#houseplant club

[x-m0rb1d-m1nd-x]

[recurring-polynya]

Day 5: Heart / Hobbies / Let’s discuss this over drinks some shinigami and their hobbies, as per Color Bleach+

[talkingtomyhouseplants]

Peperomia Angulata

Totally underrated, they are super easy to care.

🔅 Medium to low light

💦 low water

🍃normal humidity

And look at the leaf pattern and vibrant color.

[houseplant-unicorn]

I made a thing

[helengie]

[lale-txt]

EXOPLANETS ; Iwaizumi x gn!reader

five times Iwaizumi almost kisses you and one time he does

contains: gn!reader (no pronouns or gendered terms), strangers to lovers, 5+1 things, fluff, mutual pining, diy tattoos, alcohol mention, weed mention, Oikawa mention, shotgunning, five slightly suggestive lines if you squint, a lot of easter eggs and cross-references. written as a gift for @eggyrocks ♡

word count: 4.5k

✧. ┊ ONE

It’s Kyotani’s birthday party and you’re sitting outside on the fire escape, covered in five buckets of fake blood and rolling yourself a cigarette. The wind is icy on your face and the air would smell like early snow if it wasn’t for the dubious popcorn experiments happening in the kitchen right now. You weren’t allowed to smoke inside anymore after someone set one of the dried up houseplants a little bit on fire when stubbing out a cigarette on it (it was just once but the pot was fuming for two days and a half).

Kyotani always brings a mix of the strangest people together. There’s you and your other fellow students from your gender studies class, then guys from his former highschool volleyball team. There is also a bunch of men with face tattoos and a criminal record from his underground fight club (who are currently nailing the choreo to Rihanna in Just Dance), some nerds he met at a Pokémon TCG tournament (you and him once bought a hundred booster packs together while high and he thought he could recover from the financial ruin by winning one of these things) and the small group of housewives from his DND group who he meets once a month.

It’s unclear why Kyotani asked everyone to dress up for this but you’re not mad about having an occasion to drench yourself in fake blood and call it a night. In true Patrick Bateman fashion you also spent hours with excessive skin care prior to the party while you watched your best friend and roommate Atsumu zip himself up in the skimpiest maid outfit you’ve ever seen. It may be early December but that wouldn’t hold him back from showing off his thighs and a bit of his ass cheeks–maybe at heart he was just a 2000s British party girl trapped in the body of a 6��3 athlete. You shared the same cheap cherry lip gloss before heading out in the cold. 

A few drinks into the night and your head starts to hurt, which is when you retreat outside through the kitchen window to your usual spot on the fire escape. With the rolled cigarette dangling from your lips, you pat down the pockets of your suit in search of a lighter. You let out a frustrated groan when you realize you lent it to two guys dressed as Melody and Kuromi and that you’ll probably never get it back, which sucked because it had a kitty cat leaning on an eight-ball while smoking on it and you got it for free from your local conbini girl in exchange for a hand-crocheted triangle bikini top.

Someone taps your shoulder and you almost drop your cigarette if it wasn’t for the stranger’s quick reflexes, catching it for you before it would be gone with the wind. His fingers tilt your chin up a little and he puts the cigarette back between your lips. You look up and meet the gaze of Inuyasha.

Or well, a guy dressed as Inuyasha, but it might as well be your childhood crush come to life. Tan skin, sharp snaggleteeth that weren’t part of the costume but still fitting, and a pair of eyes that feel like they’re piercing straight through you. Your stomach does the little flip thing and you briefly wonder what was in the drinks you let Atsumu mix for you, but that was something to ponder on later. For now you only stare back at him, nodding when he asks if the seat next to you is free.

He sits down close to you and then reaches for something hidden in his sleeve and pulls out–your lighter. 

“Sorry about my friends. They have a knack for never returning things,” he huffs and you snatch the lighter from him, your face cracking into a smile. 

“Very noble of you,” you say, then hold up the light for him when he reaches for the cigarette behind his ear and puts it between his lips as well. His hand comes to cup yours to shield the flame from the wind and for a second your faces are close, so close, before you lean back again, taking a deep inhale of your cig. 

“Cool costume. You watch a lot of movies? Me too,” he says and rests his chin on one palm, looking at you. There’s something about his gaze that makes you feel drawn to him and you briefly wonder what he’d look like without the cheap white wig and also if he’d keep the costume on if you were to hook up with him and ask him nicely about it. 

“Is that so? Name every movie then,” you retort and it makes him laugh. Fuck. He has a really nice laugh.

You lean over and brush a few strands of the plastic hair behind his ears because the combination of the wind and the lit cigarette seems like a potential fire hazard (you learned a lot about fire hazards this year) and you’d kinda hate to see him combust too soon. 

What you don’t expect is him leaning in, almost nuzzling his face into your palm when you do, and looking back at you with a flicker that can only be described as drunk and lovesick. It makes your heart stumble in your ribcage a little. 

“Or you can just tell me your name. Unless you want me to save your contact as ‘Inuyasha’ in my phone. I can do that too,” you add when you pull your hand away, as if you’ve burned yourself by getting a bit too close to the sun. You put your cigarette between your lips and pull out your phone, tapping the screen a few times before glancing up at him again.

“It’s Iwaizumi. Hajime Iwaizumi.”

You think a lot about kissing Hajime Iwaizumi for the rest of the night.

✧. ┊ TWO

Osamu and Suna share the apartment directly below yours and when they text you that they made weed brownies, you didn’t really think about just how many of them they made. Together with Atsumu you shuffle downstairs, not expecting a bunch of other people to be there. Maybe then you would’ve worn something that wasn’t Atsumu’s old highschool club shirt and a pair of velour track pants you bedazzled yourself so it would read “soup” across your butt, but here you are. 

“Is this some kind of side business now?”, you ask Suna when you pull him aside. He has the biggest, shit-eating grin known to man plastered across his face and shakes his head. 

