Republican senator Thom Tillis of North Carolina who notes that what Trump and Musk are doing “runs afoul of the Constitution in the strictest sense,” but “nobody should bellyache about that.” As Jamelle Bouie put it in the column I mentioned above, no question mark is appropriate here. In fact, calling what’s happening a constitutional crisis “does not even begin to capture the radicalism of what is unfolding in the federal bureaucracy.”

[...] Righteous indignation like that is hard to come by. That’s why I wrote a Guardian column last week about two new-generation Democrats who have become strong voices: Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett of Texas and Senator Chris Murphy of Connecticut. I quoted political consultant Sawyer Hackett: “There’s been no better messenger in the first two weeks of Trump 2.0 than Chris Murphy. At a time when too many Democrats are afraid of their shadow, Murphy is showing how to fight back with a compelling populist message that should be a blueprint for the Democrats moving forward.” My Guardian editor asked me to include a paragraph at the end about what’s giving me hope right now. You can read that, and the rest of the column, here.

Margaret Sullivan is spot-on: Our press needs righteous truth-telling during these constitutional crisis times.

[gctawaygirl]

"one kiss," jasmine repeated. she was trembling, trying to keep herself together and hold back any tears, "one kiss?!" she said again, her upset coming out as anger, "yesterday, you were saying you wanted me and today, you're kissing my best friend? what the fuck is wrong with you?!" she did not curse. ever. it was usually an indication of how angry she actually was.

muse - greer ikeda , pro skateboarder , he / they . plot - maybe greer cheated on your muse orrr they were on a break.. or he kissed someone important to ur muse idk open to - any , f/nb , 20 +

"jesus, don't be so dramatic.." greer huffed, running a hand through his hair casually. "it was one kiss."

[saiintvalentiine]

Summary: In the aftermath of the 100 days in the End Barrens, Wato can't help but want Wifies's company. It's a double edged sword.

Notes: spoilers for wato's 100 days in the hardest minecraft biome!!!!!!! anyway. huh. wuh. i feel like i wrote this possessed. this is a rough and quick fic, using my partial voidwalker clonefies headcanon bc uhhhhh teehee it'd be funny???? definitely not a perfect work and i didnt explore everything id have liked to but i think it's fun. enjoy! divider

Wordcount: 3,165

Wato doesn’t usually spend all their time with others. Not that they’re antisocial, just that escape room planning and building can become an all encompassing set of tasks that pull them away from talking to people. It's involving, fulfilling, and sometimes a quiet, singular endeavor.

But Wifies is here.

He's been here all day, even, filling up Wato’s space, though he does so quietly. He sits across from them on the other side of their desk, writing notes over the plan for one of the rooms Wato is working on. He breathes evenly, though his breath hitches with frustration when things don't add up on paper, and he writes with an easy rhythm that Wato can just about tune out when they focus. He's wearing a black and white sweater, and his headband glints silver in the light, and he's real, and he's here, and he's been here all day because Wato asked, and he's never said no to them.

Wifies glances up. His eyes are a deep, dark violet that makes Wato's skin crawl. Their ears pin back before flicking back into place. He looks back down to his blueprints without comment.

He's so good to them. Wato knows that they've been staring a lot. Wifies takes it in stride, had laughed awkwardly at first before accepting that this was just how Wato was today.

“Is it turning out well?” Wato asks. The silence is getting to them.

“It is, just a couple things that I wish would work better,” he says with a sigh, tapping his pencil on the page. “Like here. I know that it's impossible, but I wish there was a way to guarantee a player left their wool behind, because carpets would be basically an ace for the next room. They'd barely have to puzzle solve if they have carpet.”

Wifies's voice has a kind of consistency that unnerved Wato once upon a time. It reminded them too much of the factory for a while. Now, it's the most comforting thing in the world, the perceived consistency actually crackling with emotion and variance, always soothing and never raised. Wifies is talking and Wato is listening. It's good.

“— and that's all I can think of doing right now, but adding a skulk sensor is kinda a whole different can of worms isn't it?”

Wifies rests his head on his fist, looking at his blueprints like they personally offended him.

“Maybe it's time for a break then. Tea?”

Wifies perks up and Wato laughs. Wato likes tea fine, though they really drink more coffee than anything, but they keep some of the good stuff around just for Wifies. They make their way out of Wato's office and Wifies is behind and his footsteps are muffled, despite Wato’s exceptional hearing. Wato keeps looking over their shoulder at him. He's there, of course, slightly shorter than Wato and not nearly as sleep deprived.

“Hi,” Wifies says as he catches Wato's eye, a little awkward, mostly sincere.

“Hi,” Wato says back. “I have a new tin of rosehip tea.”

Wifies makes a pleased sound, happy and high, though high for him is still pretty low. He loves his teas. Wato doesn't get rosehip, the flavor a bit bland and unlikable to them, but Wifies likes it well enough.

“Rosehip with jasmine is good, they give each other extra flavor and body,” Wifies says, reading Wato's mind as usual.

The kitchen is a small, tight, highly decorated space. Wifies navigates it effortlessly, just as easily as Wato can navigate his kitchen. They're intertwined like that. Easily, effortlessly. Wato measures out coffee grounds, sets his coffee machine up, loses track of Wifies in the noise of the kitchen.

“Wato, can you—”

Darkness, violet, the staticky scent of void and its magicks— Wato jumps, knocking over the sugar container in one fell swoop.

“Fuck,” they say eloquently.

“Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, let me help.”

Wifies cleans up the sugar on the counter, rights the container, and refills it, all while Wato breathes through their initial panic. It was just— they know, they know they're home, they know the End Barrens are long gone, server deleted off the face of the universe, but for a moment, Wifies was just—

“Sorry,” Wifies says again quietly. “I noticed you were jumpy, I should've been more careful not to scare you.”

“No, it's— you're fine. It's fine.”

Wato shakes it off, or at least tries to. Wifies is looking at them the way he always does when he isn't sure what he's done wrong but knows for a fact something’s gone awry. He's surprisingly expressive when he wants to be, eyes round and warm and violet. God. Wato suppresses a flinch, tail lowering.

“Sorry,” Wifies says again.

Wato feels bad. They pat the top of Wifies's head (touch is like an ache, in a way, it's been so long since they've really been skin to skin with anyone, but Wifies's hand touched theirs as they exchanged blueprints and it almost hurt, so deprived of it that it's presence becomes painful) and revel in the springiness of his curls.

“I didn't mean to react so harshly, sorry.”

They finish making their tea and coffee in a spiderweb of thin silence. Wifies stays in their line of sight, leading on the trip back to the office and holding the door open. Wato appreciates it. They work until the sun sets and the daylight sensors activate the redstone lamps in Wato's ceiling.

“I should get going,” Wifies says, which Wato hates to hear. “I need to edit some footage, see if I can get some work done. But, uh, I'll be back tomorrow?”

The way his voice lilts is soft, hesitant. Wato would prefer to not be away from him at all. How could they even explain it? Hey, I was so lonely I imagined you, and now I can't stop myself from wanting your presence to know that you're real and I'm free. And also I missed you. Also your voidwalker traits set me off. Wato hasn't even told him anything about the challenge! Wifies didn't ask. Wato had messaged him, please help me with blueprints?, and Wifies had come with a single minded determination to do so.

Wato thinks maybe that's why it was Wifies and not anyone else. Wifies is kind, thoughtful, always holding his hand out for someone to take. He helps. Even back in the factory, the little Wato remembers of it, the clones were meek things that always wanted to know what Wato was doing, if they could help. Wato could never respond, the mask uninterested in such mindless puppets, but they remember the feeling of it.

It always felt good. Felt like being seen.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Wato drums their fingers on the desk. “Yeah, bright and early. Or whenever you can I guess. I would— I'd really appreciate it.”

“Of course. Bright and early.”

Wifies smiles. He still leaves, and it still sets Wato’s stomach rolling, but Wato spent most of a hundred days alone, and one more day won't kill them. It won't. The isolation had tried and failed.

At least they can sleep here. Their petal pink bed has never been so enticing a sight. They keep the lights on in their room these days, daylight sensors connected to every room through newly opened redstone channels in the roof and walls. The dark is— it's not good, uncomfortable, they don't want to say the word that comes to mind at first.

Wato pops blocks into a jukebox. It's the longest disc they have and it fills the room with whimsy as they lay in bed and try to sleep. It's kind of hard, sleeping with noise and light, but it's more comforting than it is difficult.

They don't dream.

Wato couldn't be any more grateful for that as dawn cracks the sky open and the redstone lamps shut off. They’re sure that the morning will pass like a blur until Wifies arrives, routine deeper than bone taking over, but there’s a knock at the door as they’re eating. When Wato opens it, it’s Wifies. The morning light makes him golden, but only just; he’s so pale and dark that gold doesn’t work right on him.

“Bright and early,” Wifies says after a beat of silence.

“You took that so literally,” Wato says, opening the door wider and waving Wifies in.

Wifies walks in and he jingles. It’s the strangest thing. Wato looks down and sees a glint of silver on his boots. Wifies notices of course, and he kicks up a heel. Hanging off the loop at the back of his boot is a silver hoop decorated with a colorful feather charm that rattles against the hoop every time he moves.

“Parrot got them for me,” Wifies says, lifting up his pant leg so it’s more visible. “They come in pairs, but I took the other one off and put a different charm on it.”

He shows off the other boot, and Wato sees that the hoop has a black and white yin-yang charm instead.

“You’re so predictable,” Wato says with a snort, closing the door behind them.

“I like having a brand.”

“Yeah yeah, c’mon.”

The irregular weight of each charm makes them reasonably noisy as Wifies walks, makes it easy for Wato to keep track of him with a flicked ear, and they don’t want to ask why he’s suddenly started wearing them.