“A bunch of guys from his culinary school said they didn’t know how to bake weed brownies and Osamu offered to teach them, and somehow it turned into a ‘bring your own weed, get a tray of brownies’ party,” he replies and leans a little closer to you, which you know means he has a piece of juicy gossip to share. “One guy here totally got scammed, too. Spent ¥24,000 on some, can you believe?”

You almost choke on the piece of brownie in your hand. Osamu pressed it faithfully into your palm the moment you entered the kitchen, knowing he could trust you with it. Both of you had a very loose definition of trust–to Osamu it meant believing you won’t be dumb enough to eat more than one piece of the brownies, to you it meant you won’t change the contact names in his phones to soup ingredients again, no matter how high, and you both respected that.

“What, was it gold-dusted or something?” You cough and laugh, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes while Suna pats your back with empathy. “What a guy. Introduce us, I need to add him to my dream blunt rotation.”

Your eyes follow the direction Suna is nodding at, somewhere in the living room, and you meet the gaze of Iwaizumi Hajime slash Inuyasha from the fire escape. You start laughing again and head over to him, the sulk written all over his face.

“Not a word. I know, I know,” he groans when he makes space for you next to him on the couch. You squeeze in beside him and hug your knees to your chest, then catch the pillow he’s throwing at you when you can’t stop laughing the second you look at him.

“It’s okay. Actually, it’s kinda cute.” “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” “So what if I do?”

Iwaizumi huffs again and his arm just happens to be behind you on the couch, his fingertips ghosting over your shoulder. Appreciate it, he grumbles, and eventually his face softens when you start telling him some anecdotes of your high life that definitely make the ¥24,000 weed purchase seem a little less dramatic. 

It’s loud in the apartment, with music blasting and people chattering, but you barely register any of it; too absorbed by his eyes that dart to your lips every now and then, and his tongue poking out from between his lips when he does, and the rattling desire in your chest that he could kiss you right here, right now. 

His fingers grab your chin and tilt your face up again, just like they did last time on the fire escape, except now he’s brushing over the corners of your mouth, collecting a few crumbs that were still there. He brings them to his lips, licking them off in one clean swipe of his tongue, and you’re pretty sure you’d let him devour you.

✧. ┊ THREE

Mattsun–the Kuromi from Kyotani’s party–and his friends from the forensics science department are hosting an Addams Family themed christmas party on their floor of the dorm and this time you don’t make the mistake of giving your lighter away. Atsumu is on a noble mission to “get laid by one of the goths” and you’re on your own, but not for long. 

“Oh, it’s you! Almost didn’t recognize you without all the fake blood,” Makki–the Melody from Kyotani’s party–shouts across the room when he spots you in the crowd and squeezes past all the people to clink his drink against yours. “You left quite the impression.”

“That so?”, you ask with a raised eyebrow and Makki gives you a boyish grin. You already have a feeling where this conversation is heading.

“Hajime won’t shut up about you. Like, ever,” he says and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the other end of the hallway. “He’s here too, by the way. Last time I saw him he was winning some kind of arm wrestling contest, but if you ask me people just wanted to ogle at his biceps. Can you blame them?” 

Speaking of the devil, you find Iwaizumi stumbling out of the bathroom, stilling when he sees you. His hoodie is tied around his waist and he’s wearing some baggy jeans and a tight, sleeveless compression shirt that does show off his arms nicely. Very nicely. So nicely you forget what to say for a brief second. 

Makki shoves you into Iwaizumi’s arms before heading off somewhere else, probably asking Mattsun to push him against the nearest wall, and you’re alone with the boy again. He caught you by your shoulders, his hands now resting on top of them while he looks you up and down. You wonder if he’ll do the chin thing again, and maybe if third time’s a charm and he’s gonna kiss you tonight for real. 

Instead he asks, “do you want to check out the tattoo station they set up in the other room?” and because your impulse control has vanished the moment you entered his orbit, you agree without a second thought. Maybe not even a first thought. Ten minutes later you’re wearing a pair of black latex gloves and hover over Iwaizumi who is lying shirtless on his back in front of you.

“Kinda sad you don’t want a tramp stamp. It’d look good on you,” you sigh with feigned annoyance while rubbing an alcohol soaked pad over his hip bones to disinfect that part, trying hard to keep your eyes pinned on there, but it’s kind of an impossible thing to ask of you. It would be a shame if you didn’t appreciate the canvas in front of you.

“Maybe next time,” Iwaizumi exclaims with the confidence of a man who simply doesn’t do the whole ordeal of regretting. It’s admirable, really. “And I let you pick the design of this one, didn’t I?”

That he did. You drew a wonky oval shape on the stencil paper which was kind of impressive as it was, given the drinks you had prior to that. Iwaizumi took the pencil from you and added a similar one, overlapping with yours. 

“That’s two eggs,” you muttered, tilting your head to the side and trying hard to focus–which again, was a hard task at hand, given that Iwaizumi leaned over your shoulder shirtless. He smelled nice. You noticed that the first time you met already. Something between fresh laundry, a spritzer of YSL Y on the side of his nape and a hint of sweat, but not unpleasant. It made you want to dig your teeth into the curve of his neck and shoulder.

“It’s a heart, dumbass,” Iwaizumi huffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, second to how much both of you were thinking about kissing the other. 

✧. ┊ FOUR

When Kenma invited you over to his place for the Bouncing Ball winter party, you were promised free unlimited food and a goodie bag, but all you got was ancient rage and a badly rolled cigarette passed back and forth between Iwaizumi and you.

“I will fucking kill Oikawa with my bare hands,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze the can of lychee soda (branded with the Bouncing Ball logo) that you’re holding a little tighter. 

“Believe me, I’ve tried many times in the past but this bastard always comes back. Like some demon lord or something.” Iwaizumi takes an angry drag of the cigarette before holding it between your lips again. His fingers brush lightly against your skin when he does and it’s the only thing that calms you down a little. 

“Like. The blue shell right before the finish line felt so personal, right?”