Their day goes the same as yesterday— time spent at Wato’s desk, scratching through blueprints and discussing different solutions. Soon it’d reach the point where they’d have to start building to fully work out any kinks and get it running.

“You think Ken is gonna break it?” Wifies asks at one point. He’s chewing on the end of his pen— his pen, because Wato banned him from using their pens after he popped one with his teeth a few months ago— and he’s not looking at Wato.

He knows he’s done something wrong. Or, he thinks he knows he’s done something wrong. He’s dodgy the way a dog might be, still committing the crime but looking preemptively apologetic about it.

“Ken. . . I’m not sure if I’m gonna ask Ken to do anything for a while,” Wato says carefully. It’s not like they want to string Wifies between them like a knot. “The 100 days. . . Ken left me alone before the first quarter was even done. So I’m not really in the mood to share with them right now.”

Wifies stops chewing on his pen long enough to say, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Wifies doesn't continue to chew on his pen.

“So you finished 100 days by yourself?”

“I did.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

He means it too. He's not placating or trying to push the conversation, he means it, he knows what the End Barrens are like and he means it.

“It was.”

“Was there— like, what even spawned?”

“No structures or anything. Just. . . a lot of Endermen. Lots and lots of Endermen. Wandering traders, pillager patrols, that kind of thing. Um, underground there was some copper and iron too actually. They generated with blobs of granite and such.”

Wifies nods along, hums at the right times, but he's looking at the blueprints again and not at Wato.

“Must've been really, really hard. How'd you get to the Nether then?”

“Y'know how like— how wandering traders will turn invisible at night? And then in the morning they drink milk? I killed one just as they drank the milk and it dropped the bucket, and I used that to create a Nether portal. I had to haul lava over and over again to spawn, it was so tedious. And then the pillager patrols, the ominous banner they drop? I used that and some lava to light the portal.”

“And from there it was probably easier.”

Probably. The Nether had so many more resources to use. But the lava had been too lustrous and the days too long and Wato had stepped right off that cliff and ended it all.

“Yeah,” they say with a shrug. “Now I just kinda wanna focus on escape rooms again though. These are easy for me at least.”

“It's coming together real nice,” Wifies says. He's back to chewing on his pen.

“We can probably start building it tomorrow. I'm pretty sure we're almost done.”

There's a cracking noise and black ink splatters all over Wifies's mouth and clothes. He curses, and Wato scrambles for some tissues, the acrid scent of ink filling the air. They hand the tissues over, and Wifies presses them to his mouth. Wato finds a trash can and comes around to dump the popped pen into it. Thankfully, the now ruined blueprint Wifies was working on is one Wato has duplicates of, so they dump it out too.

Wifies keeps the tissues to his mouth though, and Wato gets concerned.

“Let me see,” Wato insists, placing the trash can down and turning Wifies's chair so they're facing each other.

Wifies glances up, his eyes are so violet, and then back down. The black ink stains right through the tissues, looks bloody despite the fact it's too dark to be blood.

Endermen don't bleed. Wato hadn't really realized it before the 100 days began, but Endermen don't bleed. They collapse into a dry pile of crackling scales and bones and eyes before poofing out of existence. Despite that, enderpearls are always a little slick with something like blood when first picked up; it's thin, periwinkle, and so quick to evaporate that you almost never get to feel it once you pick the pearl up. Wato had plenty of time to get acquainted with it, though.

“ ‘s okay,” Wifies struggles to talk, clearly holding his mouth open under the tissues so as to not swallow ink. “I just gotta clean up.”

Wifies stands up in a single jagged jerk, and Wato has to scramble back to not get hit by him. He leaves so quickly that Wato is shocked.

“Did you get hurt?” Wato calls out after him, shuffling to the doorway to peer down the hall where Wifies presumably ran off to the bathroom.

Wato waits and waits, but Wifies doesn't respond. Maybe he's just embarrassed? Wato hesitates for a moment longer before making their way to the bathroom. The door is shut. They knock.

“Wifies?”

“I'm good!” Wifies calls out, opening the door and peeking around it. “I'm okay, sorry for scaring you. The— I think a piece of the plastic split my lip, but it's all healed now.”

He's managed to get the ink off his face, and there are wet spots on his gray sweatshirt where the ink has stained it. There's a smudge of wine colored blood left on his upper lip though. It has a blue undertone, much cooler looking than Wato's own. Another reminder of the fact Wifies was made with void.

“Looks like you missed a spot,” Wato says, and Wifies turns back to wash his mouth again.

Does the water sting? Not everything from the End is allergic to water, and Wifies isn't explicitly spliced together with Enderman genetics. The cloning process was a mix of different things— technology, genetics, magic, there was even skulk involved at one point. Each clone was, ironically, unique in how it was made, no formula working the same twice in a row. This Wifies smells like void and the pseudo-citrus of chorus fruit, sees better in the dark, breathes out plumes of frozen breath when he's upset and can't always keep eye contact when angry.

Why did Wato cling to him so strongly?

Wifies turns around again, wiping at his mouth. They lock eyes and Wifies looks away. 

“Did I get it?”

“Why won't you look at me?”

Wifies startles, eyes wide as he forces himself to stare at Wato.

“What?”

“You’re avoiding looking at me. Why?”

“I'm not.”

“I'm not— you are, Wifies.”

“I,” Wifies looks away again. “You look. . . unhappy when I look at you. So I don't want to.”

It's easy to cling to Wifies. Gentle voiced Wifies who wants to be liked more than anything, facing Wato’s unconscious ire and not saying a word. Of course it had to be Wifies, because who else would put up with any of Wato's unsure madness? Who else would avoid Wato's gaze and put— put what are basically catbells on their boots just because Wato’s scared?

And that's the word, isn't it? Scared. Wato's scared. Now that it's over, now that the walls of their prison have fallen, they're scared of going back, of being alone, of fucking Endermen ruining their shit.

But really, they're not scared of Wifies. Hugging him is easy. 

“I'm sorry,” Wato says.

Wifies clams up. He barely hugs back. Contact burns, touch feels heavy, foreign, an unknown country that Wato only remembers as a blur.

“It's okay.”

“When I was almost done with the challenge, I imagined you being there,” Wato confesses. Wifies makes a strange, clicky noise. “I showed you around the world, and you listened to me, and told me little facts, and asked me questions. I was so alone, and I had to imagine you there. I've never wanted anything more than to just see you again.”

Wifies holds onto them in earnest now, tight and warm. There's nothing truly void-cold about him; he may run cool, but it’s nothing Wato can't help with.

“I missed you. The Endermen couldn't even compare.”

“But I remind you of them,” Wifies murmurs. “Not forever, but for now, I remind you of them.”

Wato imagines Wifies pulling away. They imagine him insisting that he doesn’t want to startle Wato so much, that maybe he should leave. Wato shudders at the thought.

“Please don't leave,” Wato's voice cracks, and now Wifies is holding them as they slump further into his body. It’s such a selfish request, and they know Wifies won’t say no, but they can’t stop themself from asking anyway. “Please. I'm sorry, I know I can't be pleasant to be around right now, but please don't leave me again.”

“I won't,” Wifies says. “I won't, you don't have to be alone.”

They don't want to cry. It would be— they didn't cry in those 100 days, even when they thought there was nothing left to give but tears. But Wifies is real, and here, and he's holding them so tightly that he has to be real, and for the first time since Wato got out of that wretched, rotting house of a world, they weep openly into a shoulder that won't leave.

Wifies doesn't say much. He's not the best with these kinds of strong emotions. But he hugs Wato, and hums a tune into their ear, and lets them ruin his sweatshirt even more, and it's more than Wato has had in over a hundred days.

Wato let's themself have this. Have Wifies. It feels good to have someone stay.

[slytherin-pen]

To Build A Home

pairing: Lucien x Nesta

word count: 1.2k

a/n: okayyy, you guys win. i stuck with Lucnes. written for day 4 “moving in” of @sjmromanceweek . i hope you enjoy the tooth rotting fluff

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5

The house was nestled at the edge of a rolling green meadow, where tall grass swayed in the breeze and the scent of roses and daffodils drifted through the air. It was on the smaller side with only three bedrooms but it was big enough for them, with cobblestone walls, ivy creeping up its sides, and wide windows that let in an abundance of sunlight.

Lucien stood beside Nesta on the dirt path leading to the white front door. “It’s ours,” he murmured.

Nesta glanced up at him, catching the moisture gathering in his eyes. “Ours,” she confirmed.

For so long, they had lived in houses. Houses riddled with abuse or poverty. Houses that belonged to someone else, somewhere they couldn’t be entirely themselves. But this? This was theirs to shape. No masks, no need to have their guards up.

Lucien exhaled, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he reached for her hand, squeezing once before he intertwined their fingers. “Shall we?”

Nesta nodded, and together, they stepped inside.

The house smelled of dust and a faint hint of jasmine, the wood floors creaked under their boots. Tamlin had gifted them the house as a gesture of gratitude, but it had been Lucien who had scoured the lands to find this specific place—a home that wasn’t tangled in painful memories, wasn’t a palace suffocating under the weight of expectations.

They had moved only a few of their things so far. Stacks of books were scattered around, boxes shoved in the corners, and furniture still waiting to be put in its proper place.

Nesta crossed her arms and tapped her fingers against her bicep. “We should start with the library.”

Lucien raised a brow. “Not the kitchen?”

She shot him a dry look, but he only grinned.

“I mean,” he continued, brushing past her to inspect the wooden shelves above the counters, “you strike me as someone who wouldn’t want to wake up tomorrow and realize there’s no tea.”

Nesta pursed her lips. “Fair point.”

They spent the afternoon unpacking, Nesta methodically organizing the kitchen while Lucien took a more haphazard approach, distracted by the discovery of little details about their home. How the late afternoon sun hit the kitchen windows just right, the small carved designs in the wooden support beams, the way the doors groaned slightly—as if the house itself was stretching awake.