Kenma had sent both of you into timeout outside when you almost flung the unstrapped Wii remote towards the flatscreen and Iwaizumi might or might have not punched a hole into the shoji door after Oikawa won the third round of Mario Kart in a row and was being awfully smug about it.

You’re sitting on the backstairs together, huddled close to each other from the cold and the unspoken desire to kiss the other one stupid. With every minute you spend like this your anger vaporizes little by little, until all you can feel is the body heat radiating off Iwaizumi’s body and how calloused his hand is when he takes yours into his.

He’s wearing the hat you crocheted for him, an apology for the crooked hand poked tattoo you gave him a few days prior to today which now adorned his hip bone. At least it wasn’t infected which was a tiny miracle given the circumstances. His face lit up when you handed the hat to him, wrapped in some tin foil because neither you nor Atsumu own gift paper and that’s the most festive you could do with the utensils you had at hand. At least you threw in a little bit of confetti which was now stuck in his dark hair.

You pick some of it off his strands and Iwaizumi leans a little closer. It reminds you a lot of a big cat asking for head scratches. 

“‘s nice, with you,” he mumbles without looking at you and gives your hand a small squeeze. His thumb rubs over your knuckles with unexpected gentleness and your head sinks against his shoulder.

“Really nice,” you agree quietly, allowing yourself to close your eyes. 

The moment could have been perfect. Just the two of you, the stubbed out cigarette at your feet and the sweet taste of artificial lychee on your lips, the slowly falling snow. If only it wasn’t for the backdoor being flung open again, carrying the chatter and the music from inside towards you and a too familiar voice that will surely haunt your nightmares chirping “yahoo~”, making Iwaizumi next to you groan in agony. 

You spend the rest of the night losing another ten rounds of Mario Kart and Oikawa manifests as your sleep paralysis demon from now on, but at least you got to hold Iwaizumi’s hand under the table a little longer.

✧. ┊ FIVE

Hinata is back home from his semester abroad in Brazil. He texted the groupchat a photo of him (wow, he got really tan and buff, you think) and the three giant boxes of oranges that he brought with him and invited everyone over for an impromptu reunion party at his place. 

It’s not as excessive as other parties of your friends, more of a get together that lasts an entire weekend with everyone dropping by and going as they please, as long as they take a few oranges with them. 

You quite literally ran into Iwaizumi on your way there, your hands full with a bunch of books you borrowed from the library prior to that and him almost crashing into you when he skated around the corner on his longboard. He wore the hat you crocheted him again (with less confetti this time) and offered you his scarf and a ride. You almost wish Hinata would live at the other end of the world just so you’d have an excuse to sit cross-legged on his board in front of him while he pushes it slowly for a little longer. 

Maybe he’ll give you a ride home if you ask him nicely. Maybe the right words would fall out of your mouth this time. Maybe he’ll kiss you on the threshold, with his fingers tracing your jaw and your lips parting for him so willingly.

At Hinata’s place you find your way underneath the kotatsu with Iwaizumi by your side. The air smells like hot punch and christmas cookies and you listen for hours to Hinata talking about the things he experienced while abroad. You swipe through photos on his tablet while around you people come and go, and the entire time Iwaizumi sits so close to you that your knees keep touching underneath the table. Occasionally his hand brushes over the small of your back or pulls you a little closer towards him when someone else squeezes beside you, his touch lingering but never overbearing. 

It’s getting late and you should probably go home soon, considering the last looming deadline you still had to tackle before your winter break, but it’s not easy to peel yourself away from Iwaizumi. Not when he draped his jacket over your shoulders and his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and especially not when he starts peeling oranges for you and starts pushing the slices directly between your lips when you’re too lazy to lift your head. 

You watch him quietly as he does, his fingers that are usually a little bruised and roughed up now impossibly gentle as he digs through the citrus skin, peeling away layer after layer. It’s beautiful, you think. He’s beautiful. You wonder if he could do the same to you, tearing through every bit of resistance you put up to protect your heart, or maybe if it was already bare in front of him the entire time, ready for him to sink his teeth into your flesh.

You hope he’ll peel a thousand more oranges for you in this lifetime.

✧. ┊ ONE, AGAIN

It’s winter solstice and Atsumu and you decide to host one last party at your home before the year ends. Together you go out to buy liquor and one mistletoe (for the festive spark of it all) but the lady from the flower store insists you take all of them for free since they’re closing soon and she would throw them out anyway. So now there’s around fifty mistletoes hanging from every ceiling of your apartment and the entire hallway of your floor, and you briefly wonder just how many mistletoes it would take for Iwaizumi to kiss you tonight.

Osamu begrudgingly agrees to prepare some food since you’d end up raiding their fridge around 2AM anyway if he doesn’t, meanwhile Suna shows you some paparazzi-esque photos on his phone that he took of Iwaizumi and you over the span of this month. For once you’re grateful that he snaps a photo of everything and everyone, because swiping through these makes your heart do a little flip in your chest.

There’s one with both of you smoking on the fire escape, leaning in close to catch the flame of the lighter. You with your legs thrown over his lap on their couch while waiting for the weed brownies, his arm resting behind you on the couch. The moment when Iwaizumi takes his tight compression shirt off in front of you (it’s slightly blurry and Suna blames it on the goths and their shitty lighting). Iwaizumi and you pinning Oikawa to the floor and a Wii controller on the verge of becoming a murder weapon. You napping with your head on top of your folded arms, a plate with some orange peel in front of you, Iwaizumi’s hand in the back of your neck while looking down at you fondly. 

To be adored by Iwaizumi Hajime feels tender and mellow. There’s something magical about it; never loud or overwhelming, and yet never leaving room for doubt how he does love you with his entire being. It comes to him as natural as breathing. A love as toasty warm like a black cat basking in the sun, storing sunshine in every fibre of your soul. 

When you open the door for him later that night, he hugs you longer than usual, his arms caging you in his embrace. He murmurs something about all these mistletoes against the shell of your ear and you laugh.