When he found the tin of her favorite tea, he placed it on the counter next to the kettle, just as Nesta put his preferred spices in the cupboard next to the stove. They worked in quiet harmony, almost like it was a dance they’d practiced hundreds of times.

The next day, after they had unpacked the necessities, they started on the office that contained various reports and books sent by Tamlin.

Nesta hadn’t expected to take such an active role in rebuilding Spring, but when Lucien started sifting through plans and budgets, she had inevitably found herself seated beside him, pouring over figures and blueprints.

Tamlin had given him free rein to rebuild as he saw fit, and Lucien, for all his easy charm, had a sharp mind when it came to politics and structure.

“You’re missing an opportunity here,” Nesta said one evening, pointing to a line in the budget. “The Summer Court is also rebuilding after the war, and I’m sure High Lord Tarquin would be open to some compromises. Allow them to receive a discount on wine, game, and vegetables, and in turn, they can give us discounts on seafood, spices, and tropical fruits. That would allow you to redirect more revenue to the construction fund.“

Lucien leaned over her shoulder, studying the figures. His breath brushed her cheek, but Nesta didn’t move away.

“You’re a terrifyingly efficient female,” he mused.

She smirked. “You’re welcome.”

He grinned, but there was something softer beneath it, something grateful. Nesta wasn’t just helping him—she was invested in this. In their future here.

Nesta was also helping arrange donation drives for clothes, and household supplies, and had plans for charity balls in the future. She spoke with displaced families and workers who lost their jobs due to the building being destroyed or the employers too broke to pay wages. She hosted meetings in the villages, brainstorming with the citizens about how they could get things running again in a way that was manageable for everyone.

Lucien had always known Nesta was brilliant and clever, but watching her work never ceased to amaze him at just how well she could find a solution when the odds seemed impossible. She wasn’t just here because of him. She was here because she wanted to be. Because she cared. Just like when she demanded the human queens offer sanctuary to the very people who had cast her family out for being poor before the war with Hybern.

They found a rhythm in their days, falling into something that felt natural—waking up early, Nesta making tea while Lucien drafted documents for potential alliances, afternoons spent at council meetings or overseeing construction, evenings spent sprawled in their barely furnished living room, reading by the fireplace.

Nesta had claimed one of the armchairs as her own, curling up with a book as Lucien sat on the floor in front of her, one leg bent while he idly massaged her foot with one hand.

The magically lit fire, courtesy of Lucien, cast a warm glow over the room, their shadows reflected on the walls. Nesta had found a book on Spring Court history, hoping to find more ideas on how to restore the court to its former glory.

“You’re not listening,” Nesta accused, though there was no bite to it.

Lucien cracked open an eye. “I was resting my eyes while you told me the riveting history of—what was it again?”

Nesta huffed, snapping the book shut. “You are insufferable.”

Lucien grinned. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

Nesta stilled. He hadn’t said it with the expectation of a confession, hadn’t said it like he was waiting for something in return. He just knew. The ways Nesta Archeron showed her love was quiet and through actions. And she had done so—in the way she meticulously organized his paperwork, in the way she followed him around the court listening to every word as he explained the culture as if it was the most riveting thing she’d ever heard.

Eventually, she murmured, “Unfortunately,” as she reached down, running her fingers through his hair.

Lucien let out a satisfied sigh, closing his eyes again.

Home. This was what it felt like.

One evening, Lucien found her outside, standing by the river that bordered their land. Fireflies danced above the shrubbery, the stars just beginning to peek through the deepening sky.

Without a word, he slipped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Nesta let herself lean back against him.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, listening to the sounds of nature, the gentle ripple of water, the distant hoot of an owl.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted softly. “Afraid this all just a dream.”

Lucien pressed a lingering kiss to her shoulder. “It’s real.”

She turned in his arms, looking up at him. “Promise?”

Lucien cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “I promise.”

taglist (comment to join!): @tele86

[punkpandapatrixk]

🍯New Age Money ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

‘When I was small, God was around and curiously granted my every wish. Now a grownup, I still believe that miracles do happen and that alone gets me up in the morning with such gladness.

And if I am enveloped by a peaceful sun filtering through the branches as I open my curtains, I am sure, everything before my eyes is a message.

When I was small, God was around and sent Love my way every day. And now, it is time I opened that precious box that’s been forgotten, kept hidden in a corner of my heart.

And if I am enveloped by the soft fragrance of cape jasmine in a garden awash by rain, I am sure, everything before my eyes is a message.’

– When I’m Surrounded by Kindness from Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989)

あなたの特技！Surely everybody was born into this world carrying some precious boxes of God-given talents. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to open those boxes and monetise such talents with Soul?

SONG: Yasashisa ni Tsutsumareta nara by Matsutoya Yumi

MOVIE: Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – ‘Harry, you’re a Witch!’

untapped divine talents – Queen of Cups

Hey, magical creature~ You literally possess mystical powers but you probably didn’t even know~! You’re a sensual being, like a siren, who has an innate ability to feel what others can’t easily perceive. Naturally, this translates into your being highly intuitive, empathetic, imaginative—and you might’ve felt like this world wasn’t made for you. Psychics are incredibly sensitive people and you could’ve felt out of place most of your Life, but as the insightful Jiddu Krishnamurti said: sensitivity is the highest form of intelligence. We’re talkin’ EQ here😘

Someone like you was definitely not built for any kind of money-making endeavour that doesn’t allow you to be sensitive to the needs of others. There’s meaning in your being emotionally attuned and imaginative; even if—for example—you feel that your calling is to become an author, even in your writing it’s clear there’s a purpose of healing those who come into contact with your Art. If you’ve chosen this as your main pile, you literally possess some innate ability to heal others and this explains why you’ve always had the urge to make the world a better place🌍

You see, back in those long-gone days, those who were called witches were really scientists, teachers and healers. The word ‘witch’ comes from ‘wicca’ which means the wise one. Wicca (male) and wicce (female) were the knowledgeable ones who sought to apply their wealth of information and perspectives for the betterment of others as that’s how knowledge becomes wisdom. There is an untapped divine talent resting in you and it is your ability to feel through your psychic senses what society is lacking in terms of its maintenance of its own sanity🎭

YOU, literally hold all the ingredients necessary for a once in a lifetime breakthrough that could potentially heal all of Mankind for centuries to come~🌻

karmic/dharmic opportunities – XIII Death

I betcha you have significant Scorpio influences or 8th House placements or a specifically strong Pluto/Neptune presence in your natal chart. It could be that shortly before you were born someone quite spiritual/religious/magickal in your bloodline had passed away and it almost feels like you were born to pick up the pieces they had left. I betcha that some of your innate interests since childhood or pursuits you feel very strongly about that may have developed later in Life were inspired by or related to that relative/ancestor, one way or another. Like you just share similar patterns of behaviour, interests or even thought processes🦜

What you can really take away from all of this is that you have a purpose higher than yourself. That you came with specific blueprints and that your whole Life, your sense of purpose or mission, all of that is a group project you share with many Souls in the Higher Realms. Only high-vibrational peeps will really resonate with this message😊And that in itself is confirmation for you to know you have many opportunities in the healing and creative industries.

Seriously, you needn’t even have to worry about how you’re gonna make money with these opportunities even if they sound out of reach at the moment. Because it is your Destiny to be a cycle breaker—to start something completely new on your own—a path will be made for you just to fulfil your Destiny. And you can wholeheartedly trust in that to save yourself from excessive worry/anxiety🍷

the future of jobs – 5 of Pentacles

In the industry you’re meant to be part of, there will be a lot of chaos right before you make your debut. Like things are just falling apart and many of the players aren’t even sure what they’re there for anymore. There’s a lot of disillusionment that’s needing to be felt to the max until a breakthrough can really have any meaning. Either that, or some of you could be the one creating more chaos in the industry as you enter it LMAO We call you an industry disruptor, alright? You’re that breath of oxygen everybody was needing because they had been suffocating themselves with their own stupidity🍭

If you’ve resonated with this pile thus far, know that you’re meant to bring some healing—even enlightenment to some extent—to whichever industry you feel a calling to. And this is totally not a one-man’s show; you will be meeting a lot of kindred spirits in that industry and others associated with it. You’re meant to have an audience and serve a greater spiritual purpose for all involved. Bring back all those people into OG spirituality. All of this for what? For people’s mental health, obvi~💕

How does every one of these people expect themselves to be truly happy and abundant when their viewpoints are marred by childhood traumas and the excessive need for revenge? You of all people understand the innate darkness of the human psychology and the future of jobs within the industry of your calling is dependent on its people transcending above trauma and lack mentality so that a new, healthier paradigm can be established. Out with addictive behaviours; out with destructive habits; in with purer intents~ That’s the kind of New World you’re meant to be a part of to earn your keep in the most high-vibrational way👒

CURRENTS OF CHI (currency)🔻💛

being of service to Mankind – Gold Physician (Hippocrates)

delights of Life – Priestess of Contemplation

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

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Pile 2 – Paths Least Travelled Lead to the Greatest Stories

untapped divine talents – 9 of Cups

You…need to go and carve out a LYFE of your own, honey. Since you were quite young, you’ve always had this desire to go explore strange territories and come back to share grand stories only you could tell. A unique Life of your own that sets you apart from your family/community. Try to check what numerology has to say about, for example, your Life Path, Soul Urge, Expression and all that; there may be something there that validates this desire to be unique, to be different, to be a fucking unicorn, and perhaps, to be the FIRST to discover or invent something🦄