“I think it’s a dumb tradition, but they’re quite beautiful, aren't they?”, you ask and Iwaizumi pulls back slightly to look at you, his hand cupping one side of your face now. 

“More than just beautiful,” he mumbles, not talking about the mistletoes.

You learn that night that Iwaizumi doesn’t dance (other than Oikawa and Atsumu who are currently destroying the Dance Dance Revolution dance pads in the living room), but he’ll happily spend hours watching you do your DJ thing. Anything as long as he can be in your proximity. He’s leaning back in the chair in the corner behind your pult, a cold Tiger beer in one hand, his chin resting on the other and his gaze never leaving you. It’s like he’s your personal bouncer for the night. You quite like that. It’s an oddly protective gesture but it makes you feel warm and giddy. 

“Someone just asked me if they can snort protein powder off my biceps,” he tells you when you return from the bathroom back to his side. He holds up a cigarette he rolled for you meanwhile. You lean down and let him put it between your lips before he reaches for your lighter stored in his pocket. 

“And did you let them?”, you ask, your face illuminated for the flick of a second when he lights up the cigarette for you. You’re standing between his spread legs and Iwaizumi reaches for your hips, making you stumble a little closer to where he was sitting. His chest is heaving now, his pupils dilating when he lets his eyes wander over you. You’ve seen this expression before, you think. It’s been the same from when you touched him for the first time, back then on the fire escape.

“Told them I was already taken,” he murmurs, almost not audible, and even in the dim light you can see the tip of his ears dusted in a dark pink color. His eyes flick up to yours and his expression is something between pleading and demanding. Oh. 

How brazen. 

He lets out a labored breath when you push him back in his chair, making room for you to straddle his hips. His hands find your thighs, fingers digging into your supple flesh and it’s clear that he doesn’t plan on letting you go for the rest of the night. Or, forever maybe.

You take a long drag of your cigarette and this time it’s you cupping his chin, tilting it up and hovering above him. Iwaizumi doesn’t need to be told what to do, his head falling back, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly before he parts his lips and lets you blow a mouthful of smoke into his lungs. It’s greedy, how he swallows it so willingly, watching you through half-lidded eyes. Hungry. Begging. Adoring. 

He’s in love with you like no one else ever was. 

“I need to kiss you or else I’m going insane.” 

His voice is hoarse, strained. As if he is clinging to the last bit of his resistance and sanity. In one swift movement he snatches the cigarette from your lips with one hand and carelessly drowns it in his half-empty beer bottle, his other hand wraps around the back of your neck and pulls you closer to him again.

“Please,” he huffs and it sounds like he’s pierced with ten swords, in agony over not feeling your lips against his. “Pretty please.” 

Your arms wrap around him and you kiss him. During the longest night of the year it’s like the sun is rising just for you. You don’t think, just let the feeling wash over you as your body melts against his. Iwaizumi lets out a quiet growl and kisses you back, gently at first, until your tongue slides against his and his calloused hands against your bare skin start trembling slightly. He’s using every ounce of self-restraint so he wouldn’t devour you on the spot. He knows you’d let him and that is a problem. 

“Took you long enough,” you mumble against his lips once you pull apart to breathe, which could have been an hour later or a lifetime. Time becomes a blur under the soft caress of Iwaizumi. He mirrors your smug smile, stealing another kiss from your lips.

“I’ll make up for it,” he rasps, closing his eyes when you rest your forehead against his. His hands on your waist pull you impossibly closer again, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, caressing the sliver of skin there. He lets out a quiet hum, a sound very close to purring. “Gonna kiss you stupid till you forget your own name and can only remember mine.”

“Silly,” you huff back and kiss him again. “Is this a threat or a promise?”

“Both. With you, it’s both.”

a/n: hi eggy ily!! your wishlist was spectacular and i had a lot of fun writing this for you (at some point it got a little out of hand i'll admit lmao). hope you enjoyed your gift and that the rest of your 2024 will be warm and tender. trying not to get sappy here, just know you always leave such a mark with anything you write, it's something i deeply admire. happy holidays & all the love for you <3

[encryptedlunacy]

Yeah see this is what I'm talking about!! I think ferns are honestly the definitions of "gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss" because if it knows YOU know it exists in your general vicinity, it will die. Without hesitation, fully and intentionally. I think they pick at random who gets to grow them and the rest of the world can suck it as far as they're concerned.

I have found ferns growing in my yard thanks to the brook we have in the conservation area at the back of my house but you can bet that as soon as I lay eyes on them and acknowledge their presence, even without touching them, they kick the bucket. They genuinely feel my adoring gaze upon their little fronds and immediately perish.

The ferns I have in sealed containers have survived purely, I think, on the understanding that I leave them alone and forget about them. We don't speak, we don't look at each other, we most certainly never cross paths unless I am re-arranging them for the sake of survival. They literally enforce a "Homosapiens DNI" principle in my own home like they're the ones who pay the rent.

Yeah these are the only ferns in my possession - that's a lie, I have a blue star fern in another pot, but it's not looking too hot rn so I'll correct myself and say the only HEALTHY ferns - and they just sit in a jar. I don't have to do anything; they ignore me, I ignore them, we have and arrangement.

[10thmusemoon]

Askbox title/word game!! Let's see *checks my list of song lyrics that would make great fic titles*

Title: it's a relief when it goes wrong

Alternatively, word: esuriant

oooh this would be a comedic modern QiJiu fic, SJ centered, where he has a string of boyfriends that are 100% convinced that they are The One. They've listened to all the times he's complained about his terrible ex husband and have decidedly done none of those things that piss Shen Jiu off.

(somehow, this still pisses Shen Jiu off)

They're doing SO WELL, they are communicating and doing their best to anticipate his triggers and boundaries, so certain that they are the ones that will help Shen Jiu finally move on.

(cue the pitying stares from cumplane)

Only for SJ to be the one to break it off the second he even hears a hint of YQY doing something that could possibly indicate he's trying to move on.

"What does your ex buying a houseplant have anything to do with us?"

"Why are you still here? I have a knife, leave before I use it!"

-

"Jiu-ge...YQY started volunteering at an animal shelter..."

Shen Jiu, engagement ring thrown out the window, four inch red sole Louboutins on. "I'm five minutes away."

-

It's a never ending self destructive cycle where SJ can't stand the possibility of not being the center of YQY's world but also fears being the one that Ruins It For Good when they are together. So he constantly leaves knowing he can come back, YQY will always open his arms to him if SJ is the one that initiates it. There is no way they can grow to resent one another in the relationship if they are not together long enough for the spark to disappear.

For YQY, he's a defeatist and will let SJ leave, if that's what SJ thinks is best. But at the same time, it's gratifying that time and time again, SJ always comes back to him. All he needs to do is be a little patient.

Things are "fine" until YQY actually talks about this in therapy and his therapist points out (at this point already having deciphered yqy doesn't do things for Himself) that always taking SJ back, always leaving that opportunity open, just keeps SJ in a cycle of heart break and misery. Isn't that also unfair to him?

[YQY, gripping the chair arm, gritting his teeth.]:...i see

Which leads YQY to going on his first not-SJ date in years. He tries to keep it on the dl, so as not ruin SJ's current relationship, unfortunately, TLJ cannot keep his mouth shut and mentions it to his book club, who mentions it to his estranged son, who mentions it to his boyfriend SY, who has SJ on speed dial to tattle.

More than YQY buying a couch or fostering a pet, this lights a fire under SJ's ass where he decides to cut that avenue off for yqy entirely and shows up to his date to propose to himl

TLJ, clapping in the bg: wow! Amazing! Can I- SJ: why are you here, scram

For the 12th time, they move in together and SJ still leaves occasionally during arguments, but just harasses SY or SQH in the meantime before returning. The threat of divorce turns into a very intricate foreplay.

YQY, of course, fires his therapist.

Alternatively, for esuriant cw: body horror, gore, cannibalism

SJ needs, for whatever plot reason, to consume pieces of YQY to stay alive. This leads to them finding a way to clone YQY, split his consciousness into the clones, and harvest his organs as needed. If anyone found out they would be horrified and try to rescue yqy from this situation. Unfortunately, they are truly freak4freak and this is quite possibly the ultimate form of happiness that yqy can reach. There is no greater joy than lovingly preparing his(?) old body for SJ to consume, feeding him small chunks by hand and delighting in SJ's impatience when he just decides to bite yqy's neck and drink his blood.

Truly, what bliss.

[boymanmaletheshequel]

Some subtle ways to worship Artemis 🦌🏹

- Be kind to and respectful of women.

- be kind to your siblings or sibling

- be kind to your mother

- support woman’s rights and feminist movements

- be protective of women in situations where they may be taken advantage of (bars, clubs, etc.)

- do not be creepy or perverse to women (or men for that matter) unsolicitedly

- Honor your body and be discerning of who you allow to have sex with you

- be kind to children

- say hello to and be respectful to deer and other common native fauna

- keep a houseplant (or in my case 147 of them)

- enjoy the moonlight

- embrace righteous anger and indignation

- go for a walk in the woods

- watch the hunger games (movies about a strong female protagonist who hunts and kills with a bow and arrow, loves children, fights for justice, and gets very animalistically angry, very Artemis coded)

- forage for wild foods if you can

- embrace your feminine aspects

- wear a piece of moonstone, Amazonite, or emerald jewelry in her honor

- don’t support animal cruelty

- buy meat from local farmers or hunters who use ethical and sustainable hunting practices (if you can)

- embrace your androgynous aspects

- bathe or swim in a lake or hot spring (if you can)

- fight against corporate deforestation for logging and land development

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

[qqueenofhades]

Your tags on the Dreamling/Good Omens cross over have me frothing at the mouth and I just need you to know that if you were to write that “Crowley stumbles into the New Inn” fic, I would be highly supportive of your life choices

The place isn't otherwise busy. It's edging into the lull period of late afternoon, when the day drinkers have shuffled out and the evening drinkers aren't quite off work, when there are only a few tourists taking snaps for the 'gram and the bartenders are out back for a cigarette break by the bins. Hob is sitting at his usual table, confronted with a pile of papers, a brewing catastrophe about the autumn schedule that for some reason he is expected to sort out, three passive-aggressive emails from Philippa about the prospect of him becoming Head of School next year (not on your fucking immortal life, mate) and other mundane academic crises, when the door flies open and a bloke at the end of his rope staggers in.

Thing is, Hob knows this particular bloke, at least by casual sight. He's been in from time to time, has a drink, stares at the wall, looks moody, and goes out again, either to a vintage Bentley filled with houseplants or just the streets of Poplar. Hob has made friendly conversation with him a time or two, knows that his name is Anthony Crowley and he lives in Soho, and he has a husband/boyfriend/life partner of some description who often drives him bonkers (join the club? Though the Stranger isn't even really that). But from the look on Anthony Crowley's face, as much as can be discerned from beneath his ever-present black sunglasses (not really a fashion item one otherwise needs in London), this is a five-alarm fire, and Hob gets up in some concern. "Hey. Mate. Everything -- ?"

Crowley stumbles past him without answering, which is probably only what Hob deserves. He reaches the bar, and since the bartenders are still on fag break and nobody else seems around to do it, Hob scuttles around the back. "Get you something?"

"Beer. Whiskey. Drink. I don't care." Anthony digs in his wallet and flings the first assortment of bills he can find at Hob, which is far more than it costs for a drink even in this terminally overpriced city. "Make it strong. Want to forget my own fucking name."

"Right. Got it." Hob only worked the bar when the New Inn was first opened and they were still hiring staff, but he hasn't forgotten. He selects a Scottish whiskey, neat, and pours it into the bottom of a tumbler, sliding it across the bar. Anthony throws it back without even seeming to breathe and shoves the glass in search of another, and Hob frowns. "Oy. Take it easy."