You have what it takes to thrive alone, that much I can assure you. Some of you probably even have Jupiter in Pisces/12th House or Neptune/Uranus in 9th House. Whatever it is, your Soul does intend for you to travel paths least travelled and discover magical things only you could have access to. What is this strange narrative for? For discovering your Soul’s heritage. I know it sounds weird. But you’ve come from very distinct bloodlines and I sense many of you have a strong affinity towards the faery realm? There’s a lot of historical truths to uncover as you walk the lonely path of the eccentric hermit🏞

The New Age of Aquarius is changing the way we receive truths. It’s such a glad thing that people are now more open to seeing things for what they truly are no matter how politically ‘incorrect’ or heartbreaking the truths are. Your untapped divine talents will naturally bring you towards avenues where you will arise as some kind of a whistleblower or you will be unearthing ancient esoteric wisdom and sharing it with the public. Your life path is definitely very exciting and will take you to wonderful places and meeting the most unique people in the world!⛵️

karmic/dharmic opportunities – 7 of Wands Rx

In many regards, your life path could even lead you to meeting some of the world’s most distinguished individuals OMO But the path is understandably not easy. This kind of calling will require a great deal of character and tenacity. You will be rocking the yachts of the Devil, right? Your Life Stories could get extra absurd and your discoveries might lead you to some dangerous encounters. Nevertheless, if you are nudged by a sense of being of service to Truth, you will decide it’s all worth it. When we die, our Souls carry only stories and memories of our heroism anyway🧬

You will have friends though. People who share your passion for the real re-education of the people. I see professions in journalism, philosophy, psychology, anthropology, criminology, even celebrity exposé stuff that reveal the scammy behaviours of the evil rich and famous. You could also be drawn intuitively to the studies of the REAL history of Planet Earth, her extraterrestrial history and the truths of the lost civilisations that have shaped the wars of our Time. You could secretly (or not so secretly) be part of the disclosure movement😉

The studies of Astronomy and Astrotheology will benefit you a great deal if you’ve resonated this far with this being your main pile. In everything that you do, there is a panacea for the brokenness of Humanity. Your sharing of outlandish discoveries and suppressed information could be what Humanity needs for it to mature and choose global peace and harmony. It will be a lifelong effort that may not end with your lifetime though. So make sure you leave enough material as your legacy for the next generations to continue on🍁

the future of jobs – King of Cups

I suppose it’s pretty clear to many of us now that the world is run by psychopaths. Indecent human beings with terrible hobbies that hurt others and the sheer disregard for the sustainability of the Planet and the livelihood of her inhabitants. With you, you will see for yourself pretty soon that the world is choosing to move to a more compassionate space, and you will have a role in giving a voice to those whose intentions for their societies are more honourable. You could be one to contribute an invention or two yourself; perhaps an exposé book, perhaps a channel, a website~ Idk, what do you feel called to?🎪

In the future you will be part of, you will see evil leaders getting replaced, thwarted even, by compassionate leaders of the New Age Money. Down to anarchy; we want real peace. Down to young psychopaths rebelling against old psychopaths only to start a new cycle of abuse. The future you will be seeing will see that those with a genuine heart rise to the top and begin taking charge of the wheel of society. Leading with a heart. People before profit. It’s really not that difficult to sow the seeds now~🌱

You yourself, and the people who share the same passion, vision and mission as yourself, you are a bunch of experts who will glue together different factions of society who want to work hand-in-hand to remedy all the destruction caused by the powerful psychopaths. There is diplomacy in what you share with the rest of the populace and there is kindness and grace. People’s mental wellbeing will be put at the forefront before profits are made. And if we really did go into a WWIII…

CURRENTS OF CHI (currency)🔻💜

being of service to Mankind – Red Astronomer (Johannes Kepler)

delights of Life – Priestess of Solitude

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Pile 3 – For You, It’s Never, Ever, Been About the Money

untapped divine talents – Queen of Pentacles Rx

Of all the piles, you’ve always resonated with loving being of service to the world since you were tiny. You could’ve been attracted to the service and hospitality industries since you were quite young, too. You were probably quite social when you were a kid and liked the idea of working jobs that would ensure other people have a good time, have a good experience with excellent customer service—basically, you liked the idea of helping/assisting others. If you could make your own choices, you’d rather have these types of job🩹

Unfortunately, growing up you were told that such jobs had no money or glamour. Some of you reading this could’ve come from a wealthy background in which working to service others is seen as uncool…even low. So this could’ve caused a great deal of psychological conflict in you. What you want and what your society deems worthwhile seemed to be in conflict. But let me tell you that your heart really knows what’s intended for your highest good🦉

From a very young age, you were already able to see that this world is sick and needing a lot of help when it comes to healing and transmuting negative aenergies. Your child brain couldn’t have verbalised that but your higher intuition knew you were put on Earth to tip the scale. You didn’t want to care about money; you wanted to pursue an authentic Life where your existence could be of some use to somebody👑

karmic/dharmic opportunities – III The Empress Rx

Some of you could’ve come from a rather impoverished background. This is easy to deal with. You were born face to face with this Devil called ‘lack’. But some of you could’ve come from a wealthier background or at least you weren’t necessarily starving and your society could’ve expected a lot from you. If the latter is the case with you, at some point in Life your Higher Self and team of Spirit Guides will force you to get down from the high horse of your inauthentic environment and have you experience Life from the perspective of those who haven’t got much in Life🐛

When this happens, your eyes will be opened to what truly matters in Life. That essentially, everybody in this world is sick to the bone because they’re trying to fill a hole in their hearts with weirdass purchases and hobbies. Part of your karmic reason to be born at this passage of time is to help Mankind transmute its unhealthy affinity towards excess indulgence via obtaining things that are truly fleeting. When you learn to overcome your own traumas and addictions, you help the collective conscious of Humanity transcend above that, too. This is very noble and you deserve a big bear hug just for existing in this realm~🧸

Rest assured, it is in your Soul’s blueprint that you must end up abundant yourself when all’s said and done. You’re destined to be very wealthy, from doing things that are high-vibrational and fully in alignment with what your Soul wishes for you to express as a Human being. You’re meant to set an example of what it means to do a job with Love~🎀

the future of jobs – 2 of Pentacles Rx

Many of you grew up in societies that taught you: passion doesn’t put food on the table. And you’ve observed many real examples of those who prioritise good deeds end up not having much money, indeed. And you could’ve believed that Life is about choosing between passion and duty. Bullshit. If people can’t thrive doing what they love, it’s the society that’s broken; how can there be no money to be made in those endeavours that are more exciting, more meaningful? You realise now that the System was designed to depress the common people in the pursuit of serving the Devil😰

You and your kindred spirits are the free spirits that are going to usher in an era of New Age Money where people no longer need to ruminate over sacrificing passion or freedom for a stable income. Back to before Industrial Revolution, maybe? Let’s reset the paradigm so we can recalibrate ourselves towards something more of a Solarpunk Society, or a Steampunk Society, that’s cool, too🍵

For you, it’s never ever been about the money. Career endeavours that would suit you most are whatever you feel an innate calling for. Many of your natural talents you’ve got since birth can be monetised in the service of your community, and better yet, online community. Some of you may feel a calling for being in the hospitality business, engineering, have an online presence or be a social media influencer, and some others may simply work in the aviation or F&B business, while some could want to become an eco-farmer or something. Whichever it may be, know that you have the unique power to elevate many aspects of the industry you are part of~🏹

CURRENTS OF CHI (currency)🔻💚

being of service to Mankind – Silver Astronomer (John Dee)

delights of Life – Priestess of Faith

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[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

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[k-nayee]

In Silence, In Strategy The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

wc: 3.3k a/n: been a while since I uploaded and decided to go ahead and post this beaut. hope y'all like!!

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You awoke to the sound of knocks—three precise taps against the heavy mahogany doors of your room.

The sunlight was already breached the tall latticed windows, pouring across the cold marble floor in gentle gold.

Morning had arrived without permission.

The door creaked open before your voice could find shape; three maids entered. Always three of them. Always silent except for what was necessary.

They moved like ghosts dressed in soft Capitol blue, each step echoing in the hollow space of your suite, their presence already set in motion.

“Morning Miss Ithecian,” the eldest said gently, carrying a steaming porcelain cup of tea, head bowed with a grace that still felt like mockery when it came from Capitol tongues. “It’s time.”

You sat up slowly without word. There was no need to respond—they would carry on regardless. Their hands knew what to do, and your body had long since learned to surrender to their rhythm.

You stared ahead as the morning ritual began.

One maid, small and soft-fingered, took off your sleeping bonnet with reverence, setting it aside before moving to your hair. She began to undo each twist by hand, fingers working with a practiced rhythm—unraveling each coil, combing from the base to fluff out volume, smoothing a light moisturizer between each pass.

Another began unlacing the night-corset you slept in, tugging at the back with firm efficiency. She pulls your nightgown off and lets it pool to your feet, exposing the soft, unblemished expanse of your skin.

A scent of  jasmine and neroli clung to you, the lingering trace of last night’s bath oils still strong.

The third maid approached with a polished black box cradled in her arms. When she lifted the lid, a faint shimmer of silk caught the morning light—unnecessary indulgent silk line the inside to protect the day's uniform like it was heirloom glass.

You raised your arms without a word, allowing the blouse—pure white, short-sleeved with gently puffed shoulders and a stiff starched collar—was drawn over your head.

They buttoned it from the front with care, smoothing it flat down your chest before carefully pinning the blood-red tie beneath the collar. Affixed at its center was the brooch: your family’s crest—a ship with a serpent carved along the hull. It glinted faintly, silent and watchful.

The red pleated skirt came next; drawn up your hips and fastened at the side with an invisible hook. It fell just to the knee, precise in length, every crease pressed as if by law. The black stockings—soft as breath—were rolled up your legs by practiced hands, their silken texture catching briefly at your knees.

You step into the lacquered red Mary Janes waiting near the foot of the bed. The silver buckles caught the light as the maid knelt to fasten them, one after the other. Sweet, prim, and perfectly Capitol—just not in the way they intended.

It was all so silent. So expected. So utterly empty.

And yet, somewhere in the quiet, while fingers threaded and zipped and tied, memory surged.

You were seven the day your world burned down in District 2.

The air then had smelled of ash and iron. Screams replaced the lullabies. Fire raging through the streets where your home had once stood.

Your family—a unit built on intellect and precision—was obliterated in the opening shadows of the Dark Rebellion.

Your mother was a tactician revered even in the Capitol’s oldest circles. Your father, a publisher of encrypted texts and wartime treatises that generals still quoted today. Your older brother a genius who could blueprints for silent drones even before he was allowed to drink. And your sister...she could dismantle any machine and rebuild it faster, stronger.

Gone. All of them. No graves. Only cinders.

You survived. Pulled from rubble by hands not your own.

And even now, years later, seated in the finest quarters of the Capitol, with maids dressing you like a prized pet, you could still hear the crackle of that fire.

Still feel the smoke clinging to your lungs.

Still remember the way your mother screamed your name one last time.

And yet the Ithecian name had outlived them. A name inked into Capitol archives—etched into theory, warfare, invention.

Their books—dense with strategy, science, and social critique—still sat on government shelves, in university vaults, quoted at banquets by those who only half-understood them. Strategy guides still bore your grandfather’s notes. Your grandmother’s philosophical analysis On the Human Element in Calculated Risk was required reading at the Academy.

When your family died the Plinths had taken you in—coddled and secured within their towering estate like a priceless artifact rescued from war to raise alongside their son Sejanus.

Capitol children never let him forget where he came from. They sneered at the Plinths’ wealth, earned not over generations but during the war—built in blood and iron, in weapons forged when the Capitol needed more death dealers.

But you—even tainted—were born of legacy.

They couldn’t ignore that.

But they still tried. They hissed at the mentioning of you. A title of 'District-flavored royalty' becoming the new synonym to those who found even speaking your name to be below them. A Capitol girl with District soot in her bones.

And yet they didn’t truly challenge you.

Because deep down, they knew. Your family had taught theirs how to win wars.

Your reflection in the glass stood tall and flawless, a porcelain doll of ancient brilliance and current suspicion.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The grand staircase curved like an unfurled ribbon as you descended with composure, its marble steps glistening with the morning light that poured in through the domed glass ceiling.

Soft sunlight streamed through windows dressed in gauzy cream drapery, the scent of fresh citrus, toasted bread, and something floral from the garden seeped into the air.

At the sound of your polished heels meeting the floor of the dining atrium, Mrs. Plinth looked up from her cup and practically lit with delight.

“Sweetheart you look stunning,” she gasped, rising half from her chair as though drawn by sheer affection. “Like a painting come to life.” Her smile crinkled the corners of her powdered cheeks, glowing with such open pride it nearly outshone the sun.

You smiled back, warm but measured. Always warm with her. It was easy.

Sejanus stood too fast; his breakfast knife clattered from the sudden movement.

“Y-you always look amazing!” he blurted, voice cracking slightly and breathlessly. He was dressed in his academy issued uniform—a stark contrast from your personally tailored one. His curls were slightly damp, as though he’d rushed his bathing to be at the table before you arrived.

Mr. Plinth, predictably, didn’t rise. But he glanced over the top of his paper with a grunt that somehow managed to carry weight and approval in equal measure. “Capitol royalty if you ask me.”

You offered a nod, another smile—this one smaller but genuine—and took your place beside Sejanus. “Thank you.”

On the table, long and elegant with its cherrywood gloss, was a second tea service with more additions than before: a plate crustless cinnamon toast bites, a small bowl of honey (not sugar) to sweeten the beverage.

They remembered. Of course they did. This household had your patterns and tastes memorized.

The Plinths didn’t merely raise you. They adored you.

From the moment you were brought in, small and silent, ash still clinging to the hem of your coat from the destruction in District 2, they had welcomed you like a long-lost daughter.

Your father and Strabo Plinth had shared more than business; they had shared philosophies, theories, a bond forged beyond where the weight of one's lineage determined status. Your mother and Mrs. Plinth had written to each other with the intimacy of sisters—discussing recipes, book edits, secrets about courtships,  and the burdens of intellect.

So when the fire took your family there had never been a question of what came next. You belonged with them.

As you reached for the cloth napkin—

“Miss Ithecian,” a maid suddenly appears. “Your gloves.”

You paused at her words and glanced down at the folded coverings. They were silk, black as ink and custom stitched.

Before you could reach out and grab them Sejanus intercepted. “I don’t mind!” he said, voice softer now, almost shy. “I can...if you’d let me, I mean.”

You turned slightly in your seat, angled toward him. He was still flushed at the cheeks, trying not to look too proud of himself for speaking up. Something flickered behind his eyes—something devoted, something a little scared.

You had seen that look before.

When you were both younger and he scraped his palms climbing trees you dared him to climb first. When he held your hand at your family’s funeral and refused to let go until you told him to.

You didn’t speak. Just slowly lifted your hands out to him—palms down, fingers soft and open.

Sejanus' breath caught. Just barely. But you felt it.

With great care he took the left glove first then guided your hand inside. Silk slid over your fingers, smooth as breath. He adjusted each finger, tugging gently to perfect the fit at the wrist with feather-light precision. Then the right.

His eyes stayed fixed on the task the entire time, touch brushing against your knuckles with reverence.

“There,” he whispered once it was done. “Perfect.”

Your lashes fluttered. “Thank you, Sejanus.” You went back to your tea as he preened beside you.

Across the table Mrs. Plinth sighed with thinly veiled delight. Mr. Plinth had returned to his paper, but he wasn’t reading. You could see the faint smirk behind the page.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Plinth resumed talking, as she always did—gossiping softly about daily news: a Peacekeeper’s daughter caught sneaking out with a performer... the fabrics arriving from the outer cities.... new peace treaties being proposed.

Mr. Plinth didn’t comment. He was absorbed in his paper, as usual, occasionally flicking a page or snorting at a statistic. But he’d lean slightly toward you when a name or topic of interest appeared, as if waiting for your opinion before forming his own.

Beside you Sejanus nudged his plate in your direction.  “Here,” he said lightly, “take the [favorite fruit] slices. You like them better than I do.”

He always did that—offering his toast when yours had cooled, or nudging the berries he knew you liked closer to your side.

You took the [fruit] slice from his plate and took a bite.

Sejanus beamed.

It was easy, sometimes, to forget how much he idolized you.

He looked at you like you were made of sun and stone. Like he would carve his whole world to fit around yours if you asked. Even now, his gaze would drop when you looked directly at him, as if overwhelmed by being seen.

You remembered, once, when you were children and he'd tried to catch a scorpion beetle for you—simply because you'd pointed at it once and said it was beautiful.

He got stung. His hand swelled for days. And yet he didn't cry. Just smiled at you like he'd do it again.

Sejanus wasn’t a strategist. He didn’t think in moves and countermoves. He was good-hearted, idealistic, easily led.

Easily guided.

That made him useful.

The quiet notion of marriage had never come from the Plinths.

It was your family, back when they were still alive, who first floated the idea. They had seen it clearly: the softness in him, the blind loyalty, the eagerness to please.

To them the path had been obvious. If the Ithecian name was to survive—if your lineage of thinkers and builders was to remain more than myth—it needed power behind it. Wealth. Status.

And Sejanus, sweet as he was, came with a family whose vaults had grown fat on the spoils of war. A family who'd earned their fortune by hammering weapons for the Capitol during the darkest years of rebellion.

The marriage had been suggested—not for love, but for legacy.

If she chooses it, your mother had once written to your father, let her. She will steer that house without ever raising her voice. The boy adores her. She’ll never have to force him.

And she was right.

You could have had it all. The name. The empire. The keys to the Plinth dynasty, just by curling your fingers and letting Sejanus put a ring on them.

The Plinth fortune in Ithecian hands. You as the bridge between intellect and resource.

But you had a soft spot for Sejanus.

He was your best friend—your constant, your emotional tether in a city of masks and poisoned smiles. He gave you half his breakfast without a second thought. He laughed at your rare jokes like they were the best things he’d ever heard. He kept your secrets not because you demanded it, but because it never occurred to him not to.

He loved you.

You didn’t want to break him to make him obedient. You didn’t want to rule by sheer force of will, even if you could.

No.

You would sit beside him. Whisper in his ear. Let him think the ideas were his, when they had been born in the quiet corners of your mind the night before. You would never dominate. That was not the kind of power you wanted.

And so you sipped your tea, gloves on, posture serene as Sejanus steal glances at you like you were the first snowfall of the year.

And you let him.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The silver tray with empty cups and plates was whisked away by servants as Mrs. Plinth busied herself, fussing with delicate speed as she retrieved two satchels from the standing coat rack by the front foyer.

She was glowing. Practically vibrating.

“Oh my stars, look at you two,” she cooed, clutching the bags to her chest for a second like she might burst with emotion. “First day—for the both of you! I can hardly stand it.”

Sejanus stood by the door, shifting excitedly from foot to foot like a dog waiting for a walk. He grinned as she pressed his bag into his arms, brushing invisible dust from his lapels for the third time since leaving the breakfast table.

You moved to meet Mrs. Plinth as she handed you the bag marked with your family’s sigil—an older emblem, gold-stamped and faint from time, but intact. She tucks a straying curl back as if you were still a child, though you barely blinked.

“There,” she murmurs, a glint of quiet pride in her eyes. “A picture. The very future of the Capitol.”

You gave her a gracious nod. She meant it. You could tell.

The driver was already waiting at the base of the marble stairs—hat tucked low, posture straight beside the open back door of the sleek tinted car. The Plinth insignia gleamed on the doors.