Crowley mutters something about that being the last thing he intends to do, thanks, and Hob's curiosity, the one thing that has often propelled him through the centuries, gets the better of him. "Not my place," he says cautiously. "But is everything, y'know? All right at home? Your, uh, partner, is he -- "

The effect of this utterance is not dissimilar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Crowley rears back, looks for a moment like he's going to bolt, and is only prevented by Hob strategically shoving the refilled whisky glass into his hand. He tosses it down the hatch without turning a hair, wipes his mouth raggedly with the back of his hand, and with that, and no further prompting, launches into an absolutely nutty jeremiad. Something about Heaven and Hell, something about Aziraphale (that's his partner's name, yes) being a stubborn angelic idiot who's going to get himself killed, something about people named Gabriel (also an angel?) and Beelzebub (also a demon -- wait, demon?) running off together and he just thought -- he thought -- like a bloody fool he thought they could -- but no. Nooooooooo.

"Er," Hob says at the end, blinking hard. "Sorry, I don't quite follow."

"Course you don't." Crowley heaves a heavy sigh. "Even though you're not an ordinary human, I suppose it's just too...." He searches for a word, slurs a little on the end (maybe that whisky, of which he has just chugged the third glass, is having an effect on him after all), and enunciates with bitter, drunk precision. "Ineffable."

"Wait. What?"

"You're Robert Gadling." Crowley tips his head like an owl, trying to size Hob up in his progressively more lubricated state, and his dark glasses slide to the end of his nose, revealing lucent golden eyes beneath. "The special one. The immortal one. Right?"

Hob opens his mouth. Hob shuts his mouth. He realizes vaguely that it's quite possible Crowley has not, in fact, been talking in convoluted celestial metaphors the whole time. "How did you...?"

"I know your boyfriend," Crowley snaps. "Bit bloody full of himself too, isn't he? He and Az -- Azz-- Aziraphale probably sit around having secret societies for technology-hating, stuck-up, idiotic, holier-than-thou, utter total fucking prigs who can't use their words and constantly deny their feelings, eh?"

"My boyf -- " All at once, Hob feels as if a grand piano has been dropped on his head from a great height, like something out of an old cartoon. Yes, things with the Stranger are going well-if-you-squint, ever since their last meeting here: the idiot actually turned up, he apologized, he smiled, they had a long conversation, there were definite sparks. Considering the last, er, six hundred years or so of dismal precedent, that's a low bar, but still. "Afraid," Hob says at last, "he and I -- well, we aren't exactly like that, but -- "

Crowley keeps staring at him like he desperately wants Hob to sit him down and give him a clinic in how to get with the fussy, standoffish, excessively rules-bound immortal being he has been, evidently, also bloody pining after for Christ only knows how long. "Why not?"

"Ah." Good question. Hob isn't sure. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." Crowley stares moodily at the mirrored bar. "Sure. Yeah. Six thousand bloody years of complicated."

"Did you say six thousand -- ?"

"Yeah." Crowley holds out the glass again. "More."

Hob's mouth is still open. He's going to say something, but he doesn't know what. Six thousand years? God's wounds. He and the Stranger, at their piddly six hundred, are practically fucking married.

(He gets Anthony Crowley another drink, on the house. Can't help but feel that the poor bastard deserves it.)

[stardust-swan]

Lifestyle of the Refined, Cultured City Girl

She takes advantage of living somewhere with access to many cultural activities. She attends the symphony, the theatre, the ballet, and the orchestra. She visits art galleries and museums. She attends book readings, poetry readings, lectures by experts in various subjects, and writer's talks. She watches independent films in small cinemas. She goes to fashion shows. She unwinds by reading in a beautiful, old library. Many of these activities are free or cheap, so money is rarely a concern.

She has social hobbies, like playing an instrument in a local band, attending a book club or writer's group, participating in poetry readings, and taking evening classes and workshops on subjects like painting, fashion, learning a language, culinary classes, learning an instrument, etc.

She has private hobbies too, like writing a novel, creating art, studying, reading, and taking private music lessons.

On dates, she goes to painting classes where her and her date paint each other's portrait, pottery classes where they make each other something special, fine restaurants where she and her date try new cuisine, and upscale hotels for a fine afternoon tea.

She is always studying. Whether it's in University for a degree that will help her get her dream job, or a less formal education like learning about the world of art from her trips to the galleries, or learning about the history and culture of her city by exploring it, she's always taking advantage of the opportunities she has to expand her knowledge.

She participates in cultural festivities that may be held in her city, such as wine tastings, cheese tastings, art exhibits, film festivals, and book fairs.

She visits historical landmarks and sites to learn about her city's past and culture.

She visits rooftop bars and lounges, both to socialise and admire the view of the city.

She networks with people in high positions, and socialises at events and gatherings like cocktail parties, charity functions, and dinner parties.

She visits both high end boutiques and small, locally owned shops.

She spends time in nature by going to parks and botanical gardens.

She gives back to her community by support or volunteering with a charity or non-profit

She attends a yoga or meditation class at a wellness centre.

She discovers her local patisseries and bakeries and enjoys fresh baked goods.

She takes walking or cycling tours of the city's historic districts to learn about its culture and landmarks.

She visits a local farmers market for fresh produce and unique artisanal products.

She's always dressed impeccably. You will never see her in ratty old clothes, gym gear unless she's actually in the gym, or flip-flops unless she's at the beach. Her hair is always tidy, and her makeup never looks caked on. Her nails are always clean and neat. Her skincare routine is down to a T. She never says "I'm just going to the store" as an excuse to dress frumpily, as she knows there's always the risk of running into someone important and does not want to look like a slob. She does not hold onto clothes that are worn out, damaged, or unflattering, leaving only chic outfits available to dress in. She checks herself from all angles before leaving home to make sure there's no wardrobe malfunctions happening at the back of her outfit, e.g a hole in the back of her jeans. She honours herself, those around her, and her city by looking presentable and neat everyday.