Mrs. Plinth followed you to the steps, her hands light on your backs as she rambled. “Now I packed extra water in your side compartments. And a little tin of biscuits. Sejanus don’t eat hers before lunch. I mean it!”

He flushes at the accusation. “Ma!”

You turned to her just before getting in, dipping your head in gratitude. “I’ll make sure he behaves.”

“Oh I know you will,” she replies with a wink.

The car slowly began to drive away as you sank into the leather seat—the scent of clean leather and citrus polish enveloping you, the window shielding you in that comfortable tint.

Sejanus was already talking before the vehicle had fully merged into traffic.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, bouncing slightly in his seat. “You’re actually coming to school! Like really coming! I mean I always said you should, but I didn’t think you would. Everyone’s going to lose it. No one even believed me when I said you’d be enrolling one day. They thought I was making it up just to get attention.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of your mouth twitching.

He caught himself. “Not that it matters what they think. But still! This is going to change everything. They’ll see. Once you’re in the classroom, they’ll see.”

You listened. Not nodding out of agreement, but habit. He didn’t notice the difference.

He kept going.

“And I can’t wait to introduce you to Coriolanus! He’s...a little intense sometimes but I think you’ll get alongI think. He’s sharp. Really sharp. You two would talk circles around everyone.”

Your face stayed still. Almost.

Just a faint shift in your brow. A tightening behind your eyes.

Snow.

You’d never met him. Never exchanged a single word. But you knew more than enough.

You’d watched from the silence of your room when he visited, footsteps echoing against the marble floor outside your door.

You never came down. You listened instead. Noticed how Mrs. Plinth’s voice changed slightly when he was around. Noticed how Sejanus laughed too loudly, always trying.

But it wasn’t the boy that caught your interest—it was his shadow.

So you researched; quietly and strategically. Just as your parents taught you.

You traced his lineage back through redacted records and archived mentions. The Snow family—a name steeped in once-glory—now dripping in desperation.

You knew about the penthouse he clung to—its fading grandeur polished daily to hide the rotting edges. You knew about his mother dying while giving birth to him, his grandmother who spoke more to the past than the present, and the cousin who stitched his clothes by hand, pretending not to notice when he grew thinner each season.

And oh did you know about him.

A Capitol boy born with nothing left but pride. Raised with entitlement but no cushion to soften the fall. A creature of careful smiles and sharpened hunger.

Coriolanus Snow didn’t trust anyone because he couldn’t afford to.

You respected that. But you didn’t trust him either. Especially not with Sejanus.

“He’ll love you,” Sejanus was saying again. “I just know it.”

You let a beat of silence pass. Then another.

“He sounds...charming,” you murmured finally, your voice flat as glass.

Sejanus grinned, oblivious.

You’d grown up in the shadow of great minds. Your parents taught you to read people the way they read schematics. To learn their flaws by how they talked about themselves. To listen for what wasn’t being said.

That’s why you stayed silent.

That’s why, every time Coriolanus had come to visit the Plinth residence—and he had, more than once—you’d remained in your room.

Not out of fear. Not out of disdain.

But control.

You needed to watch from a distance. To understand the shape of the threat before engaging.

And now you would be stepping into the same space as him. Deliberately.

Your first real public appearance.

The Capitol's gossip vines had already tangled with your name for years:

A Plinth by adoption... An Ithecian by blood... The girl behind the glass.... The one who didn’t go to parties... Who stayed home during galas... Who vanished up the stairs whenever guests arrives....

Now you were showing yourself. In uniform. In flesh.

The Plinth car turned the final corner, coasting down the final slope toward the Academy’s grand front steps where the building loomed, pristine and imperial. Even through the tinted glass you saw them—the students.

They noticed the car immediately.

Faces turned as a ripple of speculation passed through the crowd.

Sejanus reached for the handle. “Alright, let’s go—”

“I’ll wait.”

He blinks, hand pausing mid-air. “Wait? Why?”

You kept your voice soft and measured. “I’d rather enter with a professor. Less...pressure.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

Sejanus relaxed instantly, concern melting into understanding. “Oh. Of course. Yeah. That’s totally fine.”

He smiled again, hopeful and warm. “Me and Coriolanus’ll be waiting for you alright? You don’t have to worry.”

Your lips pressed together, unreadable. “Go.”

And he did.

He stepped out into the Capitol air and closed the door behind him with a click, already scanning for Coriolanus, heart on his sleeve.

You stayed behind, watching as the students part around Sejanus—some acknowledging him with smiles laced in politeness, others barely hiding their disdain.

You saw the curiosity bloom on their faces as they peered toward the car again, wondering....waiting.

But you made them wait. Because control was power. And you’d never let them see you before you were ready.

Not Coriolanus. Not the Academy.

Not anyone.

[nox-s-n]

Hello!

A dare for you if you want (I'm curious)

Name the more shipkids possible (and the ship they're from) without cheating!

Have a nice day ✨

Anon this is a dream come FUCKING true THANK YOU SO MUCH I CAN MAKE A LIST NOW AAAH. Ive DEFINITELY forgotten a good few people tho

I can describe literally everyone here and I WILL LOVE TO answer questions about them if asked!!!!!!

BUT ANYWAY HERE ARE ABOUT 72 SHIPKIDS!!

@sawdust-flavored-poptarts

Sweetheart (lust/swap)

Cherri (dream/killer)

Other

Paperjam/PJ (error/ink) - 7goodangel

Gradient (error/ink) - askcomboclub

Pallet roller (dream/ink) - @angeutblogo

Goth (reaper/geno) - nekophy

Raven (reaper/geno) - @echoiarts

Shino (reaper/geno) - blue-kohina

Smudge (ink/nightmare) - pixiewritesstuff on tiktok (https://www.tiktok.com/@sanstheskelussy?_t=8o4e192Z1f6&_r=1)

Lux (dream/cross) - Jakei95

Starcross (dream/cross) - lunnar-chan

Crescent (killer/nightmare) - lunnar-chan

Kenza (lust/dust) - nimaruu

Rocket (swap/outer) - jaylaxyart99

Blue screen (ink/error) - 7goodangel

Sprinkle (swap/dust) - 6agentgg9

By Andrew (i think they deleted their blog?)

Debug (error/nightmare)

Dedge (fell/dust)

Rubi (fresh/sci)

Økske (horror/dust)

Raspberry (swap/geno)

Plum (red/classic)

Lurro (lust/horror)

Cabriole (lust/dance)

Eros (lust/fell)

Molpe (epic/dust)

Rem (dream/error)

Somnia (fresh/nightmare)

Lucid (dream/nightmare FUSION NOT CHILD)

Ricin (death/sci)

Nei (horror/swap)

Design?, Aiden, Happy?, and someone else (a DID system made by ink/error)

By @/pepper-mint

Blueprint (swap/ink)

Neon(fresh/sci)

Charm (lust/nightmare)

Orfeo (lust/ink)

Belladonna/Bella (lust/dust)

Al (error/geno)

Morgue (fell/sci)

Ritter (altertale sans/storyshift sans)

Raider (error/nightmare)

Roulette (mafia/??)

Vermilion (lavender/fetal error)

Cloud berry (swap/dream)

Sträke (epic/cross)

Strel (bird/flower fell)

Slash (fell/dust)

Silver(reaper/geno)

Hela (reaper/dream)

Ivy berry (swap/nightmare)

Glasses (horror/fresh)

Noir (killer/nightmare)

Prisma (killer/color)

By cricketkillerz on tiktok!! (https://www.tiktok.com/@cricketkillerz?_t=8o4dy6HrUIb&_r=1) THEY HAVE LIKE A 100 COOL SHIPKIDS GO CHECK THEM OUT!!!!

Delusion (error/nightmare)

White Jasmine/WJ (lust/farm)

Aristotle (swap/cross)

Daring (swap/cross)

Porcelain (lust/geno)

Angel dust (lust/mafia)

Cupid (lust/dream)

XOXO (lust/cross)

Toxic (cross/sci)

Chamomile (flower fell/cinno)

Citrus (nightmare/farm I LOVE HER)

Hound (horror/cross)

Last judgment/LJ (ink/geno/cross thing)

Rosita (fell/lust)

Drip/driper? (killer/outer)

Huntress (shattered/dust)

Anarchy (fell/dream)

Falcon? (nightmare/bird)

Unknown

Nova (lust/nightmare) (i might have made her up myself ngl-)

I might have mixed one of two of Andrew and Mints characters cus they interacted a lot.

Also I KNOW some of the creators have weird ass content but ISTG i found most of these as a bb, forgot about the weird shit, and just made my own tweaked versions pf the characters that are now forever stuck in my brain. I DON'T SUPPORT THE WEIRD STUFF!!!

[thequeendomhq]

"We do not belong to the past, you and I. We are the future." -- Valerius Noctis.

Fifty Years Ago...

She was running long before the bells stopped ringing, through a sea of legs and swishing coats. The bazaar, alive around her, smelled of roasted almonds and the acrid tang of metallurgy. The city itself was alive in its own right, so loud, so beloved. Her laughter, alongside the laughter of other Tower children, was lost in the crowd and the great fanfare. 

Darting between the thick wool skirts of a baker’s wife, then nearly barreling into a man carrying a stack of books. He yelped, stumbling as pages scattered like startled birds. She laughed, quick as a spark, and twisted herself through the crowd, too fast, too small to be caught.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to run off. But what else was she meant to do? Stand still like some statue while the grown-ups droned on about whatever great thing Lady Juliana had made? No, thank you. The world was wide, and she had legs that could move.

A flicker of gold in the corner of her eye caught her attention - something glinting beneath a merchant’s cart. A coin, maybe? A trinket? She crouched, reaching for it-

And then a hand closed around the back of her collar, firm as a hook snagging a fish.

“Caught you,” came the reprimand of her mother’s Queensguard.

Arethusa yelped as she was lifted onto her feet, the familiar scent of jasmine and ink surrounding her. She twisted in Agron’s grasp, only to find a raised brow and a knowing smirk.

“You are impossible,” he sighed, “Do you know what today is?”

Arethusa crossed her arms, scowling. “Loud.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, loud. And important. And not a day for you to go scurrying about like a gutter cat.” He turned, his grip on Arethusa’s wrist gentle but unyielding. “Come. The Queen has been looking for you.”

Arethusa grumbled but followed, her small feet struggling to match the long strides of the Queensguard. The Red Knight. Ten years the war had been over, ten years Valerius had been locked in the Tower, and ten years he’d sworn himself to Queen Damodred. At barely six years old, Arethusa couldn’t even pretend to know what any of that meant. 

The closer they got to the raised marble platform, the more the crowd swelled and Arethusa was led to her mother’s side. Damodred spared her daughter a sidelong and withering look that straightened the princess’ spine, then another - more knowing - at the Red Knight, one that softened. At the center of it all, standing tall and regal, was Lady Juliana of House Chrysanthos.

Arethusa recognized her - sort of. She had seen her before, speaking in hushed tones with the Scholars, always carrying strange blueprints and books filled with scribbles Arethusa couldn’t read. She looked as if she were made of metal herself, sharp-eyed and gleaming, her deep robes rippling like water.

She raised a hand, and silence fell.

"For centuries," Lady Juliana said, her voice ringing over the gathered people, "we have moved at the pace the world allowed us. Today, we take command of it." A hush. A breath.

Then - The lever was pulled, and the world roared. Arethusa flinched as a deafening hiss of steam burst into the air. The great iron machine, sleek and shining, trembled, and then - with a shuddering groan—it moved.

Not by horse. Not by wind. Not by any magic that she could feel. By itself.

The wheels turned, slow at first, then faster, the churning pistons shining like molten gold in the sunlight. The crowd gasped, some cheering, some staring in stunned silence. Arethusa gripped her mother’s hand tighter, eyes wide.

Damodre’d voice was soft, but firm. “The world will never be the same again.”

Today

King John Mordecai, often forgotten but never replaced, stood on the mechanical platform high above Tiber’s Bay, gears, cranks, and propellers sustained the flight as he grinned wide. His likeness was projected in the sky, addressing not just the Bay, but all of Eterna.

"My dear friends, fellow revellers, curious minds - esteemed sailors of the skies and seas! Welcome, welcome, to this most auspicious of occasions - where grand ambition meets grander folly- where we humble students of progress stand in the balance, hoping for the former but always entertained by the latter!” He laughed, a laugh track - played over gramophones across the city set to amplify John's voice - followed, and whether or not anyone else in the city so much as chuckled remained to be seen. 

“We stand upon the threshold of something… marvellous. Something that will shatter the boundaries of distance, and redraw the very maps upon which we place our dreams, and, more importantly, ensure that even the laziest merchant will no longer have an excuse for late deliveries!” Another laugh, cue the track. 

“Before us stands the culmination of genius - the lifeblood of progress. It is the work of a mind that peers beyond what is and seizes what could be! A beacon unlike any other, one that calls not to lost ships, but to every ship, ushering them through the ether with a flicker of light and a whisper of magic. Today, science and arcana meet, today we celebrate the union of innovation and industry.” John held for dramatic effect, drawing out the anticipation.

“And for this miracle, this triumph, this revolution in movement, we must bow our heads - not in sorrow, mind you, but in awe - before the incomparable Lady Juliana of House Chrysanthos and the boundless investment made by the Jewel of Sinaria. Juliana, a witch of wit, wisdom, and - if my sources are correct - far too much patience in dealing with the likes of her unruly house. The woman for whom began this anniversary of Progress, one who has gifted us with a means to travel across our vast continent in the blink of an eye!” Lady Juliana stepped forward on the platform and came into view of the projection as the focus shifted from John to the witch who’d been firmly ingrained in the great history of Lysara. 

“Lords and ladies, sailors and scholars, mystics and merchants alike - I give you the Beacon of Chrysanthos! May it light our way into a new age!” An extravagant gesture pointed to the Tower of Olympia as a glamour was dispelled, revealing a great oculus at its summit, merchant vessels drifting on the water suddenly lifted into the sky - the marvel of innovation carrying them higher and higher as the oculus began to hum with life. “A shipment to Ankhuria,” a set of ships hovered before the Tower’s Eye before a radiant burst of blue light vanished them completely, “arms from Sinaria,” again the Tower hummed with life, this time receiving instead of sending as a different set of ships appeared. 

"For those who look to the Aetherian Empire to the West for innovation, I say, look to your neighbour instead. There are no friends in those who threaten our borders, who spit on our doorstep, who attack those with whom we once held alliance." The King rarely - if ever - touched on political matters, his position was a jovial one, but the current climate required it. "Lysarans do not beg at the feet of aggressors, and we do not turn our backs on those who need us. From the pyres of Astoria, to the mines of Iskaldrik, the dunes of Ankhuria, and the glimmering tides of Sinaria."

“Welcome to the future! Welcome to Progress!”

ooc:

canonically this unveiling takes place near the end of Day 2.

there are no set reveals for Day 3, it's just another day of celebration to wrap things up.

tldr: John Mordecai unveiled a big teleporter that I stole from Arcane Season 1 <3

[susan-gampre]

Home for the Unfortunate

"You're a real pain in my ass, Devron."

The cheekiest of grins was the Madam's only answer. It had taken every fiber and neuron of Rickie's very being to refrain from prodding the tiger any further than she had this morning. While she had been exceptionally bright and early coming up to seek Susan's guidance, it came at the cost of disturbing her initial company --

"What a babe," the Wanderer muses to herself.

Grey eyes glance over her shoulder to watch the retreating figure before closing the door to the Madam's office behind her, committing now to what she had originally came for. But even still Rickie could not help how her eyes strayed, taking in the evidence of the office at hand.

From the love seat -- with a disheveled blanket strewn carelessly over it's back -- which sits parallel to a smoldering hearth... To the coffee table which stands nestled comfortably between the fireplace and seating, to Rickie's recognition the furniture is of dark Gilnean wood and architecture, crows carved into the proximal portions of the legs. Atop this table sits a drained wine bottle and a pair of empty wineglasses, the sight of which would only cause Rickie's smile to widen into something truly shit eating. But when looking toward the unamused visage and pointed stare of the Madam, Rickie knew better than to comment.

"Alrigh' love, I'm sorry for strolling in at a bad time, it's just I'm gettin' alittle antsy, sitting around--," (the Madam interjects with a sharp 'You've been fucking around with half my employees and locals for the last week, hardly sitting on your hands') "-- so I was hoping..," Rickie continues unfettered by the Madam's haughtiness, "You might have some things that I can do. Start paying off your, shall we say, generosity?"

Susan purses her lips with consideration, turning atop silver heels to begin her ascent to the opposite end of the room toward a magnificent executive desk of similar wood and design to the coffee table. Her emerald velvet gown sways with each step, the silvery cords keeping the gown atop her shoulders glittering in the sunlight peeking through large windows. From the peripheral of Rickie's gaze she'd catch a similar glittering on the floor, turning her head to witness a long silver chain tossed haphazardly to the floor. It looked to be a necklace of some sort.

Odd.

Putting the thought to the back of her head the Wanderer follows in the Madam's wake.

The working desk is tidy and meticulously organized despite the common theme of the office with it's eclectic and maximalist tastes. Notably, amongst the personal effects, a beautifully designed silver vase with a singular twilight jasmine, standing at full health. Behind this desk sits a secondary hearth of which it's once roaring fires have smoldered over time as well. It is to be presumed these dual hearths are designed to work together to keep the chill of the open balcony from freezing out whoever had the pleasure of such a space.

Once behind her desk the Madam would rifle through a stack of paperwork, seeking a quad-folded map of printed, legible markings of both size reference and general design. She would make short work of unfolding the original blueprint before coaxing the Wanderer closer, remarking quite candidly - that hateful tone now slacking as they stepped into more pertinent discussion:

"There is a barn on the back end of the property, a good three or four acres away-- Closer to the base of the mountain cliffs. I've had every intention to put workers out there to begin reconstructing it into a up to code rehabilitation center. International Animal Welfare groups have begun to poke their noses into my operations and expect effort on my part to build a proper facility. And that is where you will come in," Susan smiles as she pushes the plans toward Rickie, said woman frowning briefly at the presented idea.

"I... I don't know Susan, sure I'm handy and can build you another house, but a facility? This is quite abit you're asking of me. I can't guarantee it'll be perfect. Fuck, I'm not even familiar with rehab center codes."

"I'm asking you to build the foundation. I can find you a proper code book, but for the most part I have those parameters mapped out for you. I can also get my hands on the required facility equpiment. If you can't finish the job, fine. But you, and selected builders to follow your order, can atleast get it started for me, yeah?"

Rickie still looked quite abit unsure, a hand rubbing the back of her neck as she leans over to begin reviewing the plans with further consideration.

Meanwhile the Madam would fold her arms beneath her chest, pacing toward the threshold of the balcony to peer out in the direction of this said barn -- The surrounding forest provided just the right amount of privacy to prevent seeing too far into the heart of the land, but in her mind... It was a magnificent building bustling with life, wounded or unfortunate creatures of all walks of life finding home and purpose in it's quarters. A hopeful expression befell her visage then, one which Rickie would catch sight of and, ultimately, breathe out a sigh of defeat.

"Okay, okay--," she begins to roll the plans up, a smirking Susan turning to face the raven haired woman with some triumph, "Let me get out to this barn of yours and get a good idea of everything that needs to be done. Inspections save money, after all. Then I'll hire my own team to get this contract underway."