Her home is never cluttered. It is decorated with art, including some paintings or pictures of the city, and she has photographs on the mantelpiece of the friends she's made there. She has a variety of books on a range of subjects that interest her. Her kitchen is well-equipped - no living on takeout for her. She has a set of high quality china and luxurious bedding and linen. She plays classical and jazz music instead of keeping the TV on for background noise. She treats herself to a bouquet of flowers to put in a vase occasionally, and may have a houseplant. She lights candles for a beautiful smell. She may have a collection of herbal teas to help her relax in the evenings. She may even have a well-stocked mini bar, space and funds permitting. Her wardrobe is carefully selected. Her home is stylish, yet comfortable, and always feels ready for guests. She practices the art of entertaining, and does it well.

She knows about hidden treasures in her city that one can't find out about just from doing an internet search. For example, in Paris, a string quartet of musicians meet up on a random day each week and play a free concert in the courtyard of the Louvre, but you wouldn't know this from looking up places to visit in Paris. It's something you must discover on your own or hear about by word of mouth. It could be a small unassuming café that makes the best dish you've ever tasted, or a beautiful building people rarely visit (like the medieval church/graveyard in my neighbourhood that's usually locked up and difficult to see into because of the high walls surrounding it, but if you pass by at the right time, the groundskeepers may be there and let you in to see the blooming flowers and trees beyond the graveyard gates if you ask nicely), an out-of-the-way boutique that sells gorgeous garments, a hidden park tucked away from the main streets, or a secret or exclusive bar or nightclub.

[magicfootballstuff]

Strictly Unprofessional - part 2 (alexia putellas x reader)

Summary: You’ve just landed your dream job as a photographer at FC Barcelona Femení. The only problem? You hooked up with the captain five years ago and haven’t seen her since.

Part 2/9

Read other parts here.

———

It doesn’t take long to settle into your new routine at the club. On a typical training day, you spend your mornings outside taking photos of the players on the pitch and your afternoons in the media office editing and sorting through the photos on your computer.

Occasionally there’s something a bit different to do - you have to do photoshoots with a couple of new signings towards the end of the transfer window, plus some work for the club website and shop. You even get to stand in for one of the videographers when he’s off sick and while you’re not as familiar with film work as you are with still shoots, you enjoy the experience. Plus, it’s an entertaining day filming silly challenges with a few of the players for social media.

Your interactions with Alexia are limited and entirely professional. You still haven’t reminded her of the fact you met five years ago in Ibiza, and by now it’s far too late. You keep waiting for her to remember and confront you about it, but she never does.

When the season starts in September, you get to experience your very first away trip as everyone travels to Tenerife for the team’s second game of the new season. Some of the other backroom staff grumble a little bit, especially the older ones who don’t like having to leave their families for the weekend. But you’re young, single, and the closest thing you have to commitments in Barcelona are the houseplants that will surely survive for the two days you’ll be gone. The Barcelona team is starting to feel like a little family to you and a weekend away with them, especially one in sunny Tenerife, doesn’t really seem like work. 

But before you get there, you take photos of the players getting on the bus, photos of them getting off the bus, getting on the plane, getting off the plane… and so it goes on. Every moment of the journey is documented and only a fraction of the pictures you’ve taken will ever see the light of day, but the players must be used to it because they hardly seem bothered by the presence of the cameras.

It’s only when you finish your final shoot of the day - the players arriving at the hotel - that you get to relax.

“So, your first away trip, huh?” Mapi asks you, as she stands behind you in the queue in the hotel’s dining hall that evening. She’s one of many players who has been friendly since you started this job. “How are you finding it?”

“Tiring,” you admit, because you’ve been on your feet all day with barely a moment to rest. “But good. I got some cute photos of you and Ingrid on the plane.”

“I don’t remember seeing you taking any.”

“That’s because you were asleep.”

“No!” Mapi pouts. “You paparazzi’d me?”

“It’s my job,” you grin at her with a shrug.

“Can I at least see?”

“I’ll show you in a bit.”

You load your tray up with food, then as you start to walk towards a table where some of the other staff are sitting, Mapi catches your elbow with her hand.

“Come and sit with us,” she says, steering you towards a table where a few of the players are already eating. “We’re allowed to mix.”

Mapi sits down in an empty chair next to Ingrid and you take the seat opposite, more than aware of Alexia’s presence at the other end of the table, though she’s deep in conversation with Patri and Aitana and doesn’t seem to notice you.

“Show me the pictures then,” Mapi says, almost as soon as you’re sitting down.

Your camera bag is still slung across your body and you unzip it to take out the camera, loading up the photos you took today and scrolling through until you reach the ones you took on the plane.

“Here,” you say, angling the camera to show Mapi the photos. 

There are a few of her and Ingrid, all with Mapi’s eyes closed and her head resting on Ingrid’s shoulder. In the later photos, Ingrid has spotted the camera and poses with a smile and a peace sign while Mapi sleeps through.

“Oh, those are cute,” Ingrid says, leaning over to look at the camera screen.

“Do I always sleep with my mouth open?” Mapi asks Ingrid. 

“Sometimes.”

Mapi’s complaints have caught the attention of the rest of the girls at the table, Alexia included, and soon they’re all asking to see the photos.

“See, Mapi, this is why you should never fall asleep when there are cameras around,” interjects Alexia.

Mapi rolls her eyes as she gives your camera back and says, “Little Miss Media Training over there is always camera ready.”

“Oh, I’ve probably got some bad ones of her too,” you grin, sparing a glance at Alexia to test her reaction.

“Really?” Alexia asks, her eyes going wide.

“Show me!” Mapi says gleefully.

You scroll through the hundreds of photos you took today until you get to some of Alexia waiting to get on the bus from the airport to the hotel and click through them more slowly.

“She looks perfect,” Mapi comments as you show her each photo in turn. “Perfect, perfect. Come on, there has to be one bad photo of Alexia - aha!”

Mapi’s triumphant cry comes when she sees a picture of Alexia with her mouth twisting upwards as if she’s about to laugh, but you move onto the next picture which is the real gem. Alexia is about to get on the bus with Patri but both girls are laughing, Alexia with her eyes closed and cheeks half-puffed out as she struggles to contain her laughter.