"Fine," Susan agrees, "Either way this is more or less free labor. I will be patient with your pace, but please don't take advantage of this fact, Devron. My time is precious, I'd quite like to have no qualms with you. As annoying as you can be... You're quite reliable."

Rickie pauses here now, her eyes wide and mouth agape as she looks upon the Madam with some expression of awe, feigning a tone of squeaky joy as she croons, "Oh, Susan, you actually like me?"

"Okay, you're going too far," comes a deadpan response.

With a bright chuckle Rickie would wave off Susan's indifference, musing, "Oh stop it, you're gonna make me blush! Now I can go about this with pride, knowing the Madam Susan Gampre actually values me as a friend!"

The Madam would roll her eyes most pointedly, "I'm officially regretting ever sponsoring you for your Stormwind tiff..."

"Don't lie to me, Sue," Rickie tuts gently, moving to stand before the Madam now, a charming smile twisting her lips, "You know you secretly love me."

The Madam would scoff, sending a balled fist into the Wanderer's chest with a half hearted punch, "Don't make me gag," she snaps before turning to apply deliberate space between them. With her back to Rickie the Wanderer would give in to the ache, rubbing at her sternum with a grimace -- Her eyes would catch a stray trifolded letter left laying on the floor by her foot, her brows risen at the slight reveal of it's title: A summons to war. With a quick glance to Susan's back the woman makes a split second decision to snatch the paper up, tucking it into her hand clutching the blueprints before turning atop her toes, boots squeaking against the floor.

"Okay! Well! I'ma head out," she calls back to the woman, hastily moving towards the office door from whence she came. "I'll get a look into that barn of yours. Start getting shit in order. Wouldn't wanna waste any of that precious time of yours."

Though suspicious of Rickie's quick departure, the Madam would shake it off strictly as eagerness to get the job afoot. Thus, with a wave of her hand, she calls out, "Just keep me updated with what you need, Devron. And don't break anything."

The Coyote would grin in response, sending the Madam a flirty wink before closing the office door behind her, heart hammering against her chest as she considers what boundaries she must of crossed by snatching the paper from Susan's office like that. But before Rickie could hate herself further she'd pull the singular piece of paper out to better read it, brows furrowing instantly at it's details of summoning to the Lordaeron warfront and the efforts to revitalize the lands from the scourge.

Instantly her mind flashed back to the retreating figure from earlier.

"No kidding," she hums, shoving the paper into her pocket haphazardly. Useful information? She hadn't a clue. But certainly interesting.

With a shake of her head the Wanderer is set off, the rolled up blueprint clutched firmly in her hands and her mind wild with theories of such a short but interesting meeting with the Madam.

Mentioned: @rickiedevron

[synergysilhouette]

An alternate take on Asha from "Wish"

At this point, my account has become very "Wish"-centric, despite my annoyance with the film. I'll probably have to purge some posts. In any case, I've made posts about remaking the film and giving Asha a new look, but I did want to mention some ways Asha could've felt more interesting/unique among Disney protagonists in terms of personality and the arc she goes through, even if her movie wasn't as good (in my own humble opinion).

Option 1: Make her perfect and give her cracks in the persona. The whole "she looks like Isabela Madrigal" controversy has been ignited ever since Asha was revealed, but I do think her writers could've taken some things from Isabela. The oldest Madrigal (of the 3rd generation), Isabela is forced to be perfect and lovely, while she'd prefer to embrace new things and be a bit edgier. I like the idea that Asha, like Isabela, has cultivated a perfect image, perhaps being Magnifico's apprentice for a couple years, and has mastered his way of entertaining the masses and charming others. In reality, however, one of two things happens.

She's super selfish (working for Magnifico in order to get her Saba's wish granted and not taking anyone into consideration for who that could hurt)

She's super cynical, being blackmailed into silence by Magnifico or else he'd destroy the wishes he has and harm the people of Rosas, which could potentially kill them (including her Saba), making her believe there's no such thing as dreams coming true. This idea came to me, but I recall @annymation saying something similar (in her case, using Asha to bait Star like Hades used Meg to bait Hercules).

Option 2: Make her wise beyond her years and much more collected, having almost a spiritual connection with the stars while being playful. Pocahontas would be her blueprint, as well as Jasmine, taking the latter's quick-thinking and acting skills (and NO, I'm not saying Asha should be sexualized like either of these two leads). Making Asha a more wise and steady protagonist would be more fun than the adorkable, uncertain lead we've had so often, as well as being distinct from Raya's headstrong and aggressive personality.

[bisexualchrissycunningham]

Readers, I am on the verge of giving up on the romance genre. I need people to recommend books that I won't hate.

Please, I'm dying. I just wanna read cute stories about love without a bunch of regressive gender stereotypes or just straight-up abuse. Is that really so much to ask??? Anyway I'm gonna list things I love and hate about the genre and perhaps some of you kind people could make some suggestions based on that?

Romances I've liked: Emily Henry's Happy Place (I actually cried at this one!); Talia Hibbert's Get a Life, Chloe Brown; Evie Dunmore's A League of Extraordinary Women series; Alexis Hall's Boyfriend Material; Casey MacQuiston's Red White and Royal Blue (although the politics in this one really turned me off the first time I read it); Meg Cabot's The Princess Diaries series (a classic); Sangu Mandanna's The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches (I love a romance that has a lovable cast of supporting characters and some other elements going on beyond the love story!); Jen Wang's The Prince & the Dressmaker

Stuff I hate in romance: Most enemies to lovers (cause the most recent wave of this trope is primarily men abusing women in some way, but if you've got a suggestion that isn't that, please tell me), when Being Tall is treated as a entire personality for men, generally men being So Large and women being So Smol cause it almost always leans into weird gender shit that makes me uncomfortable, super innocent virginal girls who are almost childlike being "corrupted" by mean fuckboys, the entire dark romance genre (are you seeing the trend about things I hate... lol), Instalove (Chanel Cleeton's Next Year in Havana was SO guilty of this)

Romances I disliked/DNF'd: Abby Jimenez's Part of Your World (the female lead was insufferable!); Jasmine Guillory's The Wedding Date (some of the character work was interesting but I just got bored with the story tbh); Heather Cocks & Jessica Morgan's The Royal We (just SO boring but that's what I get for reading Will & Kate fanfiction); anything that started as R*ylo fic cause they, and Twilight before them, are basically the blueprint for what I find fundamentally un-romantic about a lot of romance (I might be willing to give something by Ali H*zlewood a try, as a few Booktubers I trust have said her writing has gotten better with each new book she's published BUT the word steminist is the most cringe thing I've ever heard so maybe not)

Romances that sound interesting but I've been burned so much I just don't know: Helen Hoang's the Kiss Quotient; Beth O'Leary's The Flatshare; Lyssa Kay Adams' The Bromance Book Club; Olivia Waite's The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics, India Holton's Dangerous Damsels series, Nisha Sharma's Dating Dr. Dil

Heeeelp.

[i-love-you-all]

cypher?

So much of how I see him is just to do with his role in Valorant. That, and his relationships with other people. I haven't ever really thought about him as who he is, as sad as that is. I think writing When Will My Blood Turn to Ichor was the only point where I thought about him past his job, and even then, he was very much tied to his work or his relationships with other people. I guess that and chess lol

Idk those are my overall thoughts about him. If anyone has characters they would like me to do this for, feel free to send in an ask! Hope you enjoy :))

5 things they usually see:

Screens. So many of them too. Whether it's a security feed, his own phone, a laptop screen, his actual eyes (which I see as a screen or some sort of display - I mean... they look like fly eyes up close)

Checkered, wooden squares of a chessboard and the finely kept pieces that get placed on the board.

Blueprints, pictures, and the notes he makes for himself. (Physical is best sometimes when it comes to secrets and the not so secret like his little to do list Brimstone assigns him)

Fluorescent lights above his head as he does all his monitoring. This includes the cold wash of light they give everything around him.

Kingdom logos. They're hard to avoid when they're on every window, building, and even the weapons they use. And each time he sees the 'K', he's reminded of how his home is being torn apart for some radianite.

4 things they usually feel:

The steady motion of his tripwire as he spins one around his fingers as he's lost in thought.

The sleek feel of his Ghost. Sometimes it's in his hand, but oftentimes, it's along his chest, easily reached yet out of sight.

The slight resistance of his keyboard as he flies through the web. His typing speed is particularly useful when it comes to the paperwork that comes with his position.

The warm noon heat of a Moroccan sun. Depending on the time of year or where exactly he is, this is sometimes accompanied by the rising humidity of moisture meeting the same temperatures.

3 things they usually hear:

The faint humming of machinery all around him at all hours of the day. Whether it's the clicking of his suit, the clacking of his keyboard, or the buzz of a security feed, he's constantly reminded of what he surrounds himself with.

The voices of all the agents around the base. After all, it is his job to keep track of them. More than once, he's heard something he wishes he didn't (things that are terrifying, disgusting, and embarrassing)

The high pitched laughter of a child. When he desperately looks around for the source, he realizes it was all just a dream. One he still needs to work to attain. (and if he gets there, will it be in time or will he have sacrificed so much that he loses his chance at fulfilling the dream, so by doing his job to secure the future, he ends it?)

2 things they usually smell:

Stale air that hangs around in his office like a slow alarm reminding him that there is life outside his walls and door.

Sweet jasmine candles that he'll light when he's in his room (on the rare occasions he sleeps there). A small reminder of his home. Sometimes, when he smells it in combination with something else, often random and unpredictable, it unlocks memories. Of Nora holding his hand as they walk a long a dim street, of street vendors who shout out to those who pass by, of a room in which he saw someone... Blood was never really meant to smell that sweet.

1 thing they usually taste:

A good green tea with mint, freshly brewed, or just prepared. The sharpness along with the general earthiness of the drink grounds him to what is at stake: his home, and by extension, his family. Refreshing :))