“Let me see!” Alexia says, getting to her feet and circling the table until she’s standing beside you to get a better look. You angle to screen of your camera so she can see and she lets out a groan, before saying, “You have to delete it.”

“But only after sending me a copy,” interjects Mapi, still full of glee.

“Relax,” you reassure Alexia. “It���s not going on social media. Anyway, I don’t think it’s a bad photo.”

“Easy for you to say,” Alexia says, as she returns to her seat with a pout. “It’s not a picture of you.”

“It’s a picture of two friends sharing a joke,” you say. “It’s so fleeting and so human and it’s immortalised on film.”

“That’s very poetic, but please send me that photo,” Mapi grins at you.

You glance back over at Alexia, who is back in her seat but has a curious expression on her face as she looks straight back at you, head tilted to one side as if she’s trying to read into your soul. Your cheeks flush, remembering that in theory Alexia knows you far better than anybody else at this table, even if she doesn’t remember it herself, and you put your camera away to continue eating your dinner.

———

Later that night, when you’re in bed in your hotel room, having one final scroll through your phone before going to sleep, an Instagram notification pops up at the top of the screen.

alexiaputellas is now following you

You almost drop your phone in surprise. 

Somewhere in this hotel, Alexia is in an identical room to this one, probably on her phone too, and one of her last thoughts before going to bed is you and your Instagram account.

That thought makes you feel a certain kind of way, though you don’t think you describe it exactly.

You open up the app and tap the notification to get to Alexia’s profile. You don’t follow her yet - you thought about it years ago when you got back from Ibiza and did a little internet stalking but chose not to, then you also haven’t followed her since starting your new job, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself to remind her that she met you before.

Does she remember? She’s mentioned before that she thinks she recognises you - what if the Instagram follow is her way of confirming that she’s finally put the pieces together? Or maybe it’s just a complete coincidence. Maybe she’s following you purely for your photography.

It keeps you up for longer than you planned, and when you finally fall asleep, you dream of Ibiza.

———

You like matchdays. You get to sit in the sun and watch a game of football, even if you see most of it through the lens of your camera. And it’s where the players are most able to be themselves, showing all their emotions out on the pitch, the passion, the frustration. It delivers some beautiful opportunities for the perfect photo.

Barcelona wins the game comfortably to continue their perfect start to the season. A photo that you took of Alexia after scoring her second and Barcelona’s third goal is picked to go out on all the social media channels to announce the final result, a shot of her screaming in passion as Pina jumps on her back with a few of the other players out of focus in the background as they chase after her. 

There’s not much time to celebrate after the match as the buses will be heading directly to the airport to take the team back to Barcelona. You get straight on your laptop as you sit near the front of one of the buses while waiting for the players to shower and change, but as you’re sorting through photos, a shadow falls over the screen of your computer.

“Is this seat taken?”

You look up and see Alexia standing in the aisle of the bus.

“No,” you say, moving the strap of your camera bag out of the way to clear the seat.

Alexia stows her bag and coat above the seat, then drops into the seat beside yours. There’s an unspoken rule that further towards the back of the bus you get, the noisier it is, especially after a match, and you don’t say anything to Alexia, unsure if she’s sitting here to keep you company or if she just wants a break from the celebrations taking place at the back of the bus.

In the end Alexia is the one who breaks the silence.

“I’m glad I’ve got the chance to speak to you,” she says. “There’s something I wanted to talk about.”

You know what Alexia is going to say before she even opens her mouth.

“I remembered where I know you from,” she continues. “Ibiza, right?”

[colgatebluemintygel]

re reading oao and getting to r’s chapter…he’s..

a loser !!!! he's crying in the club. he's my sad pathetic angel with soggy socks n floppy sandals . he is every houseplant's worst nightmare

[talkingtomyhouseplants]

Fabulous Potted

Anthurium in Taiwan

We were able to go to Taiwan for the new years, after 3 years pre-pandemic. Taiwan really is my second home and the place the started my passion for plant care.

I spent 7 years in Taiwan, almost all my 20s. O was very young, trapped in a reality to suffice society heterosexual standards in my home country Guatemala.

Life took me to the other side of the world. I apply for a full scholarship to learn Mandarin Chinese and 4 years of bachelor's degree. I jumped in a plane and went to Taiwan with no expectations. Life changing. I embraced and learn so much about myself, I felt free for the first time.

Free of judgment, free to discover myself, free to say and do what I wanted. Taiwan open an amazing door to become who I am and for that Taiwan will always be in a heart.

And yes, it is such a beautiful tropical paradise that most "houseplants" can be found casually outdoor and natively in forests too. This time I got obsessed with this potted anthurium that was in a normal front yard. So gorgeous! 💚

[houseplant-unicorn]

Ryuji's helping Akira pick an outfit.

He's not sure about the shirt but the boots are a definite win!

Here are the frames:

[itsbansheebitch]

Ideas if you live in a community where people at least sort of know each other (In regards to the election)

Ask your local public library if you can hold support group meetings for people who are stressed about/in danger from the election. Ask them if you can bring blankets, snacks, etc. Be mindful of allergies. Ask if they have anything you can borrow/use like coloring books, a TV & Cart, beanbag chairs, etc. Make a group chat & share mental health resources. You can even host a book club.

Talk to your local bookstore & ask if they have study areas. Bring a friend to study with you.

Start a movie club if one of your friends has the space and some stuff to watch, make it an event.

Have Zoom/Facetime meetings with friends where you talk about your houseplants and bitch about life

Bring your own food picnic in the park: exactly what it sounds like. Make or order your own food, then bring it to the park. Have someone responsible for bringing a easy-to-clean blanket

Make a list of comfort YouTubers, shows, movies, books, fandoms, etc to return to

When you feel helpless about a situation, educate yourself & find out what you can do to help. When in doubt, visit your local library and ask for help.

Feel free to add to the